British Comedy Guide

Mongeese are coming


Michael Monkhouse

  • Friday 4th September 2020, 3:13pm
  • Eternal City, Italy
  • 5,223 posts

Yes. C**tgtasulazioningd to Tiggy for shinking. PM myself with a new slut please. Meanwhereas...
Next slapperjack: Sex
Leg closed: 11.9.20
Runners are nowt...
Score Position Name
6 1 Playfull, Gappy, Me, Tiggy
5 2 Thief of bad gags
2 3 Patrick
1 4 Altlapel


Michael Monkhouse

  • Saturday 5th September 2020, 5:31pm
  • Eternal City, Italy
  • 5,223 posts


PSYCHIATRIST and PATIENT (lying down).

PATIENT Is it very bard, Dr Anus?

PSYCHIATRIST Now don't you fretter Mr Scrote. Your wrecksposes thus fart have been most mediocre.

PATIENT Fank thuck thor fat.

PSYCHIATRIST Just a tadge of word association and it's a wrap.

PATIENT As in, moferthucker?

PSYCHIATRIST Shut up. Now I say and word and you associations it. I shall commence with an uncawmmon, awriginal, awfully awbscure tawpic: Coronavirus.





PATIENT (thinks) Sex.



PSYCHIATRIST Yerse, I just have to...


PSYCHIATRIST Will you thucking well shuf up? I haven't asked you yet.

PATIENT Sex.Sorry. Sex.

PSYCHIATRIST Good. Now inagine you've jest awaken up: the starry sun is mooning and mourning, the tweets are twattering in the ether, a French mongoose is painting an oaken tree stamp a paler wade of shite. And you think...?


PSYCHIATRIST Alshite... It's afternun now: the green lean geese of groan are bestraddling a festive oik, the lonesome slmdog slides its lithe scythe betwixt the trunk of the wailing flailing ferret whale, the lewd libarian lashes its forked tonsils as another Luxembourger rifles her cock... You think?


PSYCHIATRIST Albite... It's night now: it's shit.


PSYCHIATRIST Altight... Now coming up the rear, it's long and hard but we'll pull it off.

PATIENT Tee hee. Sorry. Sex. Sorry.

PSYCHIATRIST Cameron Diaz naked in a jacuzzi.

PATIENT That's easy. Sex.

PSYCHIATRIST The Spice Girls nude in a boozer.


PSYCHIATRIST The Tellietubbies.

PATIENT Ummm... Pass.


PSYCHIATRIST I've started so I'll bleedin' finish, alplight? You passed on one, but alas that was the break-tier. The correct responds was of course 'Sex'.


PSYCHIATRIST Not necessarily... So I'm afraid you're unsucsexful and not through to the final round of Find-A-Vicar.



  • Sunday 6th September 2020, 1:48pm [Edited]
  • Reading, England
  • 187 posts


GOD: Hi Dave! How are the animals going?

DAVE: Pretty good. I'm just doing some for that place I call "Australia".

GOD: Let's see what you've got.

DAVE: Well, I scaled up a basic mouse design *quack* and made it hop, added a big tail and a pouch and made this animal.

GOD: Cool.

DAVE: And then I took a badger shape, turned it grey, added a pouch and made what I call a "Wombadger".

GOD: The name might need working on but I like it. *quack*

DAVE: And how about this cuddly thing!

GOD: Wow!

DAVE: I made a bear as cute as possible, shrunk it, gave it a pouch, and made it smell of eucalyptus. *quack*

GOD: Do you think you might be overdoing the whole pouch theme Dave?

DAVE: Hmm, maybe. I did them all late last night when I was pretty tired after doing the seas, forests, rivers and fjords. *quack* Are you certain that when a book is written about all this that I'll get a fair amount of credit?

GOD: Um, sure Dave. Anyway, how are the humans getting on? *quack*

DAVE: I've got the male *quack* under a sheet over here.

GOD: They've got to be good. They'll be responsible for making sure the chosen ones, the rulers of the planet, the ones made in our form, get fed enough bread. *quack quack*



GOD: Sorry, that bit always makes me laugh. *quack* Are you sure they need it?

DAVE: Yes. They need it to reproduce.

GOD: Oh yes. You explained that before. So how do they actually do it? I don't see much in the way of colourful plumage to attract a mate.

DAVE: Well...

GOD: Can I make a few suggestions for sex? *quack* I know I'm more of a wings off manager, but I've a few ideas.


GOD: I think flowers. The male should attract the female with flowers. From a garage.

DAVE: What's a "garage"? *quack*

GOD: And then he should provide her with nice food.

DAVE: Yup. OK. Works for a few other animals.

GOD:: Then a film starring a "Jennifer Aniston".

DAVE: What?!

GOD: One about a male and female who think they get on but then there's a misunderstanding and they hate each other but they still love each other and find out it was all a mistake and get back together.

DAVE: No! *quack* Please no!

GOD: And then they take an Uber back to his flat for coffee and Netflix but end up in nest together, where they do the intercourse thing. Maybe like those dogs you showed me the other day? *quack*

DAVE: Are you on glue?!

GOD: Except to make it kinkier *quack* they can do sex front to front!

DAVE: Disgusting!

GOD: Then 30 seconds later he rolls off and goes to sleep.

DAVE: Sure! OK! You want that? No problem!

GOD: You're doing great Dave. *Quack*

DAVE: Thanks! *quack quack*


DAVE: I won't use my good stuff for humans then. With all that, they're going to die out in a few generations anyway.

And now to make a "Jennifer Aniston!". *quack* Where's my box of beaks?


Thief Of Bad Gags

  • Wednesday 9th September 2020, 12:35pm
  • Rotherham, United Kingdom
  • 129 posts

Sorry guys, but I'm having to pull out of this week's and maybe future ones due to taking part on the lets get topical course. Good luck to you all.

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  • Wednesday 9th September 2020, 12:43pm
  • Nottingham, England
  • 1,789 posts

'Pulling out early' eh? Hang on, that just might be this week's winner!



  • Thursday 10th September 2020, 6:17pm
  • Oxford, England
  • 2,046 posts

1: Blast your eyes!

2: Blast my eyes, sir? Why my eyes, sir?

1: Not your eyes, sir, the eyes of this tinderbox, sir! I know this tinderbox has not eyes, sir, but had it eyes, I would surely blast them, sir!

2: Do you encounter difficulty lighting you pipe, sir?

1: I do, sir.

2: Then allow me to offer you this spill I have on my person, sir, smouldering from recent contact with the coals within the grate, sir.

1: Blast your eyes, sir! You, my good man, are a Sir.

3: And may I partake of that spill for my own pipe before the embers fall away?

2: Blast my eyes, you may of course, sir.

3: Much obliged, sir. Though I must ask, why dost thou call me sir, sir?

2: Why do I call you sir, sir?

3: The very same, sir.

1: Well, I will venture to conclude, sir - although I know not you, sir, nor know I you, sir - that this gentleman, sir, is calling you sir, sir, because he knows not your name, sir!

2: Blast your eyes, that's damn well deduced, sir. That, sir, is it, sir. Pray, what is your name, Mr...?

3: Miss.

2: Mr Miss? Welcome, welcome.

3: No, not Mr Miss. Just Miss.

1: Mr Justmiss?

3: No, you miss my meaning, sir. I am Miss, sir, not Mr, sir.

1: Mr Justmiss Notmister, sir?

3: No, sir.

2: Blast your eyes, sir, not Mr Justmiss Notmister, sir? This is just a mystery, Mr Notmister, sir.

1: Damn mystery, sir!

3: It is simply that I deserve neither the terms Mr nor sir, because I, sirs, am a woman.







3: No, sir.

2: Ah, good.

3: No. A woman, yes; sir, no.

1: Hang on, blast your eyes, let me get this straight. You, sir, claim to be a woman?

2: Just so, sir.



3: Pray, sirs, don't start that again. I can see you are confused by my being a woman, though it is a fact I may neither influence nor alter. May I check, sirs, that you do, in fact, know what a woman is?

1: Oh, I know what a woman is, sir.

2: But, we know, therefore, that you cannot one, sir.

1: Because, sir, by way of example, let me note that I know what an elephant is, and I know I would not find one in Knightsbridge, but only up a mangrove tree in the jungle steppes of darkest China.

3: I fear you don't actually know what an elephant is, but I follow your reasoning: that I am not a woman because of my locale?

2: Indeed, sir! In the smoking room!

1: Women, sir, do not smoke, sir.

2: This is an incontrovertible fact, sir.

3: And yet I am here, sirs. Do you not believe the evidence of your own eyes?

1: My eyes, sir? Damn my eyes, sir, blast your eyes, sir!

2: We never concern ourselves with what our senses tell us, sir, when we have prior knowledge of the truth, sir.

1: Such talk is folly, sir. And I would thank you to leave us in peace, sir, with your confusing flowing ringlets and your damned atypical pelvic dimensions.

3: Very well, sirs, I shall leave, as I have had the pleasure of my pipe. I hope, sirs, that your outlook soon dies away and that human history rejects such hidebound fallacies. Farewell, sirs.



1: Glad we got rid of him, he was most confounding, Mr Bannon.

2: Indeed you are quite correct, Mr Farage.

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  • Friday 11th September 2020, 10:37pm [Edited]
  • Nottingham, England
  • 1,789 posts

An excerpt from a book i started ages ago (up to page page 17 only) and would really like to finish just for the hell of it. It contains the minimum amount of sex required to qualify as an entry,


After school I started work at John Players watching one of the giant machines that churned out thousands of cigarettes a minute. My job consisted of sitting perched on the edge of a hard wooden stool, facing the machine for an eight hour shift. I had in front of me a large green button which started the machine, an equally large red button to stop the machine and an even larger button in an alarming yellow, which summoned an engineer if there should ever be a problem with the other two buttons. My cousin Reggie said I was lucky I did not work on the production line at Raleigh Cycles as he did, a job which he insisted was even more tedious by comparison.

Apparently, the uncomfortable stools had been brought in to replace a more comfortable design of swivel chair shortly before I started, after an employee on the night shift was discovered asleep having painted open eyes onto his closed eyelids.
As you can imagine this was in many ways my dream job. It allowed me unlimited opportunity to practice my particular talent. I could spend the shift imagining myself in a variety of escapades in a wide variety of guises or I could spend the entire shift building one elaborate story in a fantastically detailed virtual world. All paid for by the wonderfully dedicated Player's No 6 smokers of Great Britain.

This 'dream' existence was briefly threatened one day when at the end of my shift an engineer arrived to install a small machine which he explained had been designed to monitor my giant cigarette machine automatically. It was to be trialled on the night shift.
"It's the future." He said in a resigned tone. "Doesn't take beaks, doesn't nick fags and doesn't f**k about painting false eyes on itself"

I went home that night a worried man, well a worried teenager. And as I drifted off to sleep I found myself sitting on my blue and white striped towel on the beach at Sutton-on-sea. This was of course a great comfort. A great comfort that is except for the strange and annoyingly persistent presence of Lady Chatterley sitting on the towel next to me, who for some unnerving reason was in the guise of a Naked Mrs Grizel.

On arriving for work the next day I was surprised to see no sign of the Monitoring machine and the engineer fitting a small cushion on my stool. As if in answer to a question I had not yet asked he offered.
"Never seen anything like it"
He paused as if expecting a response.
"Just switched itself off. Twenty two minutes past four in the morning it sent a message to the control room. 'is this all there is?' Then just unplugged itself"

I pointed to the cushion.
"A gesture from the management a little something to show their appreciation." He said.
"There are just some jobs" I said, as I perched on my cushioned stool and stared at my three buttons "Where you just cannot replace the human element."
"You do know everyone thinks your weird don't you?" He said.
"I know." I replied. "If I get any weirder they said I could be an engineer."
He wandered off muttering darkly under his breath, but I was already drifting away to some far off exotic location, annoyingly still accompanied by a naked Mrs Grizel...

It was during this 'golden' period of my life that I embarked on one of the occasional episodes where I decided I should at least try and join the rest of the 'real' world. I call these interludes my 'reality checks'. Periods when for some reason or another I suffer a mild form of anxiety attack and get the sudden urge to run off and join the human race. These incidents don't usually last long and almost always end badly.

This time it was induced by watching the film 'Saturday night and Sunday morning' starring Albert Finney. I sat watching it at home with an increasing sense of panic building up inside of me. "Life is passing me by" I thought. I cannot spend the rest of my life hidden inside my daydreams. There and then I decided to take up drinking, and friends, I would have to find some friends. How hard could it be?

The following night found me in a pub called the Cricketers in the colourful Hyson Green area of the City. Everything started quite well. I sat nursing my pint of Lager at the bar smiling at my fellow drinkers all of whom appeared for some reason to be staring intently in unison back at me. They weren't unfriendly though, one strangely wizened and slightly dishevelled woman who could have been anything from 25 to 65 years old and did not appear to have two teeth of the same colour in her head introduced herself as Ducky and offered to sell me something called a hand shandy for five pounds complete with happy finish. I declined her generous offer explaining I already had a drink. Then a gentleman with dreadlocks, an interesting herbal aroma, and a really striking gold tooth, enquired if I wanted anything to smoke? I had only just replied to him that I was probably personally responsible for supplying half the smokers in Nottingham when suddenly the lights went out. I woke up later to find myself laying in the car park at the rear of the pub, my trousers around my ankles and with Ducky looming over me. She was removing a pink marigold from one hand and demanding five pounds for some sort of service she had apparently provided for me.

I did feel the black eye and cut lip I had somehow acquired made me slightly more interesting on the bus to work for the next couple of days. Though I quickly returned to my previous contentment with my daydreaming day job I still found a strange fascination with the subject of drink. A fascination I would return to with dramatic consequences later.


Michael Monkhouse

  • Saturday 12th September 2020, 8:25am
  • Eternal City, Italy
  • 5,223 posts

In the words of my mother, I want them all. F**k me, it's hard.
Gappy but you all came hot on his heels, in the words etc.



  • Saturday 12th September 2020, 8:54am
  • Reading, England
  • 187 posts

Playful. Beautifully written in a way that I wish I could do.

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  • Saturday 12th September 2020, 11:27am
  • Nottingham, England
  • 1,789 posts
Quote: Tiggy @ 12th September 2020, 8:54 AM

Playful. Beautifully written in a way that I wish I could do.

Thanks Tiggy.

Wow what a good week.

I go Tiggy, (not just because he was nice to me) just because he got me with the quack thing. I really didn't see it coming.

But it could easily have been Michael's freewheeling adult madness, it is like watching Groucho Marx on rude speed!

Or Gappys amazing use of words. He has a unique ability to paint a picture and put you in it, using language that makes me wish i had had a better education.

And then there is the Thief's minimalist take on the subject.



  • Sunday 13th September 2020, 1:13pm
  • Oxford, England
  • 2,046 posts

This is the hardest week for a long time. All the entries have things I really really like and something I don't (and I'm definitely including my own in that sweeping judgement). Sorely tempted to vote for Playfull's pulling out gag, but that would against the rules as it's not an entry, so I'll vote for Michael, as I like the concept of word association being a test with correct answers (or, in this case, just one), and the punchline closes it neatly (but I'm mystified by the mispronounced words throughout, I have to say).

The trouble is, I think this leaves us in a 4-way tie. It's to avoid dilemmas like this that I usually try to vote first! Perhaps Thief or a passing browser could throw in a vote.


Thief Of Bad Gags

  • Monday 14th September 2020, 7:02pm
  • Rotherham, United Kingdom
  • 129 posts

It's a hard one this time fellows, but I'm going for Tiggy.