Wow that was an icy blast blowing through the hallowed halls of St Marys!
I do hope there’s a mulling of the frigid body juices in the run-up to XXXXmas…something involving reduced prices at the Superstore and mince pies.
Yours in Yuletide expectation…a concerned pensioner. 
Wow! That’s so clever!
I wanna get one of them - do they sell them in John Lewis?
LOL. Like Bearsy knows what the fuck John Lewis is!
It sounds a bit too high tech for the pound shop, Goatboy.
Cash Converters?
a beautiful Christmas tale, bearsy. I’m sure primary schools all over Southampton will be putting it on as part of their Christmas celebrations for proud parents to look upon.
tl;dr
Wish people would limit their posts in length.
Had I read it, I might have pointed out that house doors typically open inwards, or that cheap gags at the expense of Eastleigh are not big or clever.
Also, I was expecting * the world’s funniest Pellè gag.
BTW a Pellè gag isn’t the thing that Mrs Pellè experiences once a year on his birthday.
* But as I didn’t read it I don’t know whether it was there or not.
It is proving v.difficult to get Pelle on screen, but when I do, you will be laughing ur cock off trust!*
* Or at least the bros who make it past 1st paragraph will
Bearsy! When’s the next instalment due! I’m ready for it now!
I might do it tomorrow night cos im in hotel till weds & bit boring & lonelsy in hotel i cant do it tonight cos i had to get up early so bit tired now & i havent even had my wank yet RIP
Ok, fair go. I think a wank will likely help your creativity anyway, so I’m happy to wait. Just make sure it’s a good one.
…as if he needed encouragement.
Sup! I had to bang this one out quickly (same as last night 
) cos I’ve got Things To Do, so you’ll have to correct any bad speelings, grandmas, and doors opening the wrong way, or whatever, your selfs. Tks. RIP.
KATHARINA’S CHRISTMAS CAROL
Part 2
Katharina first properly fingered herself when she was 12 years old. Or rather, let us not say she was 12, let us say she was 16, or whatever the legal age is for thinking about young girls fingering themselves. She had, of course, been shoving stuff up there for some time before that, but only previously for reasons of practicality. The traditional Swiss costume for young, female elk-herders, is not blessed with many pockets.
Keys, loose change, sandwiches; these were the typical contaminants of her convenient front pocket. It was not until her 16th (12th) birthday, when Grandpa Liebherr bought her an electric toothbrush, that Katharina discovered how a particular type of foreign object, inserted at a particular angle, and vibrating with a particular oscillation, could produce a particularly phenomenal result.
After that, there was no stopping her! Katharina considered any moment that her hand was absent from her fanny, to be a moment lost. She fingered herself everywhere she went. During Church, at dinner, whilst playing tennis; she couldn’t get enough of it. People started calling her Captain Hook because you only ever saw one hand, but she didn’t care. All Katharina cared about, was her fanny.
Which is why, when she heard the circumstances of Cortese’s death, she felt a certain kind of kinship with him. She could picture the man as he was found; hanging from the hotel room door handle, trousers round his ankles, little pixie shoes a good foot clear of the carpet, with his small, greying penis in his cold, dead, hand, like some kind of twisted Christmas ornament; and she could sympathise. She knew what drove him thus far. They were both of them, slaves to their genitals.
But still, despite all of this, she would really rather not see him again. A little penis goes a long way, and what really terrified her now, was the thought that when you touch a man’s penis, he usually comes.
‘You’re not coming in here!’ muttered Katharina angrily. She locked and double bolted the street door, sprinted upstairs, and barricaded herself in a bedroom. Then she sat down in her armchair, popped a couple of f’s in the v, and decided to resolutely wait for morning.
***
CLANG! CHINK! THUD!
Katharina woke with a start. Oh my God! Oh my God! There was someone downstairs!
CLANG! CHINK! THUD! Cuntsake! CHINK! THUD! The assorted sounds grew closer, and Katharina huddled in terror, and silently shit herself. Go away! Go away! It would not go away.
BANG! Someone thudded on the bedroom door. Katharina shivered, and slipped an extra couple of fingers in her ole vag, by way of security.
‘Oi, cunt!’ said a voice. ‘Let me in, for fucks sake!’
She knew that voice, and she didn’t like it. ‘I’m alright thanks!’ she replied.
‘Don’t be a cunt. I’ve, erm, got a bid here for Matty Targett. £15m.’
Katharina hesitated. She was entirely fearful of the ghostly apparition that she doubted not was on the other side of the bedroom door, but on the other hand, £15m was good dollar, especially for a youth team player who had cost next to nothing! She weighed the matter, briefly, and made a decision.
‘Cheers,’ said the ghost of Cortese, sidling in. ‘What took you so cunting long?’
Katharina looked at him. ‘What are you wearing?’ He was wrapped and bound in hundreds and hundreds of what appeared to be kitchen utensils.
‘Hold on, I’ve got a script here somewhere.’ The ghost of Cortese patted down his little pockets. ‘Here we go. Ahem. Ooooo! Oooooooo! I am a ghooost! Ooooo! I have come to give you a warning! Ooooo! Who writes this shit? See my chains? See them? These are my penance, to roam the world forever, weighed down by my sins, for we ghosts, see, we bear the spoons we formed in life. Ooooo! I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to eat have you?’
‘What?’
‘I’m fucking starving. Forget it. Erm. Oh yeah, Katharina, Oooo, you are in great danger! You must amend your wicked ways! You’re going to be fucked by three ghosts!’
Katharina paled. ‘What, all at once?’
‘No, erm, hold on, it’s here somewhere, yeah, you’re going to be fucked by three ghosts, the first one will come at-‘
BANG! The door flew back again, and another, even more monstrous apparition floated into the room. It was hideous! Barely human in appearance, a lumpy, misshapen, awful form, with a giant tumour for a head, and terrible, leering eyes. ‘OOOOO!’ said this foul demon, ‘I AM THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST, MY NAME IS-‘
‘Listen, cunt,’ interjected Cortese. ‘You’re early. I’ve not read all the rules out yet.’
‘Oh, really? I’m so sorry. Do you want me to wait outside?’
Cortese sighed. ‘No, you’d better just get on with it.’
‘Yes,’ said Katharina, ‘please, oh hideous gargoyle, tell me what you will, and be gone.’
The gargoyle looked at Katharina with a furious anger. His face was terrible. Literally, terrible. ‘I AM THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST, AND MY NAME IS… IAIN DOWIE.’
This novel is very feminist, Bearsy, I’m most impressed. Reminds me a lot of Caitlin Moran’s ‘How To Be A Woman’ in many ways. It’s a story that could have been treated in a very crude way given the football subject matter, but I like the fact you’ve maintained some clear philosophical themes that elevate it to a tale of discovery, womanhood, and sexual independence. I will repost this on the high brow feminist sites I often frequent. I think you could build a name for yourself.
I was thinking… Thelma Brick-Shithouse…a pen-name of course. 
Gloria Sminge-Pounder
tl;dr but if I had read it, I’d have probably asked if people lose their comedy Eetalian accent when they die.
Also if I had read it the bit about Cortese being hung from the hotel door nob, yet still being a foot off the ground might have made me laugh out loud.