• Ten-Ton In Gay Pareeeee
  fractioning : Herge\'s Adventures Of Ten-Ton / written by speedwolf
• The Secret Cabinet
  fractioning : BBC News Have Your Say / written by Snowden
• Log 4: The Loggening
  fractioning : Log / written by buggerypops
• Dalek
  fractioning : Doctor Who / written by badlad
• Fordorrr, Toodorrr And Hatchbakk
  fractioning : The Lord Of The Rings / written by badlad
• Our Last Line Of Defence
  fractioning : James Bond / written by Skin
• Their New Brown Babby
  fractioning : Madonna & Guy / written by Man Shandy
• SuperLog 3! The Long Awaited Return
  fractioning : Log / written by buggerypops
• A Marrriage Of Convenience
  fractioning : Heat Magazine -True Life Tales / written by upaclose
• Portillo In The Thick Of It
  fractioning : The Astonishing Adventures Of Michael Portillo / written by Skin

Ten-Ton sat on the Arc d'Triomphe with a sigh. Admiral Megalodon was a little distance behind with Avalanche the dog nipping at his heels. His barks sounded as the world's end to the tiny Parisians below.

"Blistering Beluga Whales, where have those idiot twins got to?" asked the admiral.

Ten-Ton looked up, his fifty foot high quif shining blondly in the spring sunlight. "I think they're still trying to climb the Eiffel Tower"

He flicked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the carnage being enacted behind him. The twins looked for all intents and purposes like a pair of gargantuan walrus' trying to mate with a pylon. In bowler hats.

"By Poseidon's blue beard, will you two behave yourselves?" Megalodon bellowed angrily. Avalanche wandered off to have a piss against the tower, thousands of gallons of hot yellow death washing down upon the screaming crowds below..

"*Ahem*" intoned a tinny, amplified voice from somwhere below Ten-Ton.

It's source was a small, rotund man, wrapped tightly in a smart black suit.

"Let me handle this." Ten-Ton told the Admiral. "Yes, can I help you?"

"This is Paris. I am the mayor of this fair city." He began.

"Yes?"

"This fair city of the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, l'Arc d'Triomphe, Seinne and Notre Dame.'"

"Yes?"

"This wonderous home of Victor Hugo, Balzac, Satre and Dumas."

"Yes?"

"This fair oasis of style and culture in the wilderness of Europe."

"Yes?"

"You're ruining it." The mayor explained. "Fuck off."

The unmarked BBC van pulled up outside 10 Downing Street. Armed guards looked on as the perplexed passengers were led into the house. Tonight was a historic night. It would mark the beginning of a New World Order. BBC News had set up its Have Your Say service a few years previously, with the express aim of plucking the new rulers of the Earth from the ranks of its users. Inside number 10, these very users were being served champagne and canapes by BBC journalists, and discussing current events...

The piercing shriek of Proud2BEnglish cut through the room. "This is yet more PC nonsense from the loony left government! I for one say it's about time those limp-wristed Socialists faced up to the truth - Britain is full!"

"WHEN WILL THE LEFT REALISE SOCIALISM HAS RUINED BRITAIN????!!" added WhiteMiddleClassMan, whose tendency to scream each word had forced the others back a pace. "When those blacks came over in the Fifties, it wasn't any trouble at all, but these sponging Eastern Europeans are coming over with AIDS. Just last week I caught one looking at my car. This would never have happened under Thatcher" replied an elderly woman. A murmur of agreement rose from the group, but one seemed less sure.

Her hijab set her apart from them, and led WhiteMiddleClassMan to make an additional point. "BACK IN THE 50S," he screamed, "THE IMMIGRANTS ALWAYS TRIED TO INTEGRATE BUT NOW WE HAVE A CERTAIN ETHNIC GROUP TRYING TO FORM THEIR OWN ENCLAVE". Another man stared at the woman, and commanded her "if u dont like britan and cant even speek english, get out of this cuntry and stop sponging of my taxes!!". A roar of applause went up from the other guests, and the armed guards shot the woman where she stood.

"Gentlemen, please!" A stern voice boomed through the room, and the guests looked up to see none other than Prince Philip himself. "We have much-" he began, when the lights went out. "That'll be the bloody fusebox again..."

After arriving in London 150 years earlier, thanks to the magic of (THE NEED FOR DYNAMIC PLOT DEVICES, Log and Gregg (or WATSON as he will now be known) decided they would start their attempt to foil Abu Hamza's plans by asking around the GenericLondonPubInTheseStories, as they entered the room was filled with cigar smoke from the many cigars used to light the room, much to the disgust of the patrons, all of them non-smokers. Gracefully breast-stroking his way through the miasma, Log arrived at the bar and ordered drinks. Watson tugged at Log's bollock hair frantically 'look sir! Over there in the generic dark cornery-table thingie!' Log gasped, for over there in the dark cornery-thingy was a man wearing an incredibly obvious greatcoat and P.I.-style hat. Log approached the stranger and asked 'If I were to buy you a drink, would you tell me all you knew of Abu Hamza's EVIL PLAN?!' The mysteriously mysterious man looked up, revealing he had AN INTERNET SMILEY FOR FACE. His badly animated, yellow features contorted in RAGE as he lunged across the table towards Log, only to miss and to be plunged into Watson's impressively dignified fat folds. As the mans kicking legs slowly disappeared, Log considered what he had seen 'hmmm, perhaps the INCREDIBLY FUCKING ANNOYING SMILEY SALESMAN had something to do with Abu Hamza's plot to finger prostitutes with his hook... wait! I have it!'

'well I don't want it then' quipped Watson, who recieved a cockslapping for his trouble. 'The INCREDIBLY ANNOYING SMILEY MAN must be paying Hamza to finger prostitutes to death with the money from his SMILEY SALES so as to increase demand for the previously unpopular MY LOCAL SLAPPER HAS JUST BEEN HOOK-FINGERED BY ABU HAMZA smiley! What an evil and unaccountably convoluted plan!' Log dragged Watson out of the Generi-Pub towards Buckingham Palace 'The QUEEN must know of this TREACHERY! That her most beloved servant, Abu Hamza, is not as friendly as he seemed...."

(CONT)

The rusty wreck of the dalek slid towards the computer. The plunger arm smashed through the screen. In the console room the lights flickered and dimmed.

"Doctor, what's it doing?"

"Its sucking the power out of the whole grid, look."

The dalek began to glow, dents in its shell straightened out, rust vanished, replaced with shining new metal.

"It's using our power to regenerate itself! Can't we stop it?"

"Nothing can stop it now. I warned you."

In an instant every computer in the room went wild, images flashing on and off at breakneck speed.

"It's downloading the entire internet. Now it knows everything."

On the screen, the eye-stalk swung towards them.

"DOC-TOR!"

"Yes?"

"YOU WILL SURR-EN-DER THE TAR-DIS TO ME! I WILL RULE THIS PLA-NET AND DESTROY THE Now with more swedish food! EN-EM-IES OF THE DA-LEKS"

"The what?"

"YOU WILL Rimjobb Rampage!Giive h3r exxtraa Inch!!es....YOU WILL Teenage bumfart sluts!!!"

"Eh?"

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME? meds online!! l00se w8ight fasst!! EM-ER-GEN-CY! CAN-NOT COM-PUTE! St@yy hardd longer!!!! Moms and sons in hottt action! Dalek XP has caused a major protection fault and must self-destruct. MUST SELF-DES-TRUCT!!!Feel Herr FlaPPs!EX-TER-IN-ATE!!!"

Steam rose from the casing, there was a flash of bright light, then the light on the dalek's eye-stalk went out.

It was dead.

The Doctor looked at the screen.

"Spammed to death. Couldn't have done it better myself"

Rose looked at him.

"The last dalek ever."

"Nah, there's a fuckload back in the special effects unit, all waiting for episode 12"

"Bugger"

"Rose?"

"Yeah Doctor?"

"Has Chris Evans got a bigger dick than me?"

"Don't give up now master Frodo" bellowed Sam above the noise of the volcano. "We're nearly there! Think how it'll be when we get back to the Shire! I'll meet my Rosie and we shall get married and.."

"You what?" snapped Frodo, suddenly coming into focus again.

"Married? Fucking married?....

...What about me?"

"But, boy hobbits can't get married mister Frodo, that's...well, wrong"

"But what about all that 'oh you are the strongest bravest hobbit' and all that bollocks? What was with all the homoerotic shit? Don't you fucking love me?"

"But, but...no" stammered Sam "That's dirty and wrong, I was just being supportive"

"I don't fucking beleive this! You fucking tease! All this way across the lands of dark and evil and now you tell me you don't even love me? Right, fuck you, fuck the shire! Fuck Gandalf and all those poncey fucking faerie folk too. Golem! Here, have your fucking precious, use it to get fucking married to mister flirty two faced hetero boy here for all I fucking care."

The golem siddled over.

"Oooh, evil tricksy little hobbitsies. Even a poorly disguised racial stereotypes like smeegol could see the fat one wasn't up for a bumming"

Frodo stormed off back down the mountian.

"And that big spider thing that thinks I can't see it can fuck right off and all!"

Sam stared after him.

"Well, that got rid of that annoying little cuntface. Hey smeegol! Fancy a blow job?"

“Thank you for calling MI6. For Sales and Marketing, press one. For Accounts press two. If you are a Soviet agent and wish to defect, press three. For all other enquiries please hold…”

“MI6 Secret Intelligence, howmayIdirectyourcall?” “A foreign terror plot? Do you have the name of the person you would like to speak to?” “M? Let me check… Sorry, there is nobody in the directory of that name. What did you say the nature of your enquiry was again?” “I see... I think this might be a matter for the Facilities department; please hold while I connect you…”

“Facilities, Jenny Stevens speaking.” “A terror plot? Stolen nuclear missiles? Sorry, I don’t know why you have called me; this sounds more like a matter for Purchasing. I’ll pass you back to the switchboard, hold on…”

“MI6 Secret Intelligence, howmayIdirectyourcall?” “James Bond? OK, connecting…”

“Hello. You have reached the voicemail of James Bond, Senior Overseas Operations Executive. I’m afraid I’m not at my desk right now, but if you’d care to leave a message I’ll get right back to you. If the matter is urgent, feel free to call my mobile on 07950 657232. Thank you.”

“Oh shi… Hello, James Bond speaking.” “A terror plot, you say? Have you spoken to Facilities?” “I see. Well, I’m afraid that I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with it at the moment, as I have a one-to-one with the Project Manager this afternoon. How about if I give you the Terror Plot Hotline number? That would be 020 7276 1342.” “Not at all. Goodb…” “What’s that?” “No; a lot of offices sound like casinos. There’s nothing odd about it. Goodbye.”

“Thank you for calling the Terror Plot Hotline. We are sorry. Your call is being held in a queue. Your terror plot is number…thirty… Please wait for one of our trained operators to answer. Thank you for calling the Terror Plot Hotline…”

Madonna and Guy lent into the crib.

Their new baby smiled.

“MY NAME IS DAVID BANDA THE EASTERN DISTRICT BANK MANAGER OF UNITED BANK FOR MALAWI” said David; “I AM NEED YOUR HELP;

“THERE IS AN ACCOUNT OPENED IN THIS BANK AND SINCE 1990 NOBODY HAS OPERATED ON THIS ACCOUNT AGAIN. IF I DO NOT REMIT THIS MONEY OUT URGENTLY IT WILL BE FORFEITED.

“THE OWNER OF THIS ACCOUNT IS A FOREIGNER, AND HE DIED SINCE 1990 LEAVING 26MILLION DOLLARS

“THIS MONEY CAN ONLY BE APPROVED TO ANY FOREIGN ACCOUNT BECAUSE THE MONEY IS IN US DOLLARS AND THE FORMER OWNER OF THE ACCOUNT IS MR. SMITH B. ANDREAS IS A FOREIGNER TOO.

“PLEASE GIVE EMAIL YOUR BANK DETAILS I WILL RETURN YOU 25% OF MONEY”

Madonna and Guy excitedly ran to the computer to comply with their new child’s wishes. However, upon their return David was gone. The phone rang.

“George Clooney here! It was a trick! That was Brad Pitt all blacked up, and not a baby at all! I was going to use Sammy Davis Jr but he is dead.”

Guy & Madonna laughed. It’s not like they needed the money and George Clooney was very charming.

(CONTINUED..) As Susan Tobacco disappeared, Log and Greg simultaneously used their Keys of Blog to open the doors to Linda Barker's private sanctum. As the highly affordable leather doors swung inwards, they revealed not only Linda Barker but also Abu Hamza seated on a PVC couch studded with diamonds and skittles. Abu waved his hook threateningly "It is Log! I swear I will hook your nips off if you try to stop our evil plan!" Linda was highly aroused by this display of piratical aggression "Oh Abu!" she cried, before making an admirable attempt to suffocate him with her cunt. As the freaking pair writhed and hooked on the cheap sofa, Log and Greg just sort of stood there, too disturbed to move (well....Greg was taking polaroids that would later appear in The Sun under the title "Phwoar! Tits and that!"). Gingerely tip-toeing around the sofa, Log looked behind it and saw a small piece of notepaper labelled "omg evil plans rofl" or some-such, and promptly pocketed it. Abseiling down the sheer face of Linda Barker's previously mentioned Couch Fortress of Bitch (using pube ropes), Log and Gregg agreed that once they could be arsed to read the secret evil plans they would probably stop them, if there was nothing on the telly. Once they had returned to the Log Cabin (soon to be a disappointing childrens' toy)they read the piece of paper, it read: "Right what if we...umm...I could call everyone infidels again? Would that wo-? It wouldn't? Ok..ok...hm, uh, I could...go around fingering prostitutes with my hook! Yes! Thus leading to a Sherlock Holmes style investigation in London that could lend itself to Log's own particular idiom! 's that good? Yeah? Fantastic! good good...great.... no I will not get my tits out."

The rambling, unclear message was crystal clear! Log donned a deerstalker hat and Greg gained enough weight and glasses to be Watson-like enough to be Watson.

TO LONDON! cried Log, straddling a Bentley and fucking into the distance

The racist Geordie singer walked into the room and threw herself down on the sofa in a rage.

"Why Aye Sooty!" she said menacingly "What's that noise?"

The gay black footballer looked up, saw the hatred flashing back at him and responded sheepishly, "It's... my.... mobile...".

"Well, fookin' take it out yer arse and ansa it then coont!".

The racist Geordie singer grimaced as she contemplated her predicament. "Mutually beneficial they coonts said" she thought. "Put the fooking press off the scent. But they coonts don't have to live wi' that".

She looked down at the gay black footballer as he struggled with his mobile

phone's anal holster. "Useless coont...."

The racist Geodie singer stood up purposefully. "It's time" she said.

"But I've got naked yoga with the lads at 3" said the gay black footballer effeminately.

"NOW!" she roared. "Get yer arse up thay stairs, get ya mam's wig and tabard on, and report back immediately".

As the gay black footballer scurried off she poured herself a drink. A long stiff one. "More than I'll get from him" she thought.

As he walked through the door carrying a handful of lollypops he knew what was coming. But not how quick.

The first blow caught him in the face, the second the chest, the third he could barely register.

He looked up and saw the racist geordie singer standing above him, hissing breath through her teeth, fists clenched.

"You made me do that" she said.

The men all ducked sharply as a salvo of German shells fell just short of their trench. Suddenly, the bombardment ended. The silence was almost as obscene as the brutal storm of death that had preceded it. One or two men now raised their heads hesitantly over the parapet, peering through the dim eyeholes of their gas masks for signs of the impending German attack. Though their masks kept them safe from the poisonous effects of the gas, they could not keep out the cloying chemical stink that reminded the men of its dangerous presence. Luckily, Captain Michael Portillo was on hand to keep their spirits charged.

“Not to worry, men!” he addressed them, “We’ll be sucking sausages in Schöneberg before the month is out!” He knew that if they were not wearing gas masks, they would certainly have given a hearty cheer. Portillo himself wore no mask, and his pudgy features were clearly visible amid the noxious mists. Unlike all other mammals, Conservatives do not use their lungs for the purposes of breathing, leaving them immune to the dangers of chemical warfare.

As he walked along the trench, he spotted a painfully young soldier sitting and trembling in abject terror. Portillo placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder, followed by an even more comforting hand upon his right thigh. The young man looked up at his commander, first in shock and then in excitement as Portillo tongued the filter of his gas mask hungrily. It was not long before the other men of the company followed this example, to be joined by those of the other companies and regiments either side of them. Like a fuse lit from the centre, the bummery spread swiftly along the British lines.

When the Germans finally attacked, they were greeted by the highly arousing scene of their hated enemy rutting en masse amid the mud and the phosgene. They had no choice but to join in, beginning what would be the world’s first International Gay Gas Orgy. It was Portillo’s finest hour!