Shark Scopes North Of The River

Shark scopes north of the river

Fack me, I’ve gone faacking broke again innit!

Nah fackin’ listen to me you caant. So right, I’ve borrowed my nan’s pension yeah, she don’t know yet, I was gunna spin it up and put it back, so keep it to yaself yeah. Anyway, I’m playing the $5/$10 on Jokerstars yeah, and I’ve built my stack up to two faaasand after I cracked sum caants Aces with Q5.

So, I open for a pony with K7 in early position yeah, and the tight-aggressive caant in the cut-off free-betted me to a ton. Aye faackin’ aye I thought to myself, this caaant hasn’t free-betted anyone all game yeah, he must have fack all innit. So I re-raises him to a monkey yeah, and after a few seconds, he shoves all in for free large. Fack me I thought, I’m pot committed, so I calls for my last fifteen hundred, and the faacking caaant flips over KK.

So I’m now faacking brassic innit and need to get hold some cash for the faacking retro-virals. I cant sign on cos I’m already on the dole innit, so I need a job to tide me over til I stop runnin bad.

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‘Housebound’ – An excerpt from Clive’s memoirs

31st October 2008

As I exited the Naxxar residence there was a full moon set to a Milky Way backdrop that seemed to occupy the whole night sky. I had a smile on my face as I stepped out into the crisp, fresh night air that seemed to flow into your lungs with ease with every breath you took, but it was smell of 10 grams of Amsterdam-grade Skunk in my back-pocket, tickling my nostril hairs, that was putting a spring into my step.

A little unsteady on my feet from the two joints I’d just smoked, I tackled the now familiar staircase that looked like an optical illusion with a confident stride, but still managed to fall down the cunt, as always. Only in Malta would they design a marble-effect staircase that severely narrows to a point as you descend.

As I got into the car I went through my usual ‘after scoring’ driving ritual: checking over each shoulder, looking all around me and into adjacent parked cars, and once I was sure it was safe, I whipped out the mighty bag of God’s herb and stashed it in a little cubby-hole that sits just behind the hand-brake – within easy reach should the filth decide they’d like a word with me on the journey home.
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COMING TOMORROW: **ALL NEW** RapeTheRape November Rape Race

WIN YOUR FREEDOM WITH THE RAPETHERAPE 600 YEAR RAPE RACE!

Join our all new NovemberRape Race where a total of 600 Years jail time will be quashed! With our increased prize pool and new flatter payout structure, it’s now bigger than ever!

PLUS: for our November Race ONLY the first 3 places in the October Rape Race Leaderboard will each receive a Royal Pardon signed by Her Majesty herself AND a coveted RapeTheRape commemorative mask.

How it works:

  • You must Opt-in to participate in this promotion
  • All players will start with a base 20 years jail time
  • The Top 30 players with the most Rape Points will be guaranteed no jail time at the end of the Rape Period
  • The Rape Period will run from November 1st – November 14th
  • Rape Points are earned at the rate of 3.25 points per white rape and 5 points per black/ROW rape
  • A 5X Rape Point Multiplier will be awarded if the victim has AIDS or a 3X Multiplier for any other STD

DON’T FORGET: EVERY day between the hours of 15:00 – 16:00 GMT & 20:00 – 21:00 GMT is RapeTheRape Happy Hour where you will earn DOUBLE Rape Points for every rape committed within the designated Happy Hour – In London that equates to a massive 25 Points per rape GUARANTEED when you factor in the 5X Rape Point Multiplier!

OPT-IN NOW* BY ENTERING A STRANGER WITHOUT CONSENT AND QUOTING THE CODE: BORN2RAPE

*Please ensure to leave your real name with your entry.

Payouts:

Position Prize
1st Place Queens Pardon
2nd Place Queens Pardon
3rd Place Queens Pardon
4th Place Acquittal
5th Place Acquittal
6th Place Acquittal
7th Place Acquittal
8th Place Acquittal
9th Place Acquittal
10th Place Acquittal
11th – 20th Place Suspended Sentence
21st – 30th Place Community Service
31st – 50th Place Single Cell Accommodation
Others Pound of Snout

 

Terms and Conditions:

  • Only rapists resident in the UK are eligible for this promotion.
  • Enter at your own risk. By opting-in to this promotion you agree to be sentenced to a mandatory 20 years in prison.
  • All players excluded from the Rape Race for breaching any of the terms listed below will forfeit their base 20 year jail term and will be hung by the neck until dead.
    • Consensual sex does not apply. Any player deemed to have had consensual sex will be excluded from the Rape Race.
    • Any player(s) suspected of collusion will be excluded from the Rape Race. Collusion is deemed to be two or more participating rapists working together at the expense of another participating rapist by sharing rape information.
    • Any player(s) suspected of account sharing will be excluded from the Rape Race. Account sharing is deemed to be any participating rapist that has raped for more than 17 hours in any 24 hour period.
    • Any player(s) suspected of team playing to generate rape points will be excluded from the Rape Race. Team Playing is deemed to be two rapists sharing the same rapes, or two rapists raping each other in order to generate rape points.
    • RapeTheRape is a family company and does not tolerate the rape of minors or the elderly or infirm. Where proven the player involved will be excluded from the Rape Race.
  • Any player(s) deemed to have to abused the spirit of the promotion will be excluded from the Rape Race.
  • Any player on Rape Back will receive 50% of the advertised sentence reduction.
  • Any player on Rape Back that wins a Queens Pardon will be downgraded to community service.
  • RapeTheRape accepts no responsibility for sexually contracted diseases.
  • RapeTheRape makes no distinction between genders for the purpose of the Rape Race.
  • RapeTheRape decision is final.
  • RapeTheRape Standard Terms and Conditions apply.
  • RapeTheRape is a subsidiary company of The Crown Prosecution service.

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A History of Simon Schama by Miguel and Clive

The public persona of Simon Schama is that of an affluent and scholarly sort of man, the sort of man that belongs to the National Trust. This, however, belies a terrible truth that will shock fans of his unique style of history programming; for after all of the pomp and syllables have subsided, there today remains a deeply troubled man.

Unable to find television work after his ‘A History of Britain – By Simon Schama’ series of documentaries left our screens, and shunned by the academic community for making a ‘cunt’ out of himself national TV with his effeminate narration of our great British history in which every fourth word sounds like an innuendo, the self indulgent Schama turned to drink and drugs, and casual sex with welders, frequenting the same-sex wine bars of Merthyr Tydfil in a desperate search for ‘derriere’, as he preferred to describe it.

One day whilst idly knocking back half-pints of gin and um bongo at his favourite haunt and lamenting the continued success of the “high profile but lowbrow” David Starkey, and the fact that Microsoft Word won’t allow you add the word cunt to spell checker dictionary, Schama spotted a handsome and rugged chap walk through the door accompanied by a camera crew. “It’s Ray Mears!” exclaimed Schama to himself, rushing to the bar to wait for an opportune moment to strike up a conversation and ask Mears his preferred method for handling a big chopper.
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It turns out…

It turns out that Betunfair are cunts. At Betunfair there is a cold calling department staffed with a load of girls that have narrowly avoided the sex trade.  Of course HR and marketing types frown upon that name so they call it ‘Outbound Telemarketing’ or ‘OBTM’ in their marketing lingo, but still pay below minimum wage.  Anyway, the lads upstairs thought it would be hilarious if they kept it a secret that they intended on making everybody in OBTM redundant, no to mention ensuring that nobody would consider a timely illness before what would turn out to be their last payday. Then on payday morning they sent a French cunt in to tell them that they have one hour to delete all the shit off their PC, collect all their peasant belongings and then security would be assisting them in slinging their fucking hooks. ‘But its Christmas’ cried the penniless eastern European girls. ‘Get a dick up your cracking arses and Fuck off’ cried napoleon scrooge.

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Spermaman

“Clive, if you were a superhero what would your name and special powers be?”       

“Do you know it’s funny you should ask that, Miguel, because believe it or not, I was once a superhero. Just this week I was interviewed by a writer for a book that he is writing about me.”

“Really, when does the book come out?”

“It’s not finished yet but here is an advance copy containing the first couple of sections about my escapades…”

——————————————————————————————————-

The Chronicles of Spermaman – By J R Hartley

Prologue

Some years ago…

In her new job as Laboratory Assistant at ICI Keren Woodward still cut an attractive figure in her white lab coat, a uniform that was in stark contrast to the glitzy dresses that was the uniform during her heydays as a singer in eighties girl-group Bananarama. She had taken the job at the chemical giant after the working men’s club bookings had ground to a halt, and the record royalties had dried up. Having never quite kicked the cocaine habit she’d developed during the height of her fame, Keren would occasionally sneak out to the chemical storage sheds at the back of ICI’s main factory for a crafty line ‘to take the edge off’. On this particular day she had been reading on an internet forum that cocaine imbibed directly through the vagina was a much more potent rush than the traditional snorting method because it was absorbed directly into the main blood stream. With a rapidly deteriorating septum she was intrigued by the idea so during her lunch break she popped out the sheds, cut out a line on top of a barrel, hitched up her skirt, pulled her knickers down and hopped on top of the barrel in a seated position, enveloping the line of white powder with her Brazilian-waxed axe wound. She could feel tingling in her special places immediately, it felt good. She could feel the cocaine euphoria coursing through her body, and then suddenly… the top of the barrel gave way with a crash submerging her throbbing cunt into an unknown liquid. Unable to think of a credible reason as to how she had come to dip her lettuce in a vat of chemical waste, she decided not to seek medical advice, instead, quietly hoping the burning sensation would subside naturally.

That night Keren Woodward died from what doctors would later describe as a radioactive fanny.

 

And so it began

Spermaman was a superhero that would do battle with criminals and ne’er-do-wells by furiously wanking off and ejaculating in their eyes with a sperm so powerful that it would debilitate any would-be muggers or rapists by literally melting them. Said to be more potent than the beer in ‘The Underground Nightclub’ in Gibraltar, Spermaman (or Clive as he is known to friends) acquired his special powers whilst working the nightshift as a morgue attendant at the local hospital. Clive was forced to take the job upon his return to England after going broke in the Gibraltar cash game. To this day Clive maintains that it was the colluding of German staff from PokerStrategy.com that cost him his bankroll rather than his strict observance to the strategies laid out in Phil Gordon’s little Green Book of Poker.

I asked him about this period in his life…

“Yeah, the cheating Kraut cunts, anyway, I digress. Part of my job at the morgue was to prepare the bodies for the family undertaker who would be collecting the corpse the next day. Occasionally you would get a right looker in, and with only skeleton staff in the early hours… you know, it would be a crying shame not to give them their last rites, as it were.  Anyway, one night we got an amazing woman in with long hair, cracking tits and an arse like two boiled eggs in a Dockers handkerchief. She was a bit long in the tooth but still a mighty specimen all the same. As I looked closer I realised it was Keren Woodward of Bananarama fame – I recognised her from the cover of their 1987 hit album ‘Wow!’ Bursting with excitement at the prospect of nailing one of the ‘Wanking Top 5ers’ from my youth, I smashed back the half-bottle of Lidl Vodka I had stashed away in the desk drawer, whipped out the gram Miaow Miaow from my wallet that I’d been saving for a special occasion, and licked it off her tits as I fucked her lifeless but curiously still warm twat.”

“Weren’t you afraid of catching anything, Clive?”

“I hadn’t up to that point. I had always reasoned with myself that as living organisms themselves, any diseases would have died along with her. That night however, I was in agony. My cock and balls were throbbing and there was a bright luminous green glow emanating from them. Standing in front of a full-length mirror to get a better look at my pulsating meat and two veg, I looked like a contestant on Fifteen-to-one. I wished William G Stewart really was there, he would have known what to do.”

The following morning Clive awoke naked on the bedroom floor with no apparent side effects from the events of the previous night. After confirming that his family jewels were still intact, Clive simply shrugged and chalked it up to experience. Little did he know that an incredible gift had been bestowed upon him – for Clive was Spermaman. Over the next few days and weeks Clive began to notice the effects of his new powers, particularly after melting the corpse of Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother in an LSD-fuelled orgy with several other cadavers, including the bodies of Dudley Moore and Kenneth Wolstenholme – whom Clive hallucinated were raucously cheering him on as he defiled the body of the Queen Mum.

It wasn’t until one night in a secluded alleyway that he would realise his true calling…

 

Spermaman is born

Clive had taken to aimlessly wandering the streets a few months after his fateful encounter, following his sacking when the Coroner reported finding his sperm in the exhumed corpse of a murder victim. It was around 12am one evening and Clive had turned into an alleyway which he often used as a shortcut to his flat, and he couldn’t believe his eyes at what he came across. There in front of him was the notorious Scottish sex offender known only as ‘The Weegie’ – in reference to the headlock he employs to snatch his helpless victims.

Clive continues the story…

So there he was, The Weegie, squatting over the helpless naked body of a woman off her tits on Rohypnol, dipping his hairy balls into her gaping mouth.

“Stop there you Animal” I shouted, grabbing an old mop that was resting against the wall and throwing it at him spearing him in the ribs.”

“Aaccchhh, see you pal, there was nay need for that” cried the depraved Glaswegian.

“Unhand that woman, Weegie” I said firmly.

“Have you got the minerals?” he snarled as he dropped the woman’s head to stare me down with a chilling evil eye.

He then rushed at me attempting to land a haymaker in a series of wild swings. I sidestepped his onslaught leaving a leg trailing to trip him up, and moved forwards into the open ground. I knew that now wasn’t the time, but the sight of the passed out woman on the floor at my feet reminded me of my days in the morgue, and I found myself becoming increasingly aroused. Then it hit me: if I could get sufficiently aroused I could melt him with my super spunk and end his reign of terror.

With The Weegie still down from banging his head on the floor, I dropped my trousers and began to feverishly beat one out. Thirty seconds passed and I could see my foe beginning to stir but there was no joy on the jizz front. Shit, I cursed, I need to be at the vinegar strokes before that cunt gets back to his feet. I crouched down and started tweaking the nipples of the comatose woman with a moistened thumb and forefinger in attempt to speed up the process. It wasn’t working and The Weegie was perilously close to being back to his feet. There was only one thing for it, I knew I had to fuck her. I mustn’t come I thought to myself, thankfully I’m a Catholic so I’m well versed in the highly effective withdrawal method, as are my 12 brothers and sisters.

I dropped down onto the girl entering her in one deft move. Even though I knew she would be none the wiser, my close shave at the morgue had changed my views on non-consensual sex, so I thought it only correct to whisper in her ear that I was only doing this to save her life, before proceeding to bang her for all I was worth. As I ploughed away at the damsel in distress a rush of air swished past my ear. Fuck, it was The Weegie, he was back to feet and had taken a kick at me. I hauled the limp bodied girl up and sprang to my feet just in time to dodge another attack from the crazed sex fiend. I lurched to the wall to get some purchase for another few strokes… I was close. I heard the footsteps behind me and when he was just a few steps away, I span around tossing the girl into his arms, at the same time grabbing my glowing green member to spray him with my super spunk. He melted instantly, and in an unfortunate turn of events, so too did the woman I was trying to save. The overall point was not lost on me though, and I knew as Spermaman I could become a Venereal Vigilante of awesome power, perhaps ridding the world of dangerous sexual predators for good.

Chapter One – Spermaman and CrazyAce do battle  

This is 29 Acacier Road. And this is Clive – the poker player who leads an exciting double life. For when Clive arouses himself, an amazing transformation occurs – Clive…is…SPERMAMAN, ever alert for the call to action!”

To be continued…..

Read Spermaman II, the Adventures of Spermaman Here

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The Saga of Psycho The Rapist

It was 2009, and after cashing in the GUKPT Luton Main Event I felt confident going into the Walsall leg that I could do well. I’d been studiously reading Phil Gordon’s Little Green Book of poker and was ready to put big Phil’s masterplan into action.

The big day arrived and I was quickly eliminated.

With no flights available until a few days later, that night I took a wander round the town to have a few solitary beers and consult Phil’s Gospel to work out where I had gone wrong in the tournament. I must have missed a something, I needed to read between the lines, that’s what big Phil would do. Lost in the sacred text, I looked up just in time in avoid bumping into a black man with what looked like a silk tie-die dress on. They weren’t wrong when they called it the Black Country I thought to myself, there was jiggerboos everywhere. Playing back the hands in my mind and pouring over the Little Green book of knowledge for clues, I failed to notice that I had accidentally turned into a dark alleyway.

What happened next is too is painful to talk about but the upshot is that I was systematically raped by a dozen niggers. After the terrible deed was done, they further compounded their brutality by Bukkake’ing me for an agonising 30 seconds. I can’t describe how undignified you look after being ejaculated on by the descendents of twelve elephant washers, and I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that 12 well hung darkies jizzing on your face causes problems for the skin, and crucially to my story, problems with the eyes.
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Venereal Tourism – A Miguel & Clive Special

With the ever growing market for sex holidays these days, the board have been thinking about diversifying into the travel industry to earn a few extra quid to cover the spiraling costs of Mrs Homophobe’s experimental AIDS treatment, so they have asked me and Clive to look into it.

The package holiday industry is a tough one to crack, the speciality market in particular, and we knew all too well that we needed to make our entry into a crowded market place with a splash, so we got our heads together over a few grams of Miaow, Miaow and some Lidl own brand vodka, and came up with what we believe is a genuine industry first – Venereal Tourism.  All-inclusive packages, to headline destinations, where our customers can bring home a unique souvenir that no other travel company guarantees as standard – a venereal disease.

We couldn’t just go into this gung-ho, we needed to conduct some market research, source the best locations for our headline diseases, organise the logistics such as: hotels, airports, local transport infrastructures, 24-hour pharmacies, and so on. Ultimately, we knew that we needed go out and do our bidding across the globe, and report our hard fought findings back to the Cuntspoker board.

So, armed with five-hundred quid in cash chips from Angie’s room, a Stanley knife and a copy of Phil Gordon’s Little Green Book of Poker, Clive’s brief was clear – to return with five Clap Tours™ destinations to suit your beginner, up to your more discerning gentleman, and with his cock in a jar of formaldehyde.

And that he did, upon his triumphant return to Cuntspoker.com HQ recently, where I interviewed Clive about our ‘Big 5’ disease-ridden holiday destinations for the inaugural Clap Tours™ newsletter.

Here’s a sneak preview of the newsletter:
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The Angie’s Room Trilogy – Part 3

Part 3 – The invite said there was a 15% discount on first the drink

The bar area of Angie’s Room was quite tastefully lit by candlelight, with low tables surrounded by low sofas, and high backed swivel-chairs at the bar. As I scanned the room I began to see unholy horror, after unholy horror, culminating in a gay couple felching on the leather recliner in the corner. I had walked into a terrible den of inequity…

“Clive, this is Jimbo. Jimbo, this is Clive.” said Angie, pointing towards a stool at the bar beside a large man, wearing a Kilt and white T-shirt with a Falcon on it. Angie then disappeared out of the room to sign the dismissal letters of the Stage 3’ers.

“Take a seat young Clive, let me get ya a drink” Jimbo motioned to the velvet stool beside him.

“Very kind of you Jimbo, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll have a Pimms please.” I said courteously, as I took the seat beside him. “Angie tells me you run the poker sweat shop, Jimbo?”

“Three poond fefty”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“The drink. It’s three poond fifty.” said the Scotsman, with his finger stabbing menacingly on the bar, demanding payment.

“Errrr, the invite said there was a 15% discount on first the drink” I told him in incredulity at being charged.

“Aye, it does yes, but this is my hoose, and it’s been a bad year financially you see. Whilst the poker sweat shop broke all revenue targets, they are linked to our illegal bookies call centre which missed their targets by 16%, anyway, the upshot is I can only offer you a 1% discount, as a gesture of goodwill, in spite of the fact that we smashed all historic profits as a group, due to the contribution from our backroom casino and our degenerate sportsbook highrollers.”
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The Angie’s Room Trilogy – Part 2

Gimp-masks are not permitted in the family area.  

I arrived at the address on the letter which turned out to be a lock-up garage, with the words ‘Fuck Allah’ spray painted on the corrugated iron door. Quite right I thought to myself, and as instructed in the letter I knocked twice.

“Who’s there?” said a gruff voice, muffled through the iron roller door.

“My name is Clive. I was invited by Angie.” I replied, clearing my throat.

“What’s the password?” the voice sneered back at me through an eye-level slit that opened in the door.”

“Erm, I wasn’t given a password in the letter, my dear.”  I instantly regretted the ‘my dear’ I had added to the end of the sentence when the door furiously rolled open with a crash.

“In ya come then chuck” said the Annie Duke lookalike. “I do apologise for the clerical error in the invite, I’ll have to have a word in the club administrator’s ear”.

“You didn’t write the letter?” I enquired. “Of course not, Clive, I merely sign them. Come on in.”

Judging from the exterior of Angie’s Room, I didn’t expect much from the interior, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that they had took the advice of the BBC’s Changing Rooms, and created the illusion of space by painting horizontal stripes on the two longest walls – to great success.

“Do keep up, Clive” Angie scolded, ushering me hurriedly into a small office to the right of the entrance, where she asked me matter-of-factly:

“So, Clive, what got you into collecting venereal diseases?”
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