"SNOGGO And The Giant Sea Beast" (Another Egregious SNOGGO Adventure)

written by
Edna Sweetlove
on behalf of
the one and only
SNOGGO*


  The shore lay peaceful in the warmth of the sun, a seemingly idyllic picture. The beach was completely empty even though it was high summer. The whole town was void of visitors: usually at this time of the year it was crawling with tourists: fat white slobs ready to absorb maximum sunshine and sunburn before going back to the city with their ugly kids, back to their humdrum and drab lives of sedentary drudge. But not today, today they were nowhere to be ******* seen.

  Glum shopkeepers stared glumly out at the glum, empty streets, knowing they faced ruin unless the terror which had engulfed their town and which would bring calamity to their traditional summer occupation of fleecing the tourists could be sorted out. And only I, the wonderfully brave and intrepid SNOGGO, could save the town.  They knew it and I knew it. It was an established fact. Q.E.D.

  As I drove my specially designed truck down the main street to the seafront, people cheered, calling out 'God bless you, dearest, gallant SNOGGO' as I went by.  I was so ******* proud that everyone knew who the great SNOGGO was. I cautiously inched onto the sands as people watched from behind their curtains, hoping against hope that I would be able to save them from looming disaster. I motored down to the water's edge and carefully turned the vehicle round so that its rear pointed out to sea.  The tarpaulin on the back of the specially constructed SNOGGOMOBILE flapped in the wind. What was under the tarpaulin?

  I dragged a steamer trunk from under the tarpaulin, opened it and hauled out the stinking carcase of Geoffrey, my neighbour's Rottweiler who had inexplicably gone missing last week.  Or it may have been Gerald, Geoffrey's twin brother.  Next I hauled Gerald's corpse out of the trunk (or it may have been Geoffrey's, the two mutts were identical and repellent in death, just as they had been identical and repellent in life).  The pong was something awful.  Nearly gagging with the rancid and stomach-churning stench, I dragged the two dead dogs down to the shoreline and, grabbing each by its hind legs, hurled them out to sea as far as my mighty strength would permit.  About five yards, as it happened.

  I returned to the SNOGGOMOBILE and drew back the tarpaulin to reveal what lay underneath; my secret weapon, whose secret only I knew. I made my preparations carefully but rapidly; I knew I had no more than five or six minutes’ leeway. And sure enough, after precisely five and a half minutes, I heard the sound I was expecting and I saw the sight I was expecting.

  The mighty fin of the dreadful fish cut through the water with a dreadful whoosh.  And Geoffrey disappeared beneath the waves (or it might have been Gerald, who cares).  The other dog would be next: such a mighty shark as the one enjoying dog tartare in the bay would not be sated by a single Rotweiler.

  I climbed onto the back of the SNOGGOMOBILE, and leaped gracefully into the seat behind my secret weapon.  I aimed quickly at the focal point of the blood-stained thrashing waters, pressed the red button (marked "Fire" for ease of reference) and WHAM!, what a Hell of a big bang, and off went my thermo-nuclear torpedo, whizzing down the beach and SPLASH! into the water, then WALLOP! as it hit the shark amidships and BOOM! as it went off, blowing the shark into ******* smithereens.  Myriad bits of shark (mixed with bits of Geoffrey and Gerald) rained down on the beach; how fortunate that I had thought to put up my extra-size golf-umbrella (complete with colourful SNOGGO logo) to deal with this eventuality and no lumps hit me.

  The enormous shark (wittily nicknamed “that ******* great ******* shark” by the locals) which had terrorised the entire coast for some time, gobbling up paddling kiddies whole, chewing off the limbs of dozens of swimmers, and generally being a major pain the ****, was no more. It was mincemeat. The whole promenade was alive with cheering townsfolk, as I smiled in happiness and pride at my wonderful achievement. They started singing my favourite song: “We love SNOGGO, SNOGGO the brave” which brought ******* tears to my eyes.

  Now SNOGGO's reward beckoned: ten thousand lovely wallet-warmers (plus expenses) plus a night of unbridled lust with the mayor's buxom wife Shirley and his sister Deidre too, as previously arranged. Yes, SNOGGO the famous shark killer (and ******* fan) had killed yet another predator of the deep stone ******* dead.

THE END
~~~~~~~~

I know I am saved and
My salvation is assured, so:
"*******!" to all ***-SINNERS!
Even as the flames of hottest Hell
Roar in the depths
Thumping like an electric toilet
Urging defecation on sinners
The hot turds going round the bend
Beastly beyond thought
And pumping foulness
Beyond any thought of salvation
Like a great big huge boil of oozing pus
Eager and willing to perish in the flames of Hell
With a cry of Hallelujah! and a cha-cha-cha.

Another enchanting "Barry Hodges Memory" poem for you all!

O glorious Art Deco edifice, tucked away behind the 'Dilly!
In your near century of hospitality, how many millions of visitors
Must have thronged your rooms, meeting, greeting, eating, sleeping
And (need I specify the obvious?) ******* away the fleeting hours?
How sad it is to think that the dear Regent Palace has fallen victim
To the money-grabbing developers' philistine wrecking *****.

Rumour came to me in the Seventies that the ground floor cocktail bar
Had gained a somewhat , shall we say, *louche reputation,
Being frequented by ladies of the night and part-time gigolos;
And that the hustle and bustle of the reception area meant that
Staff would hardly notice if guests invited a newly made friend upstairs
For some horizontal entertainment, be it on a cash or ex gratia basis.

Several evenings, perhaps after a night at the theatre, I paid a brief visit
To the dimly lit bar, with its sophisticated black pianist tinkling out a tune
In the very best Casablanca tradition, perhaps even crooning a little ditty.
One summer night I recall I dropped in, probably post-prandially
More in hope than serious expectation, ordered an over-priced G&T;
And settled down to assess the odds on some casual leg-over action.

Much to my surprise I was soon joined by a large middle-aged blonde
(to a naive young chappie, any woman over 35 is no spring chicken);
She was Icelandic and big with it in the mammary department,
But not fat I hasten to add, just sturdy, like a splendid Wagnerian Valkyrie;
Yea, I knew she was gagging for it when she confided that, only last week,
She had shared l'amour with a young stranger in the Wienerwald al fresco.

I cannot recall much of our no doubt fascinating intellectual conversation
And I certainly can't remember her name, but I do know I readily acquiesced
To her generous invitation to participate in a glug of her duty free allowance
Within the intimate privacy of her spartan little bedroom on the seventh floor.
Delightfully, to my mild pleasure, our upwards journey in the crowded lift
Enticed her to caress my eager testicles in a heart-warmingly experienced way.

Over a malt whisky and, following an extended exchange of warm saliva,
We ended up stark ******* naked in the rather narrow single bed;
Sadly, my recollections of our coupling have gone the way of all flesh
(but my well-preserved diary for that year notes I gave her the works thrice)
And I do vividly remember wondering what time the Underground started
on Sunday mornings as I was no longer enamoured of her tobacco breath.

Now, dear reader, we come to the ****** of my night of Nordic nookie:
Just as the dawn's early light was filtering through the ill-fitting curtains,
My partner in lust informed me that she desperately needed a squirt
(I fear I omitted to mention that the RPH didn't run to en suite facilities)
And that, rather than struggle down the corridor to the communal bogs,
She intended to void her bloated bladder in the waiting washbasin.

She enjoined me to be a gentleman and to refrain from watching her
As she performed her toilette and I assured her, with a covert smile,
That I would not breach her urinary modesty. Thus I slyly observed her
Waltz over to the window and, with the assistance of a handy little chair,
Hoist her ample buttocks up on the basin and let fly her steaming ****;
O, what a romantic sound it made as it splashed onto the porcelain!

As I lay there, entranced by the sight of my piddling blonde Brünnhilde,
An unexpected sound intruded over the splatter of her seething waters:
O Jesu! Suddenly, in the veritable twinkling of an eye, the basin's supports,
Unequal to the unscheduled weight of the female Goliath squatting thereon,
Gave way and what's-her-name fell to the economically carpeted floor,
Screaming in fear, spread-eagled in ****-drenched shattered chinaware.

To say I was beside myself with mirth would be an understatement but,
Gentlemanly as always, I managed to pass off my gargled giggles
As evidence of gallant concern. As soon as common decency permitted,
I made my excuses and left the disconcerted dear to tidy up a bit.
But I will confess to emitting a huge howl of uncontrolled laughter
As I raced off to the nearest toilet (I too was bursting for a huge slash).

This is the very first of my "Barry Hodges' Memories" poems.*

People think that Amsterdam is an exciting city,
Full of life, full of fun, full of cheap beer and drugs
And easy to buy thrilling ******* **** films galore.
But there is another side to this Dutch metropolis
Believe me, I know, I have been there, squire,
And I have seen it in all its drug-filled horror.

I was there one balmy eve, just off the Leidseplein,
With my older brother, a kind and gentle man
(although physically not very pretty),
When a gang of Surinamese youths,
Sky-high on crack *******, or whatever filth,
Attacked us, mugged us, use what words you wish,
It doesn't matter, the result was the same.

And they left him lying there in the gutter,
His skull cracked and seriously brain-damaged,
And for what, I hear a myriad voices query,
Well only a few hundred lousy over-valued Euros.
He dragged out a miserable half-alive existence,
For a few Hellish months in the city hospital;
Dear God, I shall not be going to Amsterdam again
(with or without a Dutch cap, may I add tentatively).

This is one of Barry Hodges' most inspired memories.

  'Twas morning time in times of yore and I, bold Barry Hodges, stood outside my store, my giant vegetables on display for all to see, when lo and behold! a luxurious limousine drew up, and from the back there emerged a gorgeous form of voluptuous statuesque feminity.
  "My God!" I cried, it is that beauteous lady from *La Dolce Vita, the wondrous Anita - and I gazed with joyous on her divine body, imagining it sprawled lasciviously in my bed, legs open as wide as a major road junction on the M1 motorway.
  "Excuse me", said she in that Italo-Swedish voice guaranteed to make any man wet himself copiously, "But I am a-lookink for a shop a-called 6B, and yet all I can-a-see is a Barry Hodges' the Master Geengrocer's, complete with a giant cucumber or two, which I 'av to say remind me of somet'ing tasty."
"Dearest lady, said I, you have come to the right place: 6B is the trading name of my sister enterprise: Barry Bodgers' Boil Bursting Beauty Bureau which is located upstairs, Barry Bodgers at your service, my dearest, most delightful Fru Ekberg."
"Shhhhhhhhh! I am een deesguise, not even dear Federico knows I am-a-here." And thus, assuring her of my utmost discretion, and forming a bond by saying that I too, the famous Geordie seducer, Barry Hodges, had indulged in a slight nomenclatural change in order to separate the two sides of my business interests, and in order to do a spot of money laundering on the side.  "But," I enquired, "How is it that you have need of the rather specialised medical services we offer, you who are so radiant and bella-bella?" She lowered her eyes seductively and promised to reveal her terrible secret.

As I ushered her up the stairs to the studio, my eyes on her ****-cheeks wiggling like two delectable beach ***** in a sack, she told me the sad tale of the immense boil which kept recurring on the middle of her back and which no amount of corrective surgery could fix.
"Aha!" I exclaimed, "Only Barry Bodgers, the world's greatest boil-sucker, can effect the cure for which you long, and I shall operate on you personally, not entrusting such a task to even the best of my boil-bursting minions." I added to myself, "Also I want to give you a good old bonking while we're at at."

Once we attained the privacy of my consulting room, I instructed her to strip off utterly so I might examine her, and I can tell you, dear reader, that her **** **** was a joy to behold. I too divested myself of my clobber, knowing that boil-******* can get a bit messy at the best of times. Jesus wept!, but the mighty boil betwixt her graceful shoulders revealed when de-plastered was a true horror, with a yellow tip as big as a Grade One Belgian Turnip. I explained that I would **** it out whilst I rogered her from the rear and that, when she felt her ****** on the way, she should scream out to that effect and I would then bite the core of the boil right out in a blaze of mutual ******* glory, before applying a dose of my exclusive Boil Preventative Cream, namely a handful of our conjoined love-juices extracted from her gaping ***** by hand a few seconds earlier.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" screamed the Swedish bombshell and with a mighty **** like an industrial Dyson FX334 on full power, I slurped and  razor-bit the boil, bursting it asunder, smothering my eager face in blood and putrid pus, thereby causing me to blow my *** as ne'er before. The green core of the boil emerged from its fleshly cavity with a deafening plop as we came together like a nuclear blast d'amour.

O, but only then, as my seminal outpourings soaked my jim-jams, did I awaken to discover yet another nocturnal emission. And, not unexpectedly, dear Nurse Nellie, having heard my cry of ecstasy, rushed in to my bedroom, head-shaking and tut-tutting as usual, as she knelt down and licked my tum-tum dry.
"Yum, yum" she murmured in her dulcet Northumbrian tones, "Ah've looked after three generation o' Hodges laddies, and I kin tell ye, your *****'s the tastiest of them all, ye bonnie wee man."
"Better than Grandad Charlie's?"
"Why aye, mon, yours is well creamier."

This is the very first SNOGGO adventure, written by SNOGGO himself in the 1st Person (well, by Edna Sweetlove really)

    Cruising through space, looking out of the space porthole, seeing the planets passing by, jesus ******* christ we were so excited, all those ******* planets, what a ******* staggering sight.

    Sharon, our Captain (at three foot six and twenty-one and a half stone an imposing looking woman), bellowed out her order: 'Prepare to descend, you mothers!'

    So most of us stopped ******* and we started preparations for the descent onto the surface of the treacherous unknown planet ****** (aka Big ****** on account of there having been a mix up in naming newly discovered planets and so the universe had ended up with three planets all called ******) - as I was saying, the planet ****** on which no ******* human ever, ever, ever trod on before. Wow, this was ******* exciting.

    The zonometer showed we were only 3,000 feet above the surface of the unknown planet....2,900, 2,800, 2,700, 2,600, 2,500, 2,400......

    You got the ******* picture?

    BLAM!!  We landed. The ******* zonometer was inaccurate, but that's what happens when you buy cheap Asian imports at a ******* discount.

    Captain Sharon went through the full three-hour post-landing, pre-disembarcation procedure whilst I was *******.  I did an enormous one, very smelly and utterly horrible.  She was waiting at the door when I finished and she was clearly very constipated.

    It was time to disembark onto the unknown surface of the unknown planet ******.  The stratodoor opened and we were overwhelmed by the stench which hit our ******* nostrils toute suite: purest ****. What kind of people were the Bolloxonians who couldn't even organise a decent sewage system?

    I was chosen (on account of my club foot) to be among the first to descend onto ******'s surface.  It was cool and I limped heroically onto the planet's surface.

    We explored a bit, being careful not to step on the huge piles of used condoms everywhere.  The terrain was hideous and eldritch, a bit like my Aunt Edna's bedroom after she's been entertaining the local retards for a ******* ****-in.

    We saw this thing.  My mind could not immediately recognise it for its utter, brain-blowing horror.  I cannot tell you what it was, the words fail me, my intellect goes into shut-down mode.  O holy **** it was ghastly.  All right, I'll tell you what it was.  It was a THREE HUNDRED FOOT ****, all covered in oozing pus and vibrating bleeding worms and so on and **** like that.

    The crew of the our spaceship were enraptured and I was nearly killed in the scrum to get stuck in to this mighty beauty.  We had travelled three light years, crossed fifty galaxies, battled twelve-inch penised space midgets for the right to feast on this great ****.

    What can I say?  How can I describe the mighty cry that rose up from the assembled crew as they started to gobble the giant space poo lump....?

    'YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM!' they shrieked orgasmically, ******* themselves in well-earned contentment. I think we must agree that it was delicious and well worth the journey.

THE END

This is one of the racier "Memories" poems by the great Barry Hodges, my alter ego.
It might well make you come involuntarily in your ******.

How happy was I once with the wind in my hair
Wandering o'er the dales with joyousness unmeasur'd,
In the sweet long passed innocent days of platonic love
When stolen gropes and kiss were to be treasured.

But all good and true things come to a sad close
And my poor first love lies in her grave so sorrowfully
Having been crushed to death by a runaway steamroller
Before I managed to go all the way quite thoroughly.

What a waste of delightful teenage flesh was that
Yet perhaps I had a narrow escape from the derangement
Which might have been mine had our trysting
Led to a semi-permanent matrimonial arrangement.

For I recall one afternoon in the old ABC cinema
In the delighful Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate,
Sitting next to my gorgeous love in the back row,
Exploring her not so very private parts on a hot date.

How I cursed the management's niggardly folly
In not showing a film with hot romantic blood
But saving pathetic pennies by putting on
Daffy ******* Duck and Elmer ******* Fudd.

But yet I perserved with my digital explorations
Unaware that the throbs my fingers felt were no dream
But darling Elsie laughing like a proverbial drain
At Daffy's hilarious anatine adventures on-screen.

'Twas then I began to wonder about the viscous liquid
I had hitherto imagined was Elsie's lovejuice flowing
(dear, dear reader, cease your perusal of my tale forthwith
if you are of a nervous disposition or prone to food up-throwing)*.

It was only a careful examination of my sopping knuckles
In the dimly lit gents after old Daffy's film was done and dusted
Which revealed that my dearly beloved had leaked
Big time out of both ends, leaving my fingers well encrusted.

O to think that, but for Daffy, I might have been lumbered
With a different kind of bird for whom double incontinence
Was a way of life (thus, the fatal steamroller she encountered
The very next day was a blessing from kindly Providence).