Tales From The Dungeon Of Unimaginable Horrors – Cashinhandyman


“That’ll be £299.99 including VAT,” said the towering figure of the evil Cashinhandyman. “Or I can knock the VAT off if you pay in cash, like.”

“You’re alright,” said the homeowner. “I have no problem paying full price. I’m a Guardian reader and member of the liberal metropolitan elite and I see paying tax as a moral duty. I think it’s wrong of you to suggest keeping this job off your books, actually.”

This angered the Cashinhandyman. In a flurry of demonic bees, he used the 18 volt Black and Decker hammer drill that had replaced his left hand to drill out both of the homeowner’s’ eyes and all of his teeth. The bees, meanwhile, stanged the homeowner all over the shop.

“AAAAAAAGH”” screamed the homeowner. “YAAAAAARRRGH! My eyes and my teeth! AAAARRRRRRRGGGH! The bees! THE BEES!”

Just as the Cashinhandyman and his herd of bees were finishing off murdering the homeowner, his Nokia 3310 went off.

“Cashinhandyman,” he grumbled down the phone.

“Hello? I need a quote for my guttering.”

“£69.99 including VAT,” muttered the Cashinhandyman. “Or I can do it for less if you pay cash in hand.”

“Oh I don’t know about that. What if I get in trouble with the revenue?”

“Full price it is then.”

The Cashinhandyman climbed into his 2006 Citreon Berlingo that he’d bought from off of a dealer in Bournemouth cash in hand. He would do the guttering for the pre-approved price of £69.99 incl. VAT … AND THEN HIM AND HIS BEES WOULD KILL AGAIN!

The End

Tales From The Dungeon Of Unimaginable Horrors – The Meerkat Sponsored By confused.com


President Don Trump from off of America was looking to change his contents insurance provider after his previous insurer upped his premium to a level the president found unacceptable. He was going to go with Churchill, but the company’s decision to dump the Bob Mortimer-voiced cartoon bulldog in their adverts in favour of a real bulldog on a skateboard had angered Trump. What on earth did Churchill think they were doing?

Instead, the president had decided to get his contents insurance through comparethemarket.com. He was excited when he found out he would also be receiving a meerkat cuddly toy through the post in the next eight to ten days.

*         *          *

“A package has arrived for you, Mr. President,” said the president’s butler, driver and Kung-Fu protector, Fang Lee. Fang Lee was a deadly Triad who defended the president against frequent attacks by liberals and feminists whenever he was out and about in Washington DC doing his shopping or popping to the bank to check on his billions of dollars.

“Fuckin’ A!” shouted the president. “This will be my meerkat cuddly toy, Fang Lee. I’ve been looking forward to this for the last eight to ten days!”

The president opened the package and there, nestled on top of the paperwork detailing his new contents insurance policy, was a meerkat cuddly toy wot looked like Aleksandr, the leader of the comparethemarket.com meerkat family from off of the adverts on the telly.

“This is brilliant, Fang Lee!” exclaimed the president, as Fang Lee wearily scanned the Oval Office windows. Fang Lee expected an attack at any moment from the boggle-eyed Swedish weirdo Greta Thunberg and her crack squad of deranged teenage eco-terrorists. They wouldn’t get far if they tried any of that business on Fang Lee’s watch. Both of Fang Lee’s hands were registered with the United States Registry of Deadly Weapons as deadly weapons. He would take great pleasure in snapping Thunberg’s neck with his deadly hand weapons.

“Oh look,” chuckled the president. “There’s a button on the back. I wonder if this is one of those cuddly toys that talks and wiggles about when you press it?”

“DON’T PRESS THAT BUTTON, MR. PRESIDENT!” roared Fang Lee, as he Kung-Fu jumped through the air in slow motion in an attempt to reach the meerkat before the president could press the button. But it was too late. A cloud of gas billowed out of the meerkat’s eyes, engulfing the president’s whole head.


To Fang Lee’s horror, the president transformed into a hideous ten-foot beast man Trump Monster before his very eyes. “RAAAAAARGH!” roared the president, lunging at Fang-Lee with his razor-sharp claws. Luckily, Fang Lee’s many years in the Triads and his eight black belts in Kung-Fu meant he was able to dodge the president’s attack and deliver a knockout roundhouse kick to the Trump Monster’s head. Thanks to Fang Lee’s lightning fast reactions, he’d avoided being sliced open and the Trump Monster was crumpled in a heap on the floor, out for the count.

A happy ending, you might think? Sadly no, for after the Trump Monster was confined for the rest of its life to a reinforced, electrified super dungeon in Area 51, Bernie Saunders was made president by default and he imposed communism on the country which ruined America in the space of a week – as everybody but woolly-minded liberals and the left wing Twitterati knew it would.


A confused.com spokesman responds:

“It’s been clear for many years that comparethemarket.com is a front for the Russian government. Vladimir Putin and the KGB were biding their time, waiting to get one of their meerkat cuddly toy into the White House and ruin the United States. Had President Trump got his contents insurance through confused.com, he would have received £20 cashback instead of a face full of deadly gas which destroyed both himself and his country forever.”

Tales From The Dungeon Of Unimaginable Horrors – The Sardines Of Satan


“DON’T OPEN THOSE SARDINES!” shouted demonologist Dr. Doncaster Fuller. He had just found out the tin of sardines his wife Ada had bought from Sainsbury’s on Wednesday was possessed by the devil.

“Why ever not?” his wife asked.

“Because I’ve just found out those sardines are possessed by the devil!”

“Oh don’t be daft,” Ada scoffed. “The devil’s got better things to do than possess tins of sardines. Whatever next!”

“Who’s the bloody demonologist here, eh?”

“You’re not much of a demonologist if you think Satan wastes his valuable time possessing tins of fish.”

She opened the sardines.

“HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAH!” laughed the Lord of Darkness, jumping out of the tin of sardines. He stunk of fish. “You should have heeded your husband’s warning, Ada Fuller. I was indeed in that tin of sardines and now your souls are MINE! HA HA HA HA HA!”

“Oh well done, Ada,” said Doncaster Fuller as he and his wife (and the tin of sardines) were dragged down into the very lowest depths of hell. “None of this would have happened had you listened to me. Now we’re going to spend the rest of eternity getting all tortured by demons because you wouldn’t do as you were told.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” Ada scowled, as a denizen of hell shoved a red-hot poker up her bottom. “Youch! Me arse!”

“And that is how I, the eminent demonologist Dr. Doncaster Fuller, met my end. Because of my bloody wife. Remember that bit in the wedding vows about honouring and obeying your husband? They don’t mean that bit when they say it out loud in a room full of witnesses. Never get married, that’s my advice.”


Tales From The Dungeon Of Unimaginable Horrors – The Sat-Nav Of Terror


When young Leroy Ovaries was left an old Rolls Royce in the will of a mysterious relative from Leeds, he could not have guessed the horrors that would swiftly follow. For this was no ordinary Rolls Royce. This Rolls Royce came complete with a brand new sat-nav … a sat-nav possessed by the evil spirit of the late Sir Jimmy Savile OBE.

“Now then, now then, young Leroy. Take the next turning on the left, do you see, and then travel on for another five ‘undred yards until you see the gates of a lovely, lovely reform school for troubled teenage gir-“

“Not this a-fucking-gain!” shouted Leroy. “I asked you to give me directions to Aldi, Sir Jimmy Savile OBE. I don’t want to go to a fucking reform school for teenage girls!”

“Uuurgh-uuuurgh-uuurgh!” gurgled the evil sat-nav. “Suit y’self. Aldi it is, young man. Now then, now then, just take the next turning on the left, do you see, and carry on for another five ‘undr-“

“For fuck’s SAKE!”

Leroy managed to find the Aldi all by himself while the evil sat-nav chuntered away about Princess Diana, Mecca dance halls and spinal injuries. After loading a week’s shopping into the boot, Leroy got back in the car and asked Sir Jimmy Savile OBE’s ghost for directions to Matalan.

“Matalan? Your wish is my command, do you see? Take the third exit at the roundabout, carry on for six ‘undred yards and you’re there, guys ‘n’ gals. Jewelry-jewelry, jingle-jangle. Do you see?”

Leroy followed Sir Jimmy Savile OBE’s directions. He was furious to discover the evil sat-nav had led him to the doors of a local authority children’s home.

“You fucking bastard, Sir Jimmy Savile OBE!” Leroy bellowed. “This isn’t Matalan!”

“No ‘arm in popping inside to ‘ave a quick shufti now we’re ‘ere, young man. Uuuurgh-uuurgh-uuuurgh!”

“Right! This is costing me a fucking fortune in petrol,” Leroy fumed. “I’ve had enough. I’m trading this bloody car in for a 1997 Vauxhall Vectra. You can get FUCKED, Sir Jimmy Savile OBE.”

*          *          *

The next day, the Rolls Royce trundled up to the gates of a private school for 11-18-year-old girls.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked the security guard on the gate, peering into the car.

Leroy sparked up a big cigar and looked at the guard with cold, lifeless eyes. “Now then,” he said …


Tales From The Dungeon Of Unimaginable Horrors – Peter Sutcliffe’s Cannibal Curry House Of Carnage Sponsored By Patak’s


After being released by the prison service by mistake, serial killer Peter Sutcliffe returns to the West Yorkshire town of Bingley where he grew up. Unable to get work as a lorry driver on account of the fact local haulage firms suspect he might kill again on company time rather than his own, Peter is instead forced to take a job at a local curry house washing pots …

“You there, Peter Sutcliffe!” shouted Mr. Patel, the owner of the Passage to India on Ferncliffe Road. “You better be washing pots back there and not murdering prostitutes.”

“Give me a break, boss!” replied Sutcliffe. “I haven’t murdered a prostitute since 1980. A man can change, you know.”

But he hadn’t changed. For that night Peter Sutcliffe murdered the staff of the Passage to India with a big hammer he found in a utility cupboard. Cackling, he cooked the bodies of the staff in a big curry pot and served up their flesh to the restaurant’s unsuspecting customers.

“Now!” laughed Sutcliffe, as he locked up the curry house and got into Mr. Patel’s car with the night’s takings in his pockets. “To Leeds!”


A Patak’s spokesman responds:

“As the above story proves beyond doubt, eating out leads to unintentional cannibalism. That’s why we at Patak’s recommend staying at home and cooking a delicious curry using our great range of spice pastes and sauces instead. You’ll avoid eating human beings and save money into the bargain. Patak’s – the nation’s favourite since 1956.”

Tales From The Dungeon Of Unimaginable Horrors – Rod Hull & Emu’s Ford Cortina Of Terror


Rod Hull was having a bad day. His companion, Emu, had attacked the Head of Programming at ITV and their children’s show about big purple helmets had been cancelled as a result. This had led to Rod’s wife leaving him and the bank repossessing his house. Now all he had left in the world was a Post Office savings account with about five quid in it and a 1979 Mk. IV Ford Cortina. Unfortunately, the car (which Rod had bought for £80 from off of his cousin Ken) was possessed by the evil ghosts of Fred and Rose West.

“Well this is a fine pickle you’ve got me into, Emu,” Rod told Emu as he fought for control of the Cortina on the way back to Rod’s cousin Ken’s bungalow. The evil ghosts of Fred and Rose West were trying to mow down any pedestrians who looked like they might need lodgings for the night in Gloucester. Rod was having none of it.

“I’m sorry about that, Rod,” Emu replied, as his companion wrenched the steering wheel just in time to avoid turning into the car park of B&Q. Rod knew the evil ghosts of Fred and Rose West would do everything in their demonic power to stop off at a DIY superstore so Fred could buy building materials to help him cover up his monstrous crimes. Well not on Rod Hull and Emu’s watch!

“Anger management issues, that’s what you’ve got,” said Rod Hull. He gunned the Cortina past the second exit of the roundabout, instead taking the third. Rod knew only too well where the second exit led to – right to the doors of Pulse & Cocktails. There was no way he was going to be responsible for the evil ghosts of Fred and Rose West’s deplorable sex games.

“Look, I’ll seek professional help,” said Emu. “I thought I could learn to control my urge to attack everybody on sight, Rod, but I now realise I can’t. Not on my own.”

“Well I’m glad you’ve finally come to this conclusion, Emu,” Rod told Emu. “I can’t afford to lose this 1979 Mk. IV Ford Cortina along with everything else, even if it is haunted by the evil ghosts of Fred and Rose West.”

Rod Hull and Emu parked up on the driveway of Rod’s cousin Ken’s bungalow. Against all the odds, Rod Hull and Emu had won today’s battle against the forces of darkness that possessed the 1979 Mk. IV Ford Cortina. Sadly, victory was short lived as that night Rod fell to his death whilst trying to fix the television aerial on the roof of Ken’s bungalow during a hurricane. The evil ghosts of Fred and Rose West had had the last laugh … again!


Tales From The Dungeon Of Unimaginable Horrors – The Pepper Witch


“Can I have some salt and pepper?” asked Professor Milton ‘Ironsides’ Calhoon as he prepared to dig into his plate of liver and onions with extra onions at the Bacon and Segs café and cobblers on the sea front at Bridlington in 1974.

The manager – a shifty little man called Benton Greasy – looked troubled. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any pepper, Professor.”

“Why ever not?” Calhoon replied. “I can’t be expected to eat liver and onions with extra onions without pepper.”

“I would love to give you some pepper, Professor,” Greasy replied, shuffling from foot to foot, “but I’m afraid all our pepper pots are haunted.”

“What? All your pepper pots are … have you gone stark raving mad? It’s 1974, Greasy. There’s no such thing as a haunted pepper pot in 1974. It’s not the Middle Ages.”

“It’s true, sir,” Greasy said, swishing at a cloud of flies with his mucky cloth. “The Bacon and Segs is built on the site of a witch-burning that took place in 1642. All our pepper pots are haunted by the evil spirit of the Pepper Witch.”

“The Pepper Witch? This is ridiculous! I’m a man of science and I can assure you there’s no such thing as a Pepper Witch. You’re talking absolute nonsense, Greasy. Get me some pepper immediately. My liver and onions with extra onions is going to be flat cold at this rate.”

“Well don’t say I didn’t warn you, Professor,” Greasy replied. Reluctantly, he brought over a pot of salt and a pot of pepper and two sachets of HP brown sauce just in case. “Here we are. I implore you not to use that pepper pot.”

“Away with you and your silly superstitions, Greasy!” Calhoon scoffed, grabbing hold of the pepper pot. But as soon as he began sprinkling pepper on his liver and onions with extra onions, a hideous cackle filled the room.


“Rubbish!” shouted Calhoon at the Pepper Witch. “It’s 1974. There’s no such thing as a witch’s curse in 1974.”

“I BEG YOUR PARDON?” asked the Pepper Witch.

“You heard me,” Calhoon replied, digging into his liver and onions with extra onions. “Now bugger off and leave me alone, Pepper Witch. I didn’t come in here to converse with cursed pepper pots. I came in here to eat liver and onions with extra onions. I’m a very busy man.”

“SUIT YOURSELF,” muttered the Pepper Witch, loudly.

“Curses and witches, indeed,” scoffed Professor Milton ‘Ironsides’ Calhoon, gobbling down a big forkful of liver and onions smothered in pepper. “It’s 1974 and I’ll have none of that nonsense, thank you very much indeed.”

But that night Professor Calhoon would come to deeply regret his breezy dismissal of the Pepper Witch’s curse when he was kept up all night with an uncontrollable bout of wind. The curse of the Pepper Witch had struck again!


Interviews With Every Single Man & Woman In Britain No. 2 – Warren Tofficer


“There wasn’t much work about when I left the army, so I ended up driving a cab. I’ve had all sorts in the back of my car, me. Hen night lasses, stag night lads, folks off to the theatre, folks off to the cinema, funny people, miserable people, vicars, doctors, lawyers, minor celebrities … you name ’em, I’ve ‘ad ’em in here. I usually drive ’em out to this spot I know near Abbots Leigh and butcher the bastards with a big fucking knife I keep in the glove box.”

Interviews With Every Single Man & Woman In Britain No. 1 – Don England


“This is an English fish ‘n’ chip shop for English people,” says dog-fighting enthusiast Don England. “I don’t like foreigners and I don’t want them stinking up my chippie. Of course, you’re not allowed to say that nowadays, but I don’t care. What are they going to do? Lock me up? They can fucking well try! I’ll say what I want and do what I want because this is a free country, thank you very much indeed. I didn’t set up my chip shop for Ali Baba and his mates to come in here asking for refunds because there’s no curry powder in my batter. There’s curry in my curry sauce – where it belongs. If you want that foreign muck in your battered bits, may I suggest you move to Bongo fucking Bongo Land … WHERE YOU BELONG.”