steve and joe’s body swap adventure

After “long-hugging”, body-swapping is the number one tool in the relationship counsellor’s arsenal. Just look how a simple body-swap adventure can resolve conflicts, build empathy, and end up with both parties teaming up for one last heist

I hate you Joe. I have no understanding of your life and you disgust me for having different priorities

I feel the same was about you. I see no way we can respect each other, let alone be friends.

OK so now we’ve sorted that out let’s take shelter from this thunderstorm under a sheet of corroguted metal

I hope we don’t get


Oh no we just did exactly that

Who said that?

You did! I mean I did!


Ew gross I’ve got spiders in my pockets

That is why I behave badly sometimes, because I am scared of the spiders in my pockets.

I see.

More to the point, Why have my balls been dragged back and fingered into my arsehole

That is why I sometimes do not treat you with respect, because I am fixated on the fear that birds want to peck my balls off through my paper trousers

I also see. I love you Joe

I love you too Steve

I think the only way to swap bodies back is to bust a nut into our reflections in a puddle.

Then what are we waiting for! I’m gonna bust your wonky nuts faster than you can say “heebie jeebies”

Steve busts a nut

Joe busts a nut

Oh no! the nuts must be bust at the same time. You have created a temporal body swap rift and turned into a dinosaur

C’est la vie, baby. Hop onto my stegs and let’s do one last heist

daddies, scabby

Are you a shit parent? By which we mean, are you an obviously great parent who has the occasional moment where you just stare at your child and think “FUCK YOU”? Then you’ll love Scabby Daddies, the Regular Features parenting podcast on the Regular Features Big Daddy network. Let’s GO!

Welcome to the brand new podcast on the Regular Features network, about…

… what colossal failures we are as fathers. This is Scabby Daddies, and we’re going to be taking

… a refreshingly honest look at the trials that fathers like

… us face every day, and how we sometimes don’t

… meet the basic requirements of decency and attentiveness that might,

… in a court of law,

… be considered to discharge our duty of care, and leave us wide open to accusations of

… death by criminal neglect.

So what’s you little tyke been playing this week? Fortnite I shouldn’t wonder!

I took his Fortnite off him, and cable tied his wrists together. Then I made him put his chin in his palms and say “I’m a stupid boy”

My toddler was looking at me funny so I dropkicked the nonce

My nine-year-old was watching a PEGI 12 stream on YouTube so I grabbed him by the upper arm and said “oh, you like grown up stuff do you”? And I made him watch that video where a bloke puts a glass jar up his arse and it shatters up there, and he pulls shards out of himself while blood drips onto the floor.

I’m thinking of having a third kid, you know, for the human caterpillar

I’ve got a confession Joe

Lay it on me Steve

I don’t have kids, I just spend a lot of time imagining myself as a bad parent so limit the feeling of regret that I’m my mid-40s, my family is dwindling, and soon it’ll just be me

It’s OK Log – I mean Steve. This is the last generation of humans.

STEVE [touched]
That’s really kind Joe, that really helps

Next week on Scabby Daddies, I’m going to give my kids laxatives, lock the toilet,  and scream at them when they shit themselves

And I’ll be staging a mock suicide for my nine-year-old to walk in on

sex, non-human

Do you like custard? Of course you do. That’s because it’s got eggs in it, and eggs are for sex. It also contains vanilla, which is the kind of sex you have if you can’t stop imagining your mum walking in, and don’t want to upset her too much. Not forgetting milk and cream, which are sexy per se, and sugar, which is what you call a lady to let her know you want to climb inside her blouse and get handsy with her torso. Is it any wonder that we call human jism “nature’s custard”, and feed our children a nourishing blend of custard and jelly, which in this context, means a lovely big arse.

But how do people who aren’t humans “have it off” with their “bum chums”? I will tell you


Polar Bear sex only begins after Polar Bear marriage, but they are literally “poles apart” from the faithful Penguin. Polar Bears only ever fuck around outside of wedlock like their dicks and fannies are on fire, and everyone else’s ass, mouth, fanny and hand is a lovely bucket of water. But because they don’t really like talking about it, Polar Bears invented the don’t ask, don’t tell open relationship.

A typical session begins for the female while the husband is out on a glacier looking for sweet babes to spend his ice dollars on. During this absence, the wife will poke her entire hairy arse out of the bedroom window and shart – or shit fart – pheromones out until a passing male catches a full faceful of her hormone-dreadlocked derriere. This will cause him to begin slobbering and he will say “o boy o boy I can smell a lady’s big ass in a window”

The male Polar Bear presses his snout and dick into one of the many municipal pots of Lynx Africa and shouts “CCOOOOMINNGG”, which will cause the female to run around the bedroom flipping all her wedding photos face down. When her suitor finally lands with a colossal smash through the bedroom wall, he will have fully taken leave of his senses, and will generally begin to initiate sex on several items of furniture, while the female drums her fingers and rolls her eyes at the video camera she has set up, to facilitate a nice frig later on.

Eventually the baser instincts kick in, and the male’s penis finds its way to within inches of the female’s bean, which by this point is sizzling like a Chinese skillet. This is when her husband will burst in, drunk on fermented ice cubes, with his own catch of the night: a second female who is usually the wife of the first male.

After a period of negotiation and discussion, the two couples will reassess their relationships, and establish a loving four-way relationship, and churn our pups in an environment that is so overwhelmingly sex positive that they’ll say something weird at school and their teachers will report them all to social services. Polar Bears – the world isn’t ready for your pioneering relationships.


When the really dry and lifeless male planet is ready to mate, it will jettison a plume of sand from its mantle. This serves a dual purpose: both as a gloomy “come hither” to any melancholic female planets in the quadrant, and is also how the planet steer itself from the orbit of its hostile scorching sun and behind its own moon. Once out of the direct impact of the deadly UV, the planet will begin to spin faster and faster until it starts to sing a low, mournful melody.

It sings in taciturn tones of the absence of lizards skipping over its dunes. It sings a dismal ditty that no life can be supported in its toxic atmosphere, apart from the odd tardigrade or some other extremophile bullshit that doesn’t count. It sings sadly that a tit or a nice big dick has never scampered across its surface, and how it longs to play host to something as mundane to other planets as a Centre Parcs, only a very special Centre Parcs, where the activities come as standard instead of costing you extra.

This morose song will attract a female barren planet, who will say something companiably downbeat, like “I know how you feel, love”.

What follows is the most vast act of coitus imaginable. A fine, dusty dune slips without lubrication or joy through a gravelly valley. The gravity of the larger male attracts some of the female’s own poisonous atmosphere, leaving him larger but no more satisfied, and leaving her a sense of being cheated, even though she entered this encounter knowing full well how physics works.

A more vibrant planet would use a volcanic eruption as a sign of orgasm. But these husks have to make do with a sandy, impotent frot, before jettisoning one last sandy goodbye guff and returning to their respective lonely orbits. Where, the male planet admits to himself, that he was probably being silly about Centre Parcs. I mean, charging extra for the activities is how they keep the basic prices down, and why should people who just want to use the pool subsidise the dickheads who want to fuck around in the forest with a bow and arrow.

“People. I’m better off without them!”, the planet thinks to itself, before losing the will to spin on its axis.


First of all you need to go back in time and have sex with your mum then wait nine months and deliver yourself. Then you need to act like your own dad, only making every opposite decision your dad made with you, enjoying the thrill as you feel your personality change as you mess around with your own history. Hugging you in the past makes now you feel happier. Screaming at your child self, on the other hand, makes adult you angrier and feel less emotionally well-adjusted.

This is obviously paradox ripples and not how interacting with any child makes any parent feel, shut up.

When you’ve been doing this cycle for a billion years, you realise that the only way to break the chain is to find your original dad, who you knocked out of the loop the first time you went back in time. So find him and rim the fuck out of your dad’s hairy asshole until you both die without children, and you cease to exist.

But if you don’t exist – how come you can still taste your dad’s sweet hairy ass?

Learn more! Episode 335

snooker, dennis patterson and the cosmic lords of

This script was abandoned by Hollywood because Donald Trump hates Snooker. Donald Trump would HATE it if you spent millions of pounds making this script a reality.



Why are you here, Dennis Patterson?


I have come to defeat the three eldritch lords of Snooker, and finally elevate myself to Snooker Godhood!


Then according to the Pirate Laws of Parley, I must open the portal to the Snooker Zone.


Cheers. [beat] Have you got any chalk? And a couple of cues? I’m a puppet, so I have to put my cue down to eat, and I’m so sleepy after eating that I never remember to pick it up again.

Two cues and a bit of chalk appear out of nowhere and hover in front of DENNIS. He looks from the cues to the chalk, his puppet mouth wide open.


I hope you are ready for this challenge, Dennis Patterson.


Don’t worry about me, mate. Just put a little bit of chalk on those cues for me and I’ll be off. (to camera) I an’t go no arms, see?


Hurricane Higgins roams across the landscape on all fours, sniffing in the rubble for snooker balls and lassooing them into his maw with a thorned tongue.


There can only be one Hurricane Higgins born to every generation. When it is time for one Hurricane Higgins to retire, he spins around really fast, and doesn’t stop until the next person qualified to be Hurricane Higgins snatches his snooker cue off of him. During this Higgins cocoon phase, the rules of snooker are temporarily lifted. You can climb onto the table and kick the balls, the blue ball is worth 20 points, and even if you lose, you can just say you won and no-one can do anything about it.


Behold! I am Hurricane Higgins. Who dares enter this dustbowl and disturb my timeless slumber?


It is I, Dennis Patterson. And by the powers vested in me by the ratification of the Tenth Metasnooker Consortium, I challenge you to a big game of snooker.




On an oil rig.




Medieval France.





Whoa. Check out those onions, walking around like they own the place. [double take] Wait a shit-fingered minute. You are a fucking puppet. You would have to hold the cue in your mouth, meaning you couldn’t look where you were hitting the ball. Speaking as experienced human Snooker man Hurricane Higgins – I like my chances!


Come on then, Higgins. Stop yacking up wet cack and let’s SNOOKER.

Hurricane Higgins prowls the Snooker table, giggling and slobbering over all of the Snooker balls and moving the sliders on the scoreboard like he’s twiddling a pair of horizontally mobile nipples. His thighs ratchet open and shut with a sickening crunch, and a weak spot flashes on his temple every time he says “Snooker”


Come on, Donald Patterson. It is time for you to play your first hit of the balls at Snooker


(to himself)

I am going to try to pot a red ball with a view to potting more balls over a long period of snooker

DENNIS pots a red ball. In a somewhat eye-opening rebuke, HIGGINS pots loads of balls back. It turns out he’s really good at Snooker compared to DENNIS, who is a puppet.


If there’s one thing I’ve never lost a game of, it’s Snooker!

As he says Snooker again, DENNIS twats him in the weak spot with two snooker balls stuffed into himself.


Take THAT, you massive HIGBOSEXUAL


Oh no! The impact has caused me to narrate my actions, as I stagger onto this rotating plinth, and begin to spin around with such rotational velocity that it has triggered my cocoon state! ALL THE RULES OF SNOOKER ARE IN FLUX.

Nothing is forbidden. Everything is mandatory. DENNIS dunks the blue ball six times for 120 points and grabs HIGGINS’ cue. He is now the Millennial Higgins, wearing a gold Higgins sombrero. A Portal opens.


Whey-up. Perhaps we have underestimated you, Dennis Patterson.


(mouth covered in blood)

No shit, dandy flaps. Now I wanna fuck up that ponce off of the Big Break, John Virgo


So be it!


Slow pan across a load of stars with snooker balls flying past every now and then


As he is a sentient constellation, John Virgo can only assume human form and play Snooker on a holodeck. He insists on complete control over the holodeck program, and abuses his power by dropping holopubes into his opponents mouths during a tricky shot. If you complain, he just says “lol what are you doing with pubes in your mouth man, you’re supposed to be playing snooker.” Everyone knows he put them there but he won’t admit it, and it’s really unfair and frustrating. His only weak spot is that he is a billion-year-old virgin, because a misfiring holodeck safety protocol won’t let him put his big stardust willy into bums, fannies or mouths.


I am John Virgo, and this is my nice waistcoat. You dare to challenge me to a game of cosmic holosnooker?


Yeah. And I’m gonna beat you like I beat your bum chum, the previous Hurricane Higgins.

John Virgo looks unflappable, but when DENNIS says bum-chums it makes that weak spot on his bell-end flash red. It would appear this snooker game has THREE blue balls. And that is a proper joke so it should probably be in the dialogue but whatever fuck you


But you are a puppet. You lack a second hand to stabilise the cue, or to utilise a rest. I will accept your foolish challenge, if only to see if you hold the Snooker cue like a big flute or a long cigar.


(to himself)

I’m going to play a snooker shot, attempting to pot a red ball in the hope that it contributes to a total score that is higher than John Virgo’s score

DENNIS plays a good bit of Snooker, scoring about eight or something. But it is no good. JOHN VIRGO’s trick shots would make a philosopher blush, and before you know it, he has scored seven million points.


Let’s play again, forever! You can never leave my holodeck. Computer, rack them up again. Authorisation code: JOHN VIRGO

DENNIS has an idea, and positions himself on the lip of the table so that it looks like some snooker balls are big juicy puppet testicles.


Check out my swollen spunkers, Virgo. Quit chalking your tip and slip me some dick.

As luck would have it, the holodeck’s safety protocols don’t apply to puppets, and before you know it VIRGO has got his chunky meatus bloating DENNIS from hoop to squeaker. VIRGO ejaculates after a perfectly acceptable and not amusing period of time, and it doesn’t just fill you with starjizz. It resolves the very paradox of his existence.


Thank you, Puppet Hurricane Higgins. I can now take human form and leave the Holo-Cricible. I will think of you every time I wank into a sock.

VIRGO is already wanking into a sock.


It is time to enter the Temple of Snooker and face your last opponent. I have opened the portal to Steve Davis himself.


DENNIS enters the Temple of Snooker. It is time to face the final Snooker Lord, Steve Davis. But something is wrong. There has been a mix-up at the Davis Despatch area, from which all Davisses are despatched. Sitting on the snooker throne is a topless, muscular Jim Davis. Jim Davis, the man who invented Garfield. Jim Davis might not have been the first person to notice that the word “DIET” begins with the word “DIE”, but he was the first person to attribute that observation to a cat. Dancing across his taut skin is every Garfield he has ever drawn, his living tattoo instant retribution by the universe for what he has done.


You are not a Lord of Snooker. But my dander is so far up I would Snooker my own fuckin mum.


Well, if this doesn’t put the vinegar in the salad dressing. I’ll be a tinker’s poopsy if I know what’s going on.

The Garfields covering his body are enraged, boiling the skin in an attempt to escape. But JIM DAVIS himself remains affable



I will play you at the Snooker but just for nicies. But first, why don’t we check today’s Garfield? It is a cartoon I write.

You check today’s Garfield with STEVE DAVIS. It is three panels, as Garfield always is, except on the colour weekend strip, when it is six or seven. It is just Steve Davis’s face. DENNIS leaps into the cartoon like the Take On Me video and twats STEVE DAVIS with a wrench. The power of snooker courses through DENNIS’s veins. He is finally the God of Snooker. Liz, the Vet from Garfield who Jon Arbuckle fancies, throws her arms around DENNIS and slips him the tongue. NERMAL, the cute kitten that Garfield hates, climbs onto his lap and starts purring. With all the GARFIELDs trapped in Jim Davis’ skin in the real world, this cartoon strip is a peaceful place of harmony. ODIE slobbers happily, his tormentor gone. You decide to stay here, content at last.


And that is what Snooker is. Thank you for coming today there are cue-shaped pencils available in the gift shop.

hannibal reads the news

hannibalCHAPTER 1

It was just another Monday for Hannibal. He woke up in his warren, which is where Hamsters live. Earthworms churned throught the soil above him, singing as they left the earth more fertile, by eating it and shitting it. Hannibal liked listening to the Earthworms sing, even if no-one told him he was amazing for eating and shitting. Before he had time to dwell on this, Postman Crow poked his head into the warren, a wad of newspapers stuffed into his beak.

“Read all about it”, screamed Postman Crow, before pulling his head out and hopping onto his postman’s bicycle. He flapped his wings, fell off the bicycle, and decided to push it along with his wings. “Why aren’t you flying today, Postman Crow?” asked Hannibal. “Health and safety, mate. Fucking ridiculous. Pecked some cunt’s eye out divebombing with an Amazon parcel, so they put me on this.”

“Oh dear,” said Hannibal. “The world appears to be going to hell in a handbag. Still, at least now I can have a cup of Hamster coffee and read the news.”

But the news was all about Danny Fart, a very rich Guinea Pig who Hannibal quietly suspected was an analogue for the human, Donald Trump. The Guinea Pig Danny Farts had been doing lots of very analogous things, like threatening to build a fence around a pond to stop the freeloading ducks from getting bread. He’d also gone to a zoo, and told an endangered panda it was no wonder other pandas didn’t want to fuck her, because she was a fat pig. He’d also said that he hated kittiwakes, lobsters and chameleons, but there wasn’t enough context to work out what those were analogies for.

“Well. I don’t know about you, but the cheapening of our political discourse is really making me feel… really horny.”

There was nothing for it. Hannibal’s tiny front paws stretched forward, rummaging around in the fur close to his groin. His back legs pedalled in the air, finding no purchase against the damp warren air. Hannibal rocked backwards and forwards for ten minutes, unable to reach either his dick or asshole. “Well, it looks like I’m on a hiding to nothing”, moaned Hannibal, which is the saddest thing you can say whilst having a wank. But just as he was about to give up, and more by luck than judgment, all four of his paws hit his little hamster dick at the same time, causing a fraction of a millilitre of spunk to squirt onto the soil.

“Thanks, Hannibal,” sang an Earthworm, popping up to devour the spunk, then shitting it back into the soil six inches away, which immediately became mossy and fertile. A mole poked his head into the warren. “Oh wow. This earthworm shit with a bit of hamster spunk on it will make a lovely present for my wife.”

Hannibal saw that his hamster wank was doing some good, and felt content that despite the terrible state of the  national news, he was playing a positive role in his local community. “Perhaps that is the moral of the story!” he mused.


Hannibal turned on the television. But there were more bad analogies there, this time about Brexit. He turned up the volume.

“There’s this giraffe right, and he thinks he’s fucking ace, but all the other giraffes in the herd think he’s a total prick. They always have, but he’s so fucking noisy it’s easier to let him chat shit then laugh about him behind his back. But the fact he’s an asshole, and always has been really, never seems to sink in with this giraffe. He really fucking thinks he’s summat. So anyway, he’s basically such a colossally deluded and hateful prick that he’s decided to sever ties with other giraffes, because seriously, he’s a fucking hopeless piece of shit.”

“Fuck all of those guys. I don’t need them,” said the Giraffe on the TV. “I am the best giraffe in the world. Look at my long legs. My nice long legs. Get under my legs. This is a fun game I like to play. I’m going to move left and right. Try to stay under my body and I will shelter you from this meteor shower. Unlike other giraffes, I am meteor-proof.”

Hannibal squinted as he tried to disentangle the Brexit analogy from the needless whimsy. “Wait a minute,” said Hannibal, “I live in Britain. Now that the news is beginning to affect me directly, I’m really beginning to feel…. SUPER FUCKING HORNY

Hannibal felt his miniature balls refilling, and decided to leave the warren. There was an owl waiting for him. “I’m an owl,” said the owl, in a way that suggested he wasn’t joking.

“I’m a horny little hamster, and I’ve got fractions of a milliletre of freshly percolated spunk in my dick”, huffed Hannibal, whose tongue tasted like copper, he was that ready to do a blow off out of his willy.

“I bet you two Animal Pounds you can’t get it in my mouth,” smiled the owl.

“You’re on like Everybody Gonfi Gon with Simon Le Bon’s MOM!” laughed Hannibal, who fell onto his back and started the long, frustrating process of trying to hit his dick with all four paws at once. But this time, a friendly voice popped up.

“Hey guys, I’m Justin Timber Wolf, the only animal in the forest that is a celebrity pun. Do you need help with that hamster dick?” enquired the Wolf, drooling so hard his muzzle was squirting.

“Oh, would you mind?” gasped Hannibal.

The owl smiled mischievously, her cloaca producing a weak hiss-trickle of foam like an empty can of shaving cream “Oh, I see. You’re getting help? In that case, I’m going to make you earn my two Animal Pounds.”

The owl started rotating her head around and around, like a clown’s face. “Steady as she comes, Hannibal!” laughed the wolf, as he pounded his big paws down on the hamster’s tiny taint, causing a miniscule amount of hamster spunk to arc towards the owl’s mouth.

A crowd of frogs gasped in delight as the inadequate spunk packet hit the owl on the cheek, where some moss began to grow. She smiled with wise indulgence. “Close! But you should aim where the mouth’s going to be, not where it is!”

“Truly you are a wise owl,” said Hannibal, suddenly dejected. “But I only have one Animal Pound, and cannot pay you the bet. I have totally fucked it up.”

Then, to Hannibal’s great surprise, her big owl tongue slurped out of her mouth and licked it all off like a wise Scooby Doo owl.

“Well, I guess it’s in my mouth now! Here’s your two Animal Pounds”

“That is very generous,” gasped Hannibal. “You could easily have not licked my spunk off your cheek and sent me to Hamster debtors prison.”

“What can I say?” smiled the owl. “I’m just really into spunk, I guess. Oh, and co-operation and working together is cool. That is perhaps the moral of the story.”

Happy that he had learned a lesson from from getting a small amount of wank onto an owl, Hannibal decided to go deeper into the forest.


Deep in the forest, in a low mossy bowl, he met the first tree that ever grew in the world.

“Oh, fuckin’ ‘ell,” moaned the tree. “I’m bollocksed, mate. It’s all fucked good and proper.”

“Is this an analogy?” asked Hannibal. “I’ve been dealing largely in analogy today. Analogy and reading the news.”

“I’ve got some fuckin’ news for you, mate, I’m fucked. Everything’s fucked. How do you do an analogy for that? What do you get to represent everything?”

Hannibal shuffled uneasily. “I think it’s probably you, actually.”

“Well, that’s just the icing on the bollock-shaped cake. You never think it’s you, do you? It’s always something, someone else that’s an analogy. The whole world is fucked, and everyone’s going to look at me, and say ‘check out that prick, indirectly representing our suffering’. Well, I’m not having it. I’m just going to die right now. Fuck you lot.”

“Well, this is awful. An annoying tree that represents life on Earth has just died. And that makes me feel…” Hannibal put his paws onto his knees as his little lungs started superventilating. “It makes me super fuckin’ horny on toast baby, you better believe it.

Hannibal had never been so turned on. He felt his ball-bearing nuts chugging away like atoms in a tiny Hadron Collider. And without further ado, he rolled onto his back and began the almost futile process of trying to reach his hamster dick with his four inadequate legs.

After half an hour, an exhausted Hannibal finally accepted that it wasn’t going to work. It looked like the dead tree was just going to have to go without a tiny amount of spunk on it. But just as he rocked to a standstill, and let his spine relax, he realised once again that he wasn’t alone.

“Stick at it, buddy”, hooted the Owl, gobbing out the spunk she had kept in her mouth onto a branch, which immediately sprouted some moss.

“Hey boys,” said the mole’s wife, as she proudly queefed out the lump of Hamster spunk-sodden Earthworm shit soil onto the floor.

“Hey fella,” sang the Earthworms, who’d travelled far and wide, carrying wads of spunky soil six inches at a time to help their friend wank on a dead tree.

“Dudes! Wait for us!” cheered the frogs, their legs matted with glutinous spawn. It wasn’t spunk, but everyone appreciated the gesture – and some moss grew anyway.

“Need a hand?” laughed Justin Timber Wolf, punching Hannibal in the taint, causing an infinitesimal quantity of jizz to plop into the ground, really close to his body.

“Oh great,” muttered the First Ever Tree In The World. Sap had started leaking from his branches as he came back to life. “All the animals have had a wank on me and now I’m covered in fucking moss.”

“Hurray, you’re alive!” cheered Hannibal. “We all worked together to stop… climate change, I think, and everything’s OK, and that’s the moral of the story!”

Just then a meteor struck the planet, killing everything in a thousand mile radius instantly, and setting in motion such catastrophic changes to the planet’s atmosphere that advanced life became unfeasible. That is, all except for one brave giraffe who had decided to go it alone, and was meteor-proof. That giraffe’s name?

Massive Racist Arsehole Piece Of Shit Tory Motherfucker. 

Learn more! Episode 212

fivers, new

untitled-1Is your business ready to accept the new five pound note? The new five pound note is money, and therefore in your business’ best interests. But you don’t want to throw good money after bad, so it’s important that you’re “on the money” with the new five pound note. After all, you know what they say: “money is as money does, so let’s do some money”.

Here are some important facts to bear in mind about the new money that is happening, and may already have happened.

  1. You can test the new polymer banknotes by tickling the queen’s tits with a feather. If you are arrested for treason, the bank note is real and can be safely banked.
  2. The new notes have a heist mode – they hoot and inflate like balloons during a heist, forcing you to chase them around with a butterfly net like you’re in the Crystal fuckin’ Dome or something. All bank notes therefore have to be acutely sensitive to heist conditions, and may inflate accidentally if you say things like “put the ingots into my knapsack” or “you won’t believe what’s in this safety deposit box, Jeff, it’s some kind of gigantic ruby. I’ve never seen anything like it. It must be worth a billion dollars”.
  3. Some lucky notes will have a “double or nothing” scratchbox in the corner. Reveal a lucky double, and your note will expand, fold, mutate, and enter a fleshy cocoon stage for three weeks. Once the meat around the exhaust port turns pinkish-brown and begins to discharge an ash-grey paste, jam two fingers firmly into the ham-like aperture and yank out the squealing money prawn. This is legal tender, and can be used at any participating newsagent. If, however, you reveal a “nothing”, you will have destroyed some money, and be arrested for treason.
  4. To make up for years of banknotes dominated by male historical figures, every five-pound note will feature a different Spice Girl. This means there will only be five printed. This will make them too valuable to release into the public, so they will be kept by a millionaire, who will use them to dab at his willy after a long night of edging. The Spice Girl notes will immediately be replaced by a new new Five Pound note, which features a beautiful drawing of a bearded God giving a bearded Moses a secret eleventh commandment – “thou shalt not menstruate on my big holy dick”.
  5. If you can think of an amount of money that there isn’t already a banknote for, then you have “discovered” that banknote, and can ask the Mint Bank Of Britain to mint you a special note with your face on it. But watch out! The queen can see all the way around the note, so if you’re sticking your tongue out, you will be arrested for treason.
  6. All new bank notes will have full AI, that will allow them to solve really hard puzzles, and fall in love. This means that they will be covered by the human rights act, which in turn means that you can only spend them with the note’s consent. This only goes to show how ridiculous human rights are in the first place, and they should all be revoked immediately.
  7. Did you think the word “mint” was a combination of the words “money” and “print”? Think again! It’s because money was invented by Marco Polo, in Season 2 of the TV Series Marco Polo. Kublai Khan was all like “my breath’s honking, get us some mints from the shop”, and Marco was all like “shit, how do I buy things” so he quickly invented money. No-one has been allowed to have the surname Polo since, in case more money happens, causing inflation.

If you see a new fiver in the wild, be sure to Tweet us @bankofengland!

Learn more! Episode 204

shit and piss, gunky buttock filled with, harry potter and the

Once upon a time, renowned audio tit Cassetteboy chopped up Stephen Fry’s reading of the Harry Potter books and transformed them into something beautiful. His first story was Harry Potter and the Black Leather Cunt, which was to be followed by Harry Potter and the Underage Blow-Job.

Several years passed, until Log decided to copy this idea, with two fundamental differences. First, he would not have a voice as silky and mellifluous as the other fat old gay, Fry. Secondly, he would just read out lots of swear words he had written, with no audio craftmanship or any real effort. Everyone agreed that this was much better, and that Cassetteboy had wasted his and everyone else’s time.

Everyone, that is, except Joe Skrebels, who took Log’s script, went to the Potter audiobooks, and did it properly.

What a prick.

Learn more! Episode 208

regular features in 1925

The following is a transcript from the first episode of Regular Features, aired in 1925

Hello, and welcome to Episode 1 of Regular Features, coming live from the 1920s!

I’m Joan Crawford, and I’ve got something dead between my tits. Can the Regular Features team figure out what animal crawled into my tits and died, before I smash this loom with my big Hollywood hammer? We’re about to find out!

I’m a caveman who has just been thawed out of a block of ice, and you can expect some unapologetic masculinity from me! For example, I hear the 1919 Sex Disqualification Act allows women to become vets. As a caveman, I don’t even know what a vet is, so I’m not really in a position to make a joke about it. But you can imagine my bewilderment at this strange development!

Hi, Caveman! How are you enjoyin…

What is wrong with women these days? So rude. If I see a girl on the street with a nice smile, I’m like “hey. Hey. HEY. TAKE YOUR EARPHONES OUT FOR FUCK’S SAKE. That’s better. So, hey, what are you listening to? Oh, contemporary pop music? That is for stupid people. I bet you fancy big muscular men who will treat you badly. You will never like me, because  I’m a nice guy. You hate that I’m so loving and kind, you fucking sack of dog shit. I hope you die of your own vagina.” Thank you very much, I’m a Caveman and today I’m noticing “things about women”.

I’m a robot sent from the future to prevent Margaret Thatcher from happening. I don’t know it yet, but my presence here today is actually going to accidentally set in course the events leading to the rise… OF MARGARET THATCHER

I’m Alfred Roberts, an English grocer, local preacher, politician – and podcaster! I serve as an alderman of Grantham and Mayor of Grantham. I’ve just got my wife, Beatrice pregnant from all the kissing we do. That is the first time I’ve heard the name Margaret Thatcher, and I like the name so much – I’m going to call our baby it!

Oh, no. I’m doing precisely the opposite of what my mission is!

Guys, there’s something going on between my tits. I’m not sure this thing is dead

Alfred, can I just ask – how did you get a woman to let you in her fanny? I bet it’s because  you are an idiot, and you said something stupid and she was like “OK here’s my fanny, but only because I’m a moron and I hate nice boys”. People are shit.

What a persuasive argument! People ARE shit. I’m going to shout that into my pregnant wife’s belly until the baby comes out, then keep on shouting people are shit at it until I’m sure it believes me, and it’s in a position to use that belief to make decisions that affect the entire country.

Jesus Christ.

In the 70s and 80s. I don’t want to be too on the nose about it, or gild the lily at all, but it’s Margaret Thatcher you see. I’m her dad.

You think that’s on the nose? I’m a sexist Caveman for Christ’s sake.

Guys, I think my Hollywood tits just brought this seagull back to life


Joan Crawford, we were supposed to be guessing what the dead thing was between your tits. Way to ruin your own feature.


Speaking as a rational athiest caveman, there’s no such thing as miracle tits. The only thing about tits that would be miraculous is if a woman ever turned out to be civilised and intelligent enough to let me touch hers.

Well that’s all we’ve got time for this week. Don’t forget to rate and review us on 1920s iTunes!

Learn more! Episode 207

thatcher, margaret

Good afternoon. I am Margaret Thatcher. I first came to the public attention as a provider of stunt bras to the Carry On movies. You remember when Barbara Windsor’s bra flew off in Carry On Camping? That was one of my bras. Aerodynamic for flight, and padded cups for a soft landing. The right bra for the job. That was my motto.


For decades, that bra was the most famous bra in the world. He couldn’t go to a party without someone putting him on and catapulting him across the room. He loved it. These days he just lies across a laptop keyboard, watching an animated gif of Kenneth William’s shocked face, one cup damp with whiskey, the other cup half full of cigarette ash.

But enough about the early days. I’ve done other stuff, too. For example, umm, did you know that I was in Regular Features in the 70s? It was me and Terry Wogan. I’d sing a bit of a popular tune, and Terry would replace the lyrics with vulgar alternatives. I’ll never forget, one day I sang “put them together and what have you got? Bibbedy bobbedy boo” and quick as a flash, Terry sang “open your arsehole and what have you got? Knickers all spattered with poo”. Such a brilliant man. Such a talent. A brilliant man talent. So sadly missed. Tell you what! Let’s play it now! For old time’s sake!

I’ll think of one of the top of my head. Linger by the Cranberries. You got me wrapped around your finger… come on, Margaret…


No that wasn’t right. I know, I’ll do a song from the seventies, that’s more in keeping. That’s neat that’s that’s neat that’s neat I really like your Tiger Feet. Here we go…


Fuck it, this isn’t working at all. Mind, this was Terry Wogan’s thing more than mine. What I used to do was cheep and chirp into the mic and say “is that a real bird or did I just make it up?” But when we started doing live shows, the audience was just all birds. We were as surprised as they were to find out I was a human being. It got really tense. Have you ever had 50 kittiwakes looking at you like you’re a racist arsehole? I was sweating out me arse, I can fucking tell you.

I’m getting sidetracked. I’m not here to chat shit – I’m here as a representative of the wider Regular Featureverse. I wasn’t the first member of Regular Features. To find that out, you have to go back much further in time. Before history began. Back to the 1920s…

Learn more! Episode 207

diana, lady

Lady Diana Spencer was a top dollar princess. Everyone said so! “There she goes,” they’d say. “I’d goose that madam in a flash, having assuring myself that I’d gained her enthusiastic consent.” This is her story, as animated by the frankly alright Simon Chong.

Learn more! Episode 67