♥ shhexycorin ♥

Brighton’s Boy Scout troupe were a fucking disgrace, run by a corrupt bunch of paedophiliacs who cared more about starching their boys’ uniforms than they did about fun, games or the discipline that makes the Scouts such a noble institution.

Known for my skills as a lifestyle guru, your very own Shhexy was roped in to whip these boys into shape. The first step was teaching them how to march properly. Previously they had been mincing along like a bunch of woofters, out of time and with no fucking style to speak of.

A robust training session later, accompanied by Wagner and me barking orders from the sidelines and the boys finally got it. Look at them now, doing the Shhexy Salute!

The Brighton Boy Scouts finally learn how to march!

Next week, I’ll be showing how to dress in an appropriate manner - I’m a dab hand at fiddling with young boys’ woggles.

As you all know, the local whores have been the bane of my life for a while now. Some time last week I cracked, got out my very best nunchaku and went on a mammoth whore-bashing spree. I put about 40 of them in hospital, some of them are comatose and will never leave, others left feet first.

I kicked the fucking whore’s face right off! I’m so hard.

Completely by chance the Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport and Minister for the Olympics, Tessa Jowell was in Kemptown at the time and witnessed the skill and poise with which I polished off those prostitutes.

So impressed was she with me, that she decided that she would make Whore-Bashing the signature sport of the She believes that this exciting new craze will help London 2012 stand out from all the other run-of-the-mill Olympic Games and has demanded that I help her establish this as a world -beating sport.

Result! Who’d have thought that my hobby would one day reach so many people? I’ve just got to make up some rules now… And I’m struggling a bit. So far I have the following:

Rules for Whore-Bashing as an Olympic Sport
1. Kick their fucking faces off.
2. Punch them in the cunt.
3. Smash their skulls in.
3. Do it HARD.
4. Do it until they stop twitching.

I think it’s best to keep it simple, sport’s no fun if the ref’s blowing his whistle the whole time!

Now I just need to persuade Tessa to put Crocodile Wrestling on the menu too, then I might be able to sell some merchandise.

ROCK ON.

I found this old photo today and it brought back some of the happiest times of my life before I met PPWP, so I thought I would share them with you, my beloved audience.

My parents always thought I was the cleverest of their bunch of sprogs and really wanted me to get a little education, but there was no way they could afford it.

One day they were approached by this local scholar, Dave Wang, who offered to teach me reading, writing and a little trigonometry. All he wanted in exchange was that I should occasionally model for him, as he was developing a keen interest in serious photography and was always in need of subject matter.

Well, it turned out that I was actually as thick as pig shit, but Dave really taught me a lot about photography, especially candid street photography. Sadly, my parents didn’t like some of the photos he’d been taking of me and got Dave arrested on suspicion of doing bad things to me.

My first day on the job.

Which he did do, but I liked it and said he could, so that makes it alright, doesn’t it?

Anyway, that was enough schooling for me, a couple of sisters had died over the winter and my parents were strapped for money to feed their opium habits, so I got a job at the local wank parlour.

Junior Jizz Mopper I was to start with, at the beck and call of the customers, always at hand with a damp cloth and a feather duster. I soon rose through the ranks though and once I was Head Mopper, I was allowed to use the mop itself. Which sure beats being on my hands and knees all day.

It might not sound like the most glamorous of jobs, but I loved it! I got to meet so many people, and I was allowed to continue my hobby of taking photos of people when they they thought no-one was looking.

It was this natural flair for photography in compromising positions that eventually led me to that loveable old scrote, Clicky McPhotographer.

Fuck knows where I would have been today were it not for Dave Wang’s guiding hands. God bless you, Dave.

Louise and Jamie

Celebrity baby-sitter and convicted murderer, Louise Woodward has presented her boyfriend Wayne with the ultimate Easter gift by giving birth to a new baby boy.

The baby-shaking witch glowing mother welcomed their first child a few months ago, but waited until today to announce it to the world. “You know,” said Louise, “Just in case.”

Little Jamie made his grand debut at the Little Chef off the A27 near Chichester. And if the newly-released photos of him and his parents are anything to go by, both mum and dad are overjoyed with their new arrival. The pictures show Wayne and Louise, both smiling broadly, as they take turns holding the bundle of joy.

A statement released by the couple’s solictor confirmed that both Louise and the baby are in excellent health, if looking a little fat after the pregnancy and nearly gorging herself to death on Coco-Pops.

To see the rest of my photos from this happy event, you’ll just have to buy this month’s copy of Hello magazine.

There’s currently a slavering, writhing mass of fat whores outside my flat. The fish & chip van comes on a Tuesday and the inevitable crush for a battered sausage normally kills at least one prostitute and winds several others. The bitches screech so fucking loudly that even the bastard seagulls are on at the council about them.

Fortunately, I have this XXX erotic video to distract me. It’s so shhexy, it has me rolling around on the floor with a 2 litre bottle of Lambrusco up my cunt. Mmm… bubbles…

This has it all, pussy, a spanking monkey and a ultra-violent bit of cock-fighting. ROCK ON! It’s like I wrote the fucking screenplay to this one.

Kenny balances a book

All-time fave and bosom buddy, BigVern launched a personal attack against Pig Sty Avenue, after PSA’s glorious attempt to prove that Dave Gorman is a fraud.

Vern has dazzled the scientific community with his literary choice of balancee. And Kenny is such a brave little boy, he suffered an allergic reaction to Vern’s badly packed kebab and died shortly after the picture was taken.

The government is launching a full investigation into Vern’s balancing experiments and promises that this sort of horror will never happen again. Fucking worth it, I say. What’s one whiny cunt of a kid, when you get a shot like this? The Good Name of Photography thanks you, Vern.

Oh yeah, and Dave Gorman eats horse beans. He’s a horse bean eater. He likes to make little patties out of horse beans and serve them in baps with mustard, cheese and ranch sauce.

He matures the fattest horse beans for months on his windowsill, then chews them for their hallucinogenic properties.

Trust me, if Dave Gorman invites you round his house for a fondue party, DON’T GO.

There are some photos that you will always hold close to your heart and this one of Nana Corin is always carefully placed in my bra, in the vain hope that some of her vim and vigour will pass on to me.

I had the coolest grandparents, Gramps was a legend, always had the best stories to tell, full of rape and murder. Then he met my Nan and fell head over heels in love. He hung up the bull-whip and cyanide capsules, and left the secret service to start a family, in the mountain home of his childhood.

Before her marriage, my grandmother had been one of Asia’s best-loved performance artistes. Her oeuvre broke rules and crossed boundaries. It has often been said that her piece, The Banana Bum Dance did more for the suffrage of women in Asia than any other socio-political factor.

She and her new husband wanted babies and they wanted them NOW, so they started rutting like there was no tomorrow. Soon, Nana was dropping sprogs left, right and centre. So fruitful was she, that the whole family lived very comfortably on her method of having one baby and selling the next on to wealthy Westerners.

This is a photo of Nana Corin when she was just 23, after the birth of her ninth child. I just love it! She looks so happy, full of the joys of love, youth and having yet another lump of flesh falling out of her sloppy cunt. She looks exactly the same today, her 106th birthday, minus a tooth or two, but still the same lovely Nana who’d sit me on her knee and tell me the secret of how to be a proper lady. Boy, did she teach me well.

I bet your grandmother isn’t half as sexy as Nana Corin, what a foxy slut!

Happy Birthday, Nana Corin.
Love you long time.

xCx

The work of my future husband.

A truly outstanding, first-hand account of a young man’s first forays into hunting. This high-octane rollercoaster ride tells the tale of Geoff Against the Squirrel.

Armed with nothing but his lunchbox, Geoff’s instinctive mastery of the notoriously difficult Shhexy Squirrel Sleight techinque has left me breathless and trying to invent new moves that no-one can master! He fights like a wizard, by stealth, smoke and mirrors.

Anyway, I clearly need to track this bloke down, we could make beautiful babies together.

RARR! Shhexy boys!

It was certainly a wild weekend, but, as yet, no-one’s dared mention poo’s unmentionables.

Yes, the dirty stop-out left our bijoux Flickr party to go cavorting with a pair of young Adonises, Carl and Wayne from Whitehawk. Last, but in no way least, the delectable Chardonnay, who’d come all the way from Worthing for some cottaging fun.

They got the night-bus to a camper van in Moulsecoomb, mainlined some Rohypnol and then partook of a debauched session of Jelly Twister.

Shhexy Motherfucker!

Chardonnay was a stripper at the lesbian stripclub, Candybar. She was fresh off the boat from the Ukraine, where weakly visits to the salt baths keep her skin fresh and tight. Poo was telling me that he’d been hoping she would be considerably sloppier, but that that disappointment was quickly overcome by the state of Wayne’s arse.

When poo woke in the morning, he was alone. When he joined us for breakfast he was clutching these photos that they’d left for him. So I nicked them, and thought I’d post about it on my blog and take the piss out of the poor cunt! But it’s just so fucking sad. And beautiful.

I can’t…
:’(

Mmmm… Carpaccio of dog.

After a heavy weekend, there’s little better than the flesh of a new-born puppy to revive those party spirits.

There’s really only one way to enjoy this rare delicacy, the Tuscan dish, Carpaccio of Dog. Take your sharpest knife and slice thick ribbons off the little critter (you may wish to bind its mouth).

Drizzle the slices with olive oil and lemon juice, add parmesan shavings, capers and black pepper. Serve with warm, crusty bread, some good red wine and keep both sets of balls as the chef’s privilege!

Lip-smackingly good stuff.