Rebekah Brooks is the world’s most powerful and erotic candy floss, and watching her give evidence at the Leveson Inquiry reminded me of an evening that I am spending with her right now. I am currently employed as Rebekah’s topless gardener, and I’ve struck upon an time-saving masterstroke: instead of going home at night, I stop moving at 6pm, until it’s time to start working again. It’s simply convenient.
A little-known fact about Rebekah’s Chipping Norton home is that the grounds are dominated by a fifty foot tall brass replica of her iconic hairstyle. It stands, six feet from the ground, held aloft by four statues of Ross Kemp. Each sports an erect penis, pointing to the four main directions of the compass. North Kemp can be identified by his pose, which looks for all the world like he is shielding his eyes from the petrifying glare of a Gorgon. If anything, it is generous to his acting abilities.
I mention this, because it is why I can say with certainty that I was south-east of the monolithic brass coiffure when I saw Rebekah Wade appear at the top window of her mansion, fire a grappling hook into a nearby tree, and zip-line, screaming, into it. The sounds of bewildered hooting quickly dissipated into squawks of pain, as I heard the unmistakable sound of a Tawny Owl’s wings getting jammed into its own cloaca.
Rebekah hates owls. Benefitting from what she sees as an entirely unearned reputation for wisdom, she says they’ve put themselves in the firing line, and need taking down a peg or two. During her editorship of The Sun, owls were fair game. Headlines like “OWL SHITS IN PRAM” were so commonplace that a daily PRAMWATCH counter was put on the front page. Page 3 girls would use their limited interview opportunities to call owls pricks, and the agony column featured endless tales of men coming back from a long day of honest graft to find their wife sucking off an extraordinarily well-hung owl. These days, she just leaps into trees and fucks them up with her long, double-elbowed arms.
Brooks slid down the trunk of the tree with an audible slurp, feathers stuck to her face with sweat and yolk. She sniffed the air, and began clacking her teeth together. I’m not saying Rebekah Wade is a sadistic Cenobite. That is for history to decide. But if you can imagine the guy on the right with eyes and ginger hair, you’re pretty much on the money. Incidentally, did you know that the female Cenobite was called the Female? This only goes to show what a boundary-smashing feminist Rebekah Brooks has been. Her capacity to inflict pain in a righteous and sexual way truly transcends gender.
Her nose was flaring wildly. She knew I was there. Perhaps she sensed my excitement. Maybe my body betrayed me by generating clouds of pungent, erotic gas. Perhaps she could hear the fact I was shouting “Hi, Rebekah”, or see the powerful strobing lamp I was pointing at her face.
However it was that she deduced my presence, she set about gliding towards me. Her hips followed such a mathematically complex formula that her legs began to glitch like a bad CGI horse. She reached down, and filled her hands with soil, and beckoned me to her with her tongue, a gesture that allowed the mixture of owl blood and saliva in her mouth to fall into her cleavage.
In a display of uncooked sexuality, Brooks widened her eyes, and pushed her lips forward as far as her finite skin allowed. At the same time, she packed the soil into her bra, and mashed her breasts in wide circles, perfectly recreating the conditions of a cement mixer. The churning stopped, and Brooks pointed at me like I was a president, then pressed her breasts together to create a juicy dirt pancake. She pulled out with another audible slurp, and flung it at my face like a frisbee.
As the pancake slid slowly from my face, I noticed that Rebekah had retracted her lower jaw, and was resting her overbite on my scalp. It was only after two hours, when I felt the corners of her mouth reach the top of my ears, that I realised that she was beginning the long process of devouring me. But by this time, the paralysing nerve toxins had begun to work. I remember this moment clearly, partly because it’s happening as I dictate this to my iphone, but it’s also point at which I stopped expecting my night to end sexily.
So, I guess I’ll just stand here, narrating what’s happening to my smartphone, until her maw coats my nose and mouth. Actually – brainwave! – I suppose I could have a frantic last wank. That’s a great idea. And with this nerve toxin, it feels like someone else doing it. Phwoar.
By Jon ‘Log’ Blyth
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