The following is fiction.  It is also a big step away from my usual kind of stories, and from the light-hearted game show format that is particularly popular.  This is not because I dislike such stories or got bored with them, but an idea popped into my head while listening to Radiohead and here we are, with an experimental piece.  Beware if you dislike gross wam, are a vegetarian, are religious, scientific, conservative, liberal, a history buff, or a carpenter.

Even when I was caught, I assumed I’d get away with it. They’ll wag their fingers, cluck their tongues, preen as I hang my head in the expected show of contrition. This isn’t real, I told myself. This is a dream, a fantasy, some dark imagining. This is not truly happening. This is not how the world works.

Not for one second did I think that being trussed up and paraded to the town square would end exactly the way that had been promised. I held my head high when they came for me, made a show of shaking my shackles as they pinned my hands behind my back. I spat at their dour faces and rankled as they pushed me toward the stake.

It is a curious thing to me now, to imagine that this is a thing. An industry, even. Stakes are crafted by carpenters, hewn out of the wood of a tree cut down in its prime. They even sand it to avoid splinters. It is a thing designed for a purpose and at every stage that purpose is kept in mind. It is the same with the shackles, shaped to contain a human’s hands, built out of sturdy stuff to ensure they remain trapped.

Trapped was not how I felt when they hoisted me up, mad hands of the rabble gripping and shoving like a tempestuous sea. In the blur of limbs and faces, I could not be sure who it was that pulled my hands over the shaft, or what enterprising little sneak cupped my backside. Before long, my feet were tied too, and my restraints were threaded like a needle over the wooden pole. The crowd held it inches above the muddy ground. There I dangled, hair trailing in the dirt, like a boar heading for the fire.

Something burned in this village, but at least it would not be me. The roast would be metaphorical; we had evolved beyond the beasts and the boars. Perhaps not the bores, though. The parson’s voice droned on, as he had done since this whole thing began, wailing and lamenting about my heinous crimes. Boots sloshed in the mud, murmurs of disapproval rippled through the crowd, as I was carried to the village green.

Green is a generous term. The summer heat and winter frigidty left it as sparse as the parson’s head. Sad tufts poked from a greasy ground; there was little for cattle to chew on but somehow they had left plenty of their own parcels anyway. This filthy patch of earth would be my place of atonement; a withered wreck, still somehow remaining the focus of all the town.

The crowd fell silent now. The only noise was the roaring wind, whipping my robe around my body. They had stuffed it over me before shackling me, knowing already what the sentence would be. The garment of shame, they called it, because of course they had to have an outfit for this sort of thing. All things had a purpose, and so many hands worked to fashion them for those ends. I wonder if they enjoyed it. I’m sure some enjoyed that it was far too big, spilling widely open at the front, drooping off one shoulder.

The parson squawked again. This time I listened to what he said, as he put on his pantomime for the rustic rubes, warning of the dire consequences of allowing indulgence to go unchastised.

“Before us stands a sinner of the highest order!”

Stands, sure. Not much else I could do when trussed up against a post.

“She has been caught red handed in the most wicked indulgence, and knowing well that it was wrong and sickens the soul of all, she tried to hide her crime among the straw of the barn!”

Well, naturally I wanted a little privacy. And I can only assume the same of the two boys who caught me. What else were they there for? Mucking out the long dead pigs?

“A woman who lies in animal bedding has taken on the aspect of the animals! And we are all familiar with that sort.”

As if stage-managed, the crowd gasped and murmured at the word ‘familiar’. A nice double-entendre; the parson was something of an artist. I was almost tempted to play along, to call for an animal companion to come to my aid. But I’m not really a cat person.

“It is unbecoming, and unproductive, for any member of the whole to think solely of themselves. This form of self-indulgence cannot pass without consequence, and consequences there will be!” thundered the parson. Boy, he was really getting into it. I wouldn’t be surprised if his heart was racing, like mine was while I ‘self-indulged’.

The parson nodded to the crowd, from where three young men stepped forward. They had already been selected, their role known, their use expected. It wasn’t as if this good little community was blindsided by the sudden need for punishers.

“And those consequences will be doled out by those representatives of the community who are productive, who do their share of work, and provide for us all that which we need to remain cohesive and civilised! The butcher, who feeds us with nourishing meat. The baker, who fills our bellies with bread. And the candlestick maker, who gives us light to stave off the terrors and temptations of the darkness.”

The men came closer, and looking them over from my perch, I could not avoid seeing the sly smirks on their faces. Oh, they moved slowly, dragging pails as though they were heavy burdens for their beefy arms, heads bowed in solemnity appropriate to this terrible ritual. But each time they glanced up at me, imagining the next step, their eyes sparkled and those rotten little teeth of theirs spilled out of their taut lips.

I never wanted to show any fear, but I gulped in a breath now. I was not too proud to at least try to avoid the stench of that first bucket, raised toward me by the butcher’s boy. And he was a boy; the town’s butcher had long ago dropped dead of dystentry, and the shop was run by his widow, who at least knew how to cut meat. Meat was pretty much all that filled his head, and when he was alone at the counter the line ran out the door as we all waited far too long for hacked up dinner scraps. Nineteen years at his parents’ side and he still hadn’t learned the difference between a flank and a shank. That was what they called productive. Still, I bet he’ll be good at this part.

This lengthy mental tangent unravelled through my mind as the bucket lip tipped higher over my head; it felt as though perhaps I could follow the thought forever, right up until reality struck, a split second before the slop did.

I’d like to say the cheering was the worst part, but as unedifying as it was to hear the entire town’s jubilation at my squirming, nothing really matched the gross squelch and greasy dripping of the butcher’s bucket. Blood, guts, fats and oils, I closed my eyes after the first chunks hit my feet to avoid really knowing what else was in there. It stank, it streaked down my skin, and I could almost swear the clots and clumps matting my hair seemed to move of their own accord.

And that was just the first bucket. Number two hit as a surprise. It jolted my eyes open as the cold and wet mess of flour water and eggs struck my chest and shoulders. The baker had just mixed up whatever he had to hand and tossed it right at me. I suspect he had been aiming for my face, but though he missed he did not look disappointed as he set his bucket down and ran his eyes up and down the mess he’d made.

I sucked in more air, and my ears turned to the evening song of the birds, twittering with more sense than the cackling crowd. One more left, and then we could move on with our repressive little lives. Whatever it was, I doubted it could be worse than the putrid, sticky gloop that already coated me, that still slithered down my back and ran under my arms and rolled into any crevice its clammy tendrils could find. Though, come to think of it, I wasn’t really sure what a candlestick maker could find that would fit in a bucket. Was he going to poke me with some scraps of metal?

My answer came in the form of weight. Slowly, almost like a hand stroking my scalp, the stuff pressed into my scalp and smeared its way through my hair. I would say it ran down my neck and over my face, but ran is far too quick a word for the sluggish advance of this thick gloop. At first I had no idea what was happening, but as lumps dropped from my hair to my shoulders, and an oozing river dropped off my nose, the scent finally told me. Wax. Candlewax, of course, made from the fats and soaps and crusty discards of our little village’s little industries.

Ew.

The laughter brought me back. It was louder now, harsher. I realized I must have been writhing, and my wrists and shoulders hurt from the effort exerted, trying to wriggle free of the post. They were so happy to see me in this state, so excited to see the artificial balance redressed as a dirty sinner was sinfully dirtied. They were glad of this community spectacle, drawing them closer as they worked together to punish that damned outlier. Or so they acted. How many performed in this pantomime, only relieved that it was not them up here, that it was not them caught and chastised in front of all the crowing rest of them? But let them laugh, cowards and cravens all. The joke’s on them. I know who I am. While their bellies shake, my toes curl and my parts quiver. They think they have punished me, but I perversely enjoyed the punishment for perversion. They’re going to have to do this to me for a long time, and every time they do, I am going to win.

The segment opens with Sian sitting amongst the hen party in the seat that Leah once occupied.

Sian: Welcome to the final part of this edition of Comeuppance, presented by me, Sian Welby! There’s been a big response to the developments of the previous segment, so thanks to everybody who’s dialled in to have their say. Voting is of this moment closed, so please stop calling; your vote won’t figure into our final scores, but a charge might yet appear on your bill.

Sian turns to a woman sitting beside her, who is dressed in a fairy costume.

Sian: I’m speaking here with Heidi, Leah’s best friend and maid of honour. Heidi, it was also you who contacted us to set Leah up, wasn’t it?

Heidi: [with pride] That’s right Sian.

Sian: You and your crew must be pleased with the way the scores are shaping up.

Heidi: Absolutely delighted. I mean, it would be rude not to dunk her on her hen night!

There’s a chorus of agreement from Heidi’s fellow revellers. Up on the stage, Leah shakes her head with a wry smile.

Sian: Well Heidi, I have potentially more good news for you. If Leah gets voted for a comeuppance – and I stress it’s only an if – it’s only fair that you should press the button to send her in! Come up on the stage with me!

Heidi’s eyes light up. She and Sian get to their feet and go up onto the stage.

Sian: Gail and Ashley, don’t go thinking you’re safe; this is still an open contest. Gail, what did you promise you will do if you get voted into the Mucky Dip?

Gail: [decidedly less confident than earlier] Kiss a pig.

Sian: Indeed you did, and we’ve got hold of one for that very purpose. Tom, bring out the pig please!

One of the guards walks out carrying a giant piggy bank. There are a few groans of disappointment from the audience.

Sian: Oh come on, it’s the best we could do at short notice. This ain’t the Bullingdon Club! [Taps earpiece] Ok, I’m getting word that verification is complete. The scores are in!

The lights dim, save the three spotlights, and the dramatic music begins. Leah has a hand against the side of her face, looking more resigned than tense. Yet despite the huge lead she commanded at half time, her co-contestants Ashley and Gail look a little unnerved.

Sian: The people have voted, and their decision is as follows.

Leah squeals and puts her hands over her face. Heidi jumps for joy and the hen party likewise cheer below. Gail and Ashley high-five, or at least would have done if their cages had been close enough.

Sian: Twas never going to be any other way, was it? Lads, take her away for an early honeymoon!

Sian’s heavies duly haul a squeamishly grinning Leah our of her cage. Leah flashes a look to Heidi as she is marched away to the chair.

Sian: Heidi, you get yourself over by the plinth. [Unlocks Ashley’s cage] I’m afraid I have a more galling task to perform first. [Unlocks Gail’s cage with a sigh] Everyone brace yourselves for some double disappointment!

Ashley and Gail step out of their cages grinning.

Sian: Ashley, you lived up to your oily stereotype tonight, so it’s a frustrating irony that you and your suit will return to the forecourt clean, dry and fragrant. How do you feel?

Ashley: [pumping her fist] Loving it Sian! I knew I wouldn’t be a lemon.

Sian: And Gail, it’s been a rollercoaster ride for you. You came very close to a Comeuppance last week, but Leah saved your bacon this time. Sad to say, you won’t be going anywhere near that pig or our stenchy slop. Are you “somewhat satisfied” or “very satisfied”?

Gail: Extremely satisfied!

Sian: I’m sure you are! Instant reaction on Twitter is that the two of you are the jammiest dodgers on the series so far, so here are those trophies. Ashley, I trust this will look very spruce in your showroom, and Gail, you can take this door to door to wind up the householders you prey on. Thanks, both of you, for coming on the show.

Ashley: You’re welcome Sian. In fact, Gail and I enjoyed ourselves so much, we’ve clubbed together to get you a present.

Sian [warily] Right, what is it?

Gail: It’s a 500-question telephone survey about cars!

Sian: Forget it! I haven’t got the patience to sit through five hundred questions!

Gail: [sweetly] We thought of that. That’s why I’m going to phone you up to ask you a single question each day!

Ashley: [with a mean-spirited grin] For the next 500 days!

Sian: [face falls] How wonderful. Ladies and gents, an infuriated round of applause for these two escapees.

The audience dole out their usual tepid clap to Ashley and Gail, who walk off-stage chuckling and slapping each other on the back.

Sian: But looking on the bright side, this outcome means that we’ll start the next episode with a clean slate. In fact, that’s a clue to what the theme will be, so make sure you tune in for it! [Arrives at the plinth, where a chuffed Heidi is waiting] And make sure you stay tuned in now, because Leah our hairdressing hen is all set for a shampoo and colouring in our salon of slime!

The now-familiar tune of doom strikes up, accompanying a side-on view the morass of multi-coloured gunge in the Mucky Dip. The camera lifts away from the gaudy goo, meeting Leah’s fishnet-clad feet just over a yard up, and continuing up her slender shins and thighs. The fluffy hem of her costume bunches awkwardly, and Leah either doesn’t realise or doesn’t care that a pair of red sequined panties are quite literally flashing at the audience. Onwards the camera rises, panning over Leah’s lace-up bodice, and finally arriving at her head. Leah has her arms outstretched in good-natured resignation to her fate. She peers down and exchanges some banter with Heidi.

Sian: Leah, you were hoping for a messy hen night, and you’re certainly going to get one! How long to the wedding – three weeks, did you say? Mmmmm… you should be clean by then!

Leah puts her hands to her face with a squeamish giggle.

Sian: Heidi, this is your big moment, so if you would stand right here for the camera – that’s it – and get ready with that button. [Backs away] Leah, from all your friends who get rinsed in your salon…

Sian, Heidi and audience: HERE IS YOUR COMEUPPANCE!!!

With a huge grin, Heidi heaves down the button with both hands. Instead of the usual explosions and sparks around the studio, a siren wails. A second later it is joined by a second wailing – coming out of Heidi’s mouth. A fountain of green slime engulfs the maid of honour, erupting KCA-style from a couple dozen nozzles concealed in the stage in a ring around her. Some of the nozzles spray high, splashing Heidi in the face and chest and coating her hair. But causing more consternation are those jetlets aimed lower down – straight up her dress! Up in the chair, Leah laughs and claps heartily as she watches this reversal of fortunes.

Screaming, and with the encircling wall of goo providing no easy route of escape, Heidi leaps into the air like a ballerina. When she returns to earth her feet slide on the stage and she topples over, landing belly-down on top of the spurting jets. Her pink fairy dress is now a snotty green, her wings sodden and her hair dripping. Spluttering, she blindly tries to fight her way to her feet, but can get neither traction nor bearing, and slips over again. Leah is in fits at the sight of her friend rolling about in the goo, and the Hen Party cheers wildly.

The upblast slows to a trickle and then stops completely, leaving a big green puddle in which the equally green maid of honour flounders. The guards step in and haul her to her feet.

Sian: [hastily backstepping as the puddle spreads outwards] And the surprises keep coming! Heidi, we couldn’t let you get off scot-free after being so mean to your best friend!

Now back on her feet, Heidi laughs ruefully as she wipes her face. Gunge drips from the collapsed hem of her dress.

Sian: But I’m not sure what you have to cackle about, Leah! Things are about to get far worse for you! [Takes out a white remote control with a single red button] On behalf of everyone who’s narked by haughty hairdressers or rowdy hen parties…

Sian and audience: HERE IS YOUR COMEUPPANCE!!!

Aiming the remote, Sian presses the button. This time the grand sound and light show duly materialises, and Leah screams as the chair succumbs to gravity. The bride-to-be plops into the Mucky Dip, sending the multicoloured slop overspilling the rim in a vertical rainbow down the side of the tank. The cables shimmy for a few seconds then pull up, returning the hen to her starting position, as the trombone plays the four notes of Here Comes The Bride, slightly out of tune.

Leah emerges totally slathered in the thick blancmangesque gunk, decorated with haphazard streaks and splotches of the various vivid hues. No trace of black remains in her costume, which weighs wetly against her body, her arm-veils dangling saturated. Leah’s legs are coated from her squirming toes all the way up to her lap, where her skirt has turned inside-out, exposing her. There is, however, no sign of those sequined panties under the large pile of muck around her crotch, and Leah seems to have overlooked this malfunction, more preoccupied with the overwhelming assault on her senses.

Higher up, Leah’s face and the rest of her head have become one under a mask of colour. Her devil-horns can be made out as two lumpy protrusions, one jade the other a deep violet, and behind them her hair bun has become a mound of orange and green. Leah’s mouth gapes as wide as is surely possible, her eyes blinking and darting in shock amidst the gunge. She leans forwards in the chair, arching her back as she spreads her arms in front of her.

Down in the audience, her hen party pals are going mental, pogoing in their seats and slapping each other on the shoulders. Heidi too claps and laughs as she stands dripping.

As Leah begins to laugh – a hysterical, half-screaming laugh – a great load of white gunk tops her off from above, racheting her hysterics yet higher.

Sian: Wowee!! I do love a white wedding! Super! [In a loud whisper] Uh, Leah… Leah darling, you need to sort yourself out downstairs.

Confused, Leah looks down and emits a further shriek of embarrassment as she sees the compromising configuration of her dress. She hurriedly pulls the ruined garment over her legs as best she can.

Sian: Well that brings a whole new meaning to “bridal shower”, and it’s only fitting that we relive the big moment in super slow-mo.

The replay shows Leah cringe and squeal as the chair drops. The red tips of her horns are the last part of her in view, the multicoloured muck splashing around them as they descend into the Dip.

Sian: And from our eye in the sky!

Leah’s plunge is shown from the overhead perspective. As the chair hits the muck, her dress rides up before disappearing into the gloop. The churning colours wash over Leah’s brunette hair and devil horns, completing her immersion.

Sian: And finally, the moment the tables turn on Heidi!

As Heidi stands triumphantly at the plinth, the jets of green erupt from the floor to meet her. Heidi’s expression first changes to confusion, then she shrieks in shock. Her face is a perfect picture when a blast of green hits home between her legs.

Back in the present, Heidi stands wringing her hair out. Leah has scooped the worst from her face and is trying to clean out her ears.

Leah: Leah, considering you knew nothing about this until a few hours ago, you’ve taken it extremely well, so thanks for being a tremendous sport. We all wish you and Mark a wonderful wedding and happy marriage. Let’s hope the guests don’t all pinch their noses when you walk down the aisle! At least you’re wearing something blue – and green, and purple, and red, and yellow, and orange… ha ha ha!

Leah: [with mock sternness] Needless to say, Sian, you’re not invited!

Sian: [feigning a hurt expression] Awww!! And I’d gone to the trouble of getting some confetti for you!

Confetti duly rains from the heavens onto Leah – a moderate sprinkle at first, then great heaps of the stuff. The tiny bits of paper stick all over Leah’s head, face and body, adding yet another layer of colour.

Sian: In case you’re wondering where all this stuff comes from, take a look up there.

Sian gestures the cameraman to aim upwards. In the rafters of the studio is a walkway, upon which Sasha Holdsworth is stationed with a bounty of supplies.

Sasha: Hi there Leah! Many Congratulations! [Empties another box]

Sian: Sasha, I think Heidi would like some confetti too!

While Heidi stands having confetti dumped on her in the background of the shot, Sian circumnavigates the puddle of slime and stands at the front of the stage.

Sian: And the bells are ringing out to mark the end of this episode. Thanks for watching, thanks for voting, see you again soon!

The outro music commences and Sian waves as the shot recedes. The camera sweeps out over the audience, including the jubilant hen party. Leah and Heidi share a joke as the confetti continues to assail them. The parting scene is a slow-mo replay of a very colourful and gungy Leah rising from the Mucky Dip.

Winter took a deep breath as she peered down at the round oval pool in the middle of the brightly lit studio. Winter, a sophomore at Yazoo County Highschool felt herself on edge. She had been dragged into this little stunt by her fellow anime club members. The honey blonde girl, wore a simple pastel blue sundress, the light cotton dress hugged her body, and showed her every curve of her budding body.

A slight frown winkled her face as she peered down at the pool, from her vantage point, just three feet away from the surface, she could see the pool held at least a hundred or so gallons of thick slop. Instead of being one solid color, it seemed to a patchwork.

Orange and green seemed to swirl together. Patches of pink and yellow swirled together and flowed into the blocks of orange and lime green. Deep red colors formed toward the center. Her frown deepen as the fact dawned on her. All of that goo was for her, should she fail to answer a battery of three questions. Three random questions are all that stood between her and that horrible mixture.

Her musing was interrupted by a sudden female voice.

“Everything okay up there?” The voice asked, the voiced belong to a women, who looked to be around thirty. She had raven colored hair that reached down to her shoulder blades. She wore a simple midnight black dress that reached down to her knees. Three inch heel shoes completed her look.

“Yes..” Lied Winter as she turned her head to face the source of the voice. “Just thinking.” She added again, one could sense a hint of sourness in her voice.

“About what?” The voice came again.

Winter rolled her eyes. Before answering the women’s question.

“Personal matters.” Winter said in a flat tone of voice before reaching up, quickly she took a stay lock of her hair into her hand. Still frowning she started to play with the lose lock of hair.

“To each her own.” The women said rolling her shoulders. Being the host of the now popular local game show “Win or Drop” She had seen her fair share of people come and go. Some had won the small cash bounty of one thousand dollars. Others ended up taking a dip into the one hundred gallons of funk called by the crew and her the “Dip.”

“Just so you know, where going live in ten or so minutes.” She said grinning softy as she walked away, she needed a quick pre-show snack. And so giving Winter a good natured wink she stepped out of the halo of light cast by the bright stage lights that hung overhead.

Winter said nothing, she only watched her to pass into the shadows. Leaving her along with just her thoughts to her company. Shrugging her shoulders and looking down at the foul mixture that seemed to bubble under the blistering heat of the stage lamps. A heat that could only be compared the hottest, sultriest of days of August. Steeling herself she started to ponder the events that had lead to her being here. It had been in sheer jest she had sent a email off to production crew stating that she had always wanted to get messy on T.V and that she was willing to roll the dice.

When she pushed the “Enter” key, the thought there was a million in one chance that she would selected. After all how many Emails, Letters, Write ins poured into there office on a weekly bases. And not just from Mississippi mind you, Winter was sure that viewers from Arkansas and Louisiana also wrote in. But providence had somehow seen it fit to have her one mail selected. And so one week from the date of sending the email off. A small cream colored envelope arrived at her mothers P.O box. The letter had been to addressed to one “Miss Winter Mari Bell.” That was the first line, the second line was “P.O Box 1289” And the third and final line was “Yazoo City, MS, 39194.”

Upon opening the envelope, she found letter detailing everything. At the end of the letter, she found attached a train ticket, it seemed Amtrak was one sponsors of the show, since they had agreed to give her a around trip ticket from there request stop in Yazoo City, to Union Station in downtown Jackson. Along with the train tickets, she found a voucher for a local hotel and a few meal tickets.

Now, twenty four hours later, she found herself perched above the bubbling pool. Her face twisted again as she peered toward its bubbling surface, big green air bubbled to the surface, giving her the twisted appearance that the thing was alive. Her musing was interrupted by women returning.

“Okay Winter, where live in..” The women called out to her. She then started the count down, first holding up five fingers, then four, then three, then two and finally one. And then from behind one of the cameras, a stagehand called out. “Where rolling.”

“Welcome, welcome all.” The women said smiling softy. “I’m the host with the most, the stunning Erin and joining me with me, is the lovely little southern belle Winter who has traveled from Yazoo City to be with us tonight.” She said smiling as she pointed upward toward Winter.

Smiling softy the young girl offered a little wave from her perch.

“As you can tell.” Erin said smiling softy as she peered again toward the camera. “Are lovely one has already taken her perch above the goo of doom. Also she dressed to the nines as well.” Erin quickly added with a small wink.

Winter blushed a little as she waved down from her perch. Her blush only grew deeper when the fact that millions of people across a three or four state area. And there was no telling how many people would be recording this show to later upload to social media sites. Quickly she took a deep breath to steady herself.

“How’s the view from up there darling?” Called out Erin as she strolled over to the ramp. Erin loved playing with the feeling of her host. She took great pleasure in drawing them out of there shell or making them wiggle like a worm who had been hooked onto a fisherman’s hook.

“Pretty good.” Winter said blushing as she started to play with the helm of her dress.

“Wonderful, lets hope you can keep that view. Now for those just tuning in for the first time, let me tell you a little about this game.” Started Erin as she strolled away from the ramp and toward the center of the stage.

“The rules are simple. I’m going to ask Winter a series of ten questions. For every correct answer she gets. A cash bounty of one hundred dollars will earned. For every wrong answer though, we’ll where going to crank that little girl up a peg.” A wicked little grin crossed Erin’s face as she paused to let the tension build a little. Slowly she shifted her eyes toward the girl perched just above the slop. She was still playing with the helm of her dress, no doubt to keep those butterflies at bay.

“Five incorrect answer’s and its straight into the dip with her.” Erin said finally after a good minute or so had passed. “And let me tell you ladies and gentleman. It smells just as bad as it looks.” She said winking a little as she turned her eyes toward Winter.

Winter blushed and slowly she started to sweat drop.

“Okay Question number one.” Erin said reaching for a small stack of small cards. “Winter dear, going on the questionnaire you filled out, it seems your two favorite book series are ‘Harry Potter’ and ‘Wheel of Time’ so with that in mind. Are writers have whipped up a series of ten questions based on those two book series.” Erin said as she looked down at the first question.

Winter nodded her head in understanding.

“Okay your first question my dear. How does one get to platform nine and three quarters?” Erin Asked.

A small smile crossed winters face.

“Oh that easy, all you gotta do is go between platform nine and ten at King’s cross station. A charm will then transport you to platform’s nine and three quarters.” She said with a smug look upon her face.

“Correct, that’s one hundred dollars for you.” Erin said, she then turned toward the camera closet to her. “Also, I would like to add, that Winter gets to keep all the prize money she won. So even if she goes into the dip, she’ll be walking away with as it stands right now, one hundred dollars.”

Winter could not help but smile a little at the news.

“Okay question, who was the Harry Potter actress who was slime during the two thousand and six super bowl?” Erin said smiling a little.

Winter blinked and blinked again as she peered toward Erin. Gently she rolled her shoulders as she muttered softy under her breath. “I don’t know.” She said pouting softy as she waited for the correct answer to be reveled.

“Oh sorry dear,” Erin said flipping to the next question. “Emma Watson was the answer we where looking for.”

A soft blush colored Winters face as she felt the chair she was sitting upon move up to a point marked “Number One”.

“Charming.” Erin said grinning like a cat about to pounce on a bird. “Four more to go darling and you’ll be taking a swim in are lovely pool.” And with that she cleared her throat and read the next question.

“When released stateside, the original title of the first potter book was changed to ’Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s stone’ Give us the original title of the book please.” Erin asked, still smiling.

Winter blinked and blinked again. Quickly she started to rack her brain for the answer. She knew the answer, she was sure she did. But her latest setback had caused her to doubt herself. And maybe she’ll happy with just one hundred dollars.

“I think it was.. ’Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.” She said smiling a little. Taking a deep breath she crossed herself as she waited judgment.

Erin frowned a little and shook her head.

“I was hoping to crank you up again, but it seems that you are correct. Add another one hundred dollars to your total score dear.” She said going to the next question.

“Next Question.” Erin said quickly moving onto the next question. “Name the year that Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s stone was published in the United Kingdom.” Erin said, there was a hopeful twinkle in her eyes as she waited to see if the little Belle would get the answer right or not. She wanted to crank her up again.

Winter froze. Frowning a little she gently rolled her shoulder. Slowly she bite down upon her bottom lip as she peered toward Erin, who was standing in the center of the spotlight. A deep blush colored her face as she started to rack her brain once more. Her thinking progress was derailed though when women came onto stage. She wore a simple white shirt that was bore the words “Stage Crew” in bold black letters on the back. The women then whispered something into Erin’s ears.

“Okay, okay.” Erin said to the stage hand. “Yes I do understand, thank you dear heart.” Once the stage hand had left the stage, Erin turned her full attention toward Winter. A small little smile graced her face.

“First let me have your answer.” She said. “Then I’ll fill you in on that little talk, it might work out for the best. Or it might send you to a early doom and smelly gloom.” She teased a little.

Winter shook her head and pouted as her chair was moved up another level. Once the chair came to a rest. Winter shifted her view toward Erin. Right now she was three questions away from a very smelly end.

“Sorry about that. The answer was 1997.” She said smiling a little as she peered toward the pouting girl. “Because it seems something big is going down and NewsChannel21 is cutting into are time.” She paused to build a sense of drama. “So this next question will decided if you get six hundred dollars cash money. Or if you go into the dip!”

Winter did not trust herself to speak, so she only nodded her head a little as she waited for the final question to be reveled.

“For six hundred dollars and the win.” Erin said smiling softy. “Robert Jordon, author and mastermind behind the ‘Wheel of Time’ earned what decorations in Vietnam War?”

Winter blinked and blinked again before putting on a cute little pout. “I’m honesty not sure. I’ve only read ’Eye of the World’, ’The Great Hunt’, ’The Dragon Reborn’, and ’The Shadow Rising’.” She said gently rolling her shoulders.”

“We’ll then.” Erin said smiling a little as she watched Winter being pulled to the very top of the ramp, swiftly she moved past check point number three, then number four passed in the blink of a eye and finally number five. Once she reached the very top a loud metal click was heard.

“Now Winter, before we send you into the slime. Do you have any last words? Anything you’ll like to say to the viewers at home?” Erin asked as she wrapped her hands around the trigger that would send the seat flying down the ramp.

Blushing like a bride at the alter. Winter took a deep breath and said. “I would like to thank you guys for having me. I would also like to give a shout out to my cousin Susan Elizabeth Bell! And all my peeps at Yazoo County Highschool!” She called out grinning like a fool.

“I’m sure your going to be the talk of the town after this.” Erin stated as she wrapped her fingers around the trigger. Once her fingers where wrapped around the trigger she gave it a good pull.

Winter closed her eyes as she felt the chair come to live again. Shutting them even tighter she felt the chair starting to move down the ramp, a second later, she found herself being tossed into the air, and the next thing she knew, she was under the gunge. Her world became one huge swirl of yellow and pink, orange and blue. Quickly she broke the surface of the muck. Tossing her hair back she tried in vain to look around her. She then noticed a little rumbling over head. Action on her natural curiosity she looked up, only to greeted with a face full of thick, greenish slime that rained down.

A girlish screamed escaped her lips as she felt her face get covered with the thick greenish slime. It took a minute but soon she had collected herself enough to wade from the center of the pool onto the stage. A grinning host was there to offer her a helping hand.

“You’ve been a wonderful sport darling.” Erin said helping her up. “A big round of applause for are little southern belle!” She requested as she hauled the mock soaked teen from the pit and onto the stage.

Still smiling, Winter stood there as droplets of gunge dripped from her dress and from her coated and matted hair. The sound deafening sound of a hundred pairs of hands, applauding her filled the air amid a dozen or so good natured cat calls. Blushing a little, Winter did the only thing she could think of. She offered a curtsey.

The End.

Hi All,

Here are the results for the latest set of matches for the 2016 Gunge Grand Prix:

Please note there are issues with two votes: Miranda Krestovnikoff v Aisha Tyler’s poll link did not appear on the page for some reason (and won’t appear now), so if you want to vote on this one, please hit the direct link: http://poll.fm/5m192

The other match involved Nikki Storm v Tove Lo, where another match’s vote was duplicated on the vote page. Therefore both these votes will remain open until 9.30pm next Monday.

Matches 193-224 will be live as of tomorrow at 8pm, as we enter the final 2 weeks of the first round, so stay tuned, and keep on voting!

Although this story mentions real persons, corporations, TV shows and places, it is purely a work of fiction for personal enjoyment. The story does NOT describe real events and should NOT be taken to accurately portray any real entity mentioned. In keeping with its fictional nature, the events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.

—

Hello! So, it’s been a while now since I posted…christmas I think? Anyway, long story short, I’ve been very, very busy. And nope, this one isn’t NGYOB. That will be returning soon.

But for now, this is a sequel to my (out of the blue) story last year. ‘Sudden Slops: This Takes The Cake!’. It’s outlandish and fun, totally off the bat, so some parts maybe a bit crazy. Couple of nice scenes in this one though I have to admit…

Some of you may know these celebs, some of you may not. Both are comediennes in the UK.

Last bit of waffle, I promise – this was all meant to be one story but it’s going to be two. The next one should be up within the week. I already more or less know the ending but I am OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS. So if you have something you might like to see, please let me know and I’ll see what I can do. This one already though has stuff which may cater to a few of you.

OK, time for me to shut up, and let you enjoy…

—

Shappi Khorsandi smiled proudly, as she elegantly walked up to the stage. The Iranian-born comedienne strutted toward the side of the tarp in her heels, hearing the applause and exhaled with an air of confidence. The 42 year old had enjoyed increased popularity in the past few years, appearing on various shows across television. She’d of course be famous mainly for ‘Live At the Apollo’, and was a genuinely funny woman. Her jokes were on point, the laughs were always huge and she had quickly risen to become one of the most famous of the female comedians in recent years. And boy, did she know it. Walking out onto the stage, she gave a wave, looking as beautiful as she ever did. She wore a lovely looking black dress, which kept her left shoulder and her upper back bare whilst having a smart stylish strap of sorts over her right. The dress was also short, allowing her amazing, slender legs to be on full display for the audience. To finish off her outfit, was a pair of posh and expensive looking black high heels. Shappi had her hair neatly trimmed and had only just had it done the day before, a few curls being present, jet black and complimenting the dress and heals. Her make up wasn’t overdone though, just rosy red lipstick and a hint of mascara. Shappi was an extremely attractive woman, and when on stage, with all eyes on her, she was always at her happiest. Of course, she was always grateful for the laughter and appreciation of her comedy routines, but deep down she loved the fact that the stage was hers and she could shine.

Shappi Khorsandi

As, fucking, usual.

Ellie Taylor was sat a few rows in, also clapping away to her fellow comedienne and former friend. Ellie was in a different class of comedy; she was more known for her presenting on comedy shows more than stand up like Shappi. Snog, Marry Avoid and more recently, Mock The Week were her forte. Ellie sat down with the rest of the audience, crossing her leg over the other. She was up in a little while and had dressed more toward smart than glamorous like Shappi had. Her brown hair came down to just below her shoulders, ending in curls; like her counterpart, she had had it all styled the day before. She wore a simple grey top with dark blue skinny jeans, both tight, which brought out the shape of her chest and rear. She had a pair of simple flats on her feet. Simple, that’s all of course it needed to be. Nothing fancy.After all this wasn’t live TV, with a huge audience and a handful of cameras. But, the 32 year old still looked pretty and well dressed, especially considering the venue.

Ellie Taylor

As Shappi began, Ellie could hear the low noise of people outside of the large tent. They, and a few other comedians had been invited to a music festival to do a couple of sets. Music festivals were loud, busy, muddy, wet, and usually warm if it was a good weekend. In truth it wasn’t where most comedians would picture themselves; after all music festivals were for, music. But in recent years they had become more than that. There were various tents with music festivals all set up with different stages. Some would have DJs blasting out to drinking, shouting, dancing young people. Of a night time, there were outside dance floors set up, and on every camp of the festival, was some sort of fairground ride. Dozens of different stores and vans, all selling trinkets and greasy foods lined the route to the main music stage, and leading into the large open space were the headliners blared. Grassy Knoll Fest’ as it was known, had now been going for 4 years. Although it still had big headliners and was primarily the music, it was more like an all around festival of entertainment to most due to the amenities on offer. And so, like some music festivals before it, comedy had quickly become a part of the festival, with one tent dedicated to famous funny people. Ellie looked back toward the stage as a roar of laughter sounded out. Shappi had been coming to the festival now since the second year, when the ‘comedy hut’ had first been erected and played host to barrels of laughter. Shappi was always the most popular to be on stage.

And rightly so, Ellie couldn’t disagree with that. The woman was funny, and attractive so, why shouldn’t she become the most popular comedian to perform at the festival?

Doesn’t mean I have to like her though.

They had been friends, once upon a time. When they were both starting out a few years back. But as soon as Shappi got her big break, that was it. She just became pompous and big headed. Sure, to most she seemed like a lovely woman – but away from the spotlight to Ellie at the time, she’d become horrible. Perhaps it was an older woman who saw herself being dragged down by someone younger, who was attractive also. Perhaps Shappi believed, stupidly, in her head that Ellie was a threat. Maybe it was jealousy? Ellie had no idea. But ever since two years back, she’d become to strongly dislike Shappi. The older woman had rudely slammed the door on her, after Ellie just wanted to say hello. Not before pouring the bottle of wine over Ellie, who had brought it as a peace offering.

Ellie Taylor walked out onto the stage, Arctic Monkeys playing in the background for her to walk out onto. She was looking forward to this set; she’d worked hard on it all week. The clapping and wolf whistles coming in, and as the applause died down she picked up on that. The laughs were coming in well, and it was all going great. For about three minutes, all of a sudden in the middle of a sentence there was a high-pitched laugh. Shappi was down below speaking to someone. Ellie continued on, but once again found it hard. Shappi had begun talking loudly at the front, and laughing even more with the person next to her. Ellie picked up on this for some cheap laughs, whilst Shappi hardly noticed. Ellie was now coming to her last story, a great one that always left the audience feeling good, but again, Shappi nattered loudly and laughed once more. Ellie’s angry streak reared up finally.

“OK, DO YOU MIND.”

Silence fell on the tent, and Shappi continued to laugh until she noticed Ellie staring daggers. She smiled and looked all around then at Ellie.

“I think you lost them dear, it’s almost as quiet as the field for Bieber.”

To Ellie’s annoyance, a lot of the audience chuckled. She then came to the edge of the stage and looked right at Shappi.

“You think you’re hilarious don’t you.”

“I know I am love.”

“Then maybe you should prove it.”

“I already did, earlier. I mean you don’t have much of a sense of humour so I can see how you were maybe confused.”

A dramatic hush befell the tent once more as the tension rose between the two women. Ellie breathed steadily then spoke into her microphone.

“I’ll tell you what. How about you and me have a chat later on, just over at the blue camp. You can teach me how to be funny.”

Shappi eyed up her rival and stood up, turning round to the crowd.

“Anyone who wants to see this bitch taught a lesson later, come join us.”

She turned back to Ellie, staring her down.

“6pm.”

Ellie grinned and raised her eyebrows as she stared back and rose her microphone.

“On the dot.”

—

Most people weren’t actually that fussed in the throw down. A few were but others had plans. Most were watching the headlining act of the evening at the main stage; Coldplay were the last music act of the night, a full three hours being dedicated. Before them were Busted, on a new reunion tour, and so by the time 6pm rolled around, blue camp was unusually quiet save a few people milling around the funfair and food vans. Dubbed ‘blue haven’, it was the biggest area on site for rides, burgers, trinkets, oxygen bars, etc. Ellie stood eying up the ideal thrown that the queen of festival comedy would hopefully be on earlier, having now changed to a light blue top and figure hugging leggings. She was excited, no doubt about it. It had been four hours, just enough time to have a word with some of the owners of the tents all around. Some sold pastries; others had festival and kids stuff. She’d also had a quiet word with one lady in particular about ‘borrowing’ the large kids funhouse. Some passes to meet Coldplay, and Ellie was handed the keys earlier on to close up and get everything ready.

“I should have guessed that young idiots like yourself would like this sort of thing.”

Ellie turned and was face to face with the older comedian. Shappi hadn’t changed from earlier, safe for a small pair of wellies for the mud. Just like her to remain stunning for her fans around the festival. Ellie folded her arms and gestured behind her.

“Quietest place I could get, paid off the owner with some backstage passes.”

“So what, you want a heart to heart?”

Shappi fluttered her eyelids and held her hand on her chest. This grated with Ellie who exhaled calmly and answered.

“Not exactly. There’s three guys in there. We each tell jokes and the one who makes them laugh the most gets to headline in the tent tomorrow.”

Shappi laughed.

“You want me to give up my spot?”

“If you’re better than me then you won’t be losing the spot.”

Khorsandi dropped her smile and eyed Ellie up and down like she had done two years back.

“I’m meeting a friend in Bar Zero in half an hour so let’s get this done quick.”

She walked briskly past Ellie and to the fun house door, Ellie smiled and followed her, closing it behind her, plunging them both into darkness.

—

“Where’re the lights?”

Shappi felt on the walls for it, wanting to flick them on. She felt her way along the wall and hit a metal rail. Growling under her breath, she quickly bent down and took off her wellies, one by one, her feet touching the freezing metal floor. They were hurting after walking around all afternoon in them in the camps. Suddenly, blinding her, the lights came up.

“WELCOME! To the house of fun and funnyyyyyy! Please welcome the smelly cow of the festival, Shappi Khorsandi!”

Ellie was putting on her best presenting voice. This was her domain now and she would be the one on higher ground. Quite literally, as she stood on a balcony above Shappi, wearing a long overcoat and almost looking sinister. Khorsandi held her eyes up to the bright light and looked at Ellie, suddenly breaking into a laugh.

“What, THIS is your plan? An abandoned kids place just to yell at me? I’m going-”

“NOT, sooooo fast. I’ve already told the organisers you cancelled the show tomorrow and gave it to me.”

Shappi gulped quietly and shook her head.

“You’re bluffing-”

“Am I now?”

Ellie clicked a button, a TV screen in front of Shappi in the wall showed a hidden camera video. Ellie explained to the organisers and they agreed, handing Ellie the passes she needed. It went to static and Shappi gritted her teeth. Without looking back up at Ellie, she spoke with poison in her voice.

“So, I need to prove I get more laughs than you? Then I get my passes back for the show? Yeah?”

“Correct.”

“Then BRING out the audience. TAKE me to them. Give me the stage. Because Ellie, I can guarantee you that you won’t be doing tomorrows show. I’ll have them laughing all night. Because quite frankly hun’ you and your jokes stink-”

Shappi turned abruptly and looked up and was immediately hit with a stream of gunk. It wasn’t thick, it was quite thing, like out of a water gun. After about 3 seconds it stopped. Her mouth wide open, eyes closed and her expression scowling in disbelief, the comedian stood there, not sure how to react. The gunk was a weird greyish yellow, thick like cream. Globlets of it dripped down her surprised face, as she opened an eye to look at her attacker, holding the water gun and smiling.

“Ooooooh. What a coincidence eh, that you should say that my jokes and me stink. Especially after that, admittedly funny joke of you getting those passes back.”

Shappi spat a little bit of the stuff from her lips as Ellie giggled.

“Bit of grease from one of the burger vans. Does wonders as a substitute for water.”

At this, Ellie cranked the gun again and biting her lip in joy, she squirted Shappi once more. This time, Khorsandi welped a bit as her face got another glazing of the substance, comically moving her head constantly to get out of the stream. She slowly backed away, as Ellie let the tank of the gun empty. It finally went to a spatter and Ellie chucked it aside and rubbed her hands together.

“I guess you’re wondering what exactly is happening.”

Shappi wiped her mouth, and her eyes. The gunge had covered her face, making it sticky and heavy. She looked a state as she wiped her eyes again, opening her mouth wide. Her hair at the front was not a little bit matted, some of it sticking to her forehead, and the gunge had sprayed on her top a tiny bit, but mainly she was dry. Just her face was coated in the sticky goo. Ellie slowly walked down the stairs as Shappi continued to scrape off the slightly smelly grease.

“So you see Miss Shappi Khorsandi, I thought to myself. What is a fair way to see who is the funniest. Hm. Hard to tell. But then I realised, what if actually I do, the unthinkable.”

Taylor went all spooky like with the last line as she slowly approached Shappi, who took a couple of steps backward from the clearly insane Ellie.

“What if actually, I did an experiment and tried to figure out if you really were funnier than me? But I can’t be a one person audience when it comes to stand up. I want to really laugh at you, see why you are the queen of comedy in this festival. So there’s only one way to find out. SLAPSTICK!”

Ellie made a sound like a kid, and took a hold of Shappi’s shoulders, and spun her around. She marched the stunned comedienne over to a tall set of stock. Immediately Shappi shook her head.

“OH NO. NO. NO.”

“Oh yes!”

She struggled as Shappi began to try and stop her, but she was stronger, and forced Shappi into the stock, closing it behind her and clapping her hands. She briskly walked over to a trolley with a cloth over and brought it to a white line a few feet from the stock.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? ELLIE LET ME OUT NOW.”

“Mmmmmm. You know what goes good with wine?”

Shappi’s eyes went wide again as Ellie pulled up the cloth. But, it didn’t make sense? Chocolate cake, some small cream pies and a lemon tart didn’t go with wine?

“Oh.”

Shappi realised what Ellie was meaning when she said wine. The corridor incident had finally come back to bite Shappi Khorsandi in her shapely ass. Ellie laughed picked up the chocolate cake, and then snapped deadly serious.

“Yeah. Oh.”

And she launched the chocolate cake across the room. Shappi watched it flying toward her. Brown, thick, chocolately. It had cream on top of it too, and a couple of cherries. In all honesty it –

*SPLUT!*

The cake hit its mark slap bang on target. The thick, gooey dessert engulfed the uppity woman’s face. Chocolate and cream spattered out to the sides, hitting the stock and to the floor, falling in heaps and mounds on the metal. The plate however stuck to its victim for a few milliseconds, slowly but surely sliding down and finally dropping off onto the floor. Mouth still open, bent down in the stock with her feet now pointing in at one and other, Shappi Khorsandi’s pretty facial features were now coated in cake and cream. Clumps of cake stuck to her cheeks, forehead and chin. Her nose was dripping in some of the cream, and she slowly closed her mouth to taste some of the indulgent dessert. It was the only thing that she could do, as she slowly blinked her eyes open. One of the cherries was sliding down her cheek, and on top of her forehead, a small mound of cake had rested, with the rest of the cream almost forming a crown.

“OHHHHHHHH! BULLSEYE! You, look, daft, honey. Hahaha, oh man.”

A click of a camera went off as Ellie snapped a photo on her phone, Shappi swallowed the yummy cake and cleared her throat.

“How…da-”

*SPLAT*

“AAAUURGHHHH!”

One of the cream pies had hit the side of her face, not even allowing her to begin berating the younger female. Ellie picked up another of the pies, which were a few days old so not exactly fresh. She chucked it, this time hitting Shappi’s manicured left hand, the plate sticking to it for a moment then dropping to the floor, leaving the hand cream covered.

“ELLIE! STOP – AGH!”
Another pie splatted right on top of the stock, the cream dropping down right onto Shappi’s neck. She squirmed as the chilly cream made contact with her skin. Not a second later, the final hit her in the face and shut her up for a few moments, the plate stickily peeling off her cringing features. Now plastered in pie and cake, Ellie picked up the final luscious pastry and strutted over.

“A tart…for a tart…she positions herself…”

Ellie stopped right in front of Shappi, turned and held the gooey, sticky lemon tart at an angle against her rear. Shappi felt blood rushing to her face. This wasn’t going to be pleasant, as she stared as best she can through the cakes and pies, at the yellowy circle held against Ellie Taylors lovely round arse. Ellie continued her maddening commentary.

“She bends into position…”

Shappi saw the circle come slightly closer, Taylor still holding the tin at and angle against the backside of her leggings, and moaned, for the first time in a pleading tone.

“Oh GOD NO – AGHHHHHHHH – MMMMMPPMMMPHHHHH!”

With one very proud action, Ellie quickly stuck her bum out behind her, simultaneously letting go of the tin. The yellow and firm slime of the tart squelched disgustingly onto Shappi’s bewildered and grimacing face as she screamed, being silenced to a wailing muffle as the cream crept into her mouth and plastered her. Ellie pressed backward further, watching behind her as the tin somehow sucked up more of the embarrassed victims face, fully giving her a facial of sticky yellow. Ellie took a hold of the tin again to steady it a bit, and began humming Shake It Off by Taylor Swift.

“Hmm hmm… and now…TWERK!”

With the tart still wrapped around a reddening Shappi, who could of course still hear every word, Ellie jiggled her butt up and down in swift motion, and slightly bending down as she performed the infamous move. Bobbing up and down to her will, the head of her rival squelched and continued to try and scream through a mouthful of lemon jam at what was happening. Ellie stopped and wriggled from side to side, firmly planting the pastry somehow further into Shappi’s face, so much so that the humiliated woman felt her nose pressing on through the stale base and to the metal tin. Ellie held the tin in place once more between her ass and Shappi’s features, and bent down, to touch her toes. Grabbing her phone from her pocket, she pulled a face, taking a glorious selfie; ass planted firmly in Shappi’s face with a tin of gooey lemon as a buffer, and holding it there for a few more moments. She eventually straightened up and strutted a few feet forward and turned to look at the stocks.

“A PERFECT move there from Ellie Taylor, tart and tart planted in place. Full marks.”

God, am I…losing the plot?

The tin, crumpled and out of shape peeled off. Shappi had her face twisted and contorted, the lemon giving a nice glazing to the cream and chocolate underneath. She didn’t even move her mouth this time to spit anything out, or even open her eyes. She simply stood, head in stocks, her face well and truly plastered in mess. Ellie smiled again and took another photo of this.

Yes. Yes, I, am. About time I did too.

“After such a top score, celebration is in order!”

She picked up a bottle of champagne from underneath the table and shook it quickly.

“Cheers!”

Like the gun before, she almost seemed to crank the bottle as she uncorked it. One eye open, Shappi had only just seen what was happening and gasped in a posh sort of sound as Ellie aimed the spraying liquid right at the messy woman. The drink sprayed out all over the place upon making contact with Shappi, going all over, to the sides, above, below – she was being drenched in the contents of the bottle. To be fair, some of the mess was now being washed, off, but her hair was being completely ruined now. Because of her facing forward through the stock, some of the champagne was seeping down her top and drenching her front. It made her feel like a kid spilling their lunch over themselves.

“This is for that wine two years back, remember?”

Ellie laughed loudly over the fizzing and foaming, and eventually the champagne stopped flowing. She put the bottle down and sighed happily. Khorsandi looked up, wet through now and nodded at her. She went away for a few minutes and came back, to which Shappi had regained herself.

“OK. You can let me out now, you’ve had your fun.”

Ellie shrugged and let her out. Shappi stood up, her top ruined from fragments of the mess, some of the grease and the champagne now. Her upper body looked a state, unlike her relatively fine lower half. Ellie nodded.

“Yeah. It was fun that. But…I don’t know, maybe you can still prove to me that you’re funny. OH! I know!”

She suddenly pushed Shappi backward onto a seat.

“Wellington boots are funny huh?”

“What?”

Ellie walked to the side as Shappi watched her, and brought over her discarded wellies from before. Ellie plonked them down happily. Shappi opened her mouth in discomfort; one was full to the brim with custard by the look of it, the other with whipped cream. She looked up at Ellie.

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not walking out of here in them.”

“I know you aren’t. But you are going to wear at least one of them.”

She reached over Shappi suddenly, bringing down a bar, which held her in place. Ellie then bent down and picked up the cream filled boot, happily smiling. She looked at Shappi’s right foot. It was soft, and the toenails were painted a lovely shade of brown. Very pampered. Her leg looked stunning as always too, just right for being destroyed. Ellie cackled.

I’m enjoying this a bit too much I think.

“Your foot m’lady!”

“GET OFF! NO!”

Ellie wrestled with Shappi’s foot, which caused the older woman to giggle a little bit, but only out of tenderness. She was still visibly annoyed. Finally, Ellie got a good grip and smiled at Shappi. She put on her best sinister smile, and without even looking, slowly dunked Shappi’s foot into the creamy footwear. Her toes of course went in first, the cream having been chilled, sent a tingle up her leg. The base of her foot followed, and then her ankle. The thick cream wasn’t fresh, just like with the pies, but it was still a little fluffy, despite it’s thickness. The cream blubbed out of the rim of the wellies now, streaking down the side as Shappi’s foot sunk lower and lower into it. Finally, Ellie let go of her, and Shappi began to moan. It was disgusting. Cold, slimy and of course making her feel even more embarrassed. Ellie decided to stay knelt in front of Shappi, and now repeated the process with the other foot and boot. The custard was lumpy, equally as cold and felt even worse for Shappi, as her toes squelched in the custardy boot. Ellie finally let go and admired her handiwork, two feet planted firmly in messy boots, Shappi held in place by the bar.

“Mmmm, lovely. Well it was, until you’re smelly feet plonked right into them-”

Shappi saw her chance, and booted Ellie with one of the messy boots in the stomach. Ellie fell back, not in pain, but winded nonetheless. As she lay there coughing a little bit and trying to come back to her senses, Shappi awkwardly managed to get the Wellington boots off of her feet. Cream and custard was slathered all around her feet, in between her toes and halfway up her long legs. It was chilly and sticky. She cringed for a moment then looked at Ellie, who had gotten up on all fours, recovered from her moment of weakness. Shappi smiled, manically almost and spoke.

“Smelly feet eh? Ohhhhh…”

She lifted her creamy foot up. Ellie focused and looked at it, mouth open at Shappi’s sudden turning of the tables.

“You my dear…”

She then smushed her messy feet right into Ellie’s gawping face, instantly slathering the girl with custard and cream. She smiled, as Ellie was simply too mortified to move, which allowed her to fully wipe her slimy ends into and around her tormentors smug mug. Ellie scrunched up her features and moaned a little bit, as the messy feet painted her and covered her in messy cream and custard. Shappi then chose the yellow custardy foot, as opposed to the white creamy one, and pinched Ellie’s nose with her big toe and next toe along, and motioned Ellie’s head to the right.

“Have-”

She then led her rivals face to the left.

“No-”

And back to the right.

“Idea.”

Ellie sat there, her nose clamped and mouth wide open. Shappi then placed one foot on top her Ellie’s head and pushed downward, knowing exactly what to do next. Ellie was still having the horrible punishment of her nose between Shappi’s gooey toes, as she opened her eyes and looked where she was being pushed down into.

“Whew. That most be horrible. A whole day walking around in those. I know just how to get that smell off of you.”

Slowly but surely, Ellie’s face was pushed into the brim of the wellington boot full of cream, just about being a snug fit for it. Shappi held a triumphant foot on Ellie’s head, as she spluttered once. Shappi then let her come back, her face now covered in cream, but scrunched up and contorted from her ordeal. She blew away some cream from her lips.

“And now…for the more horrible one. Can’t imagine how this custard is about to smell you know Ellie.”

As Shappi pushed Ellie toward it, Ellie managed to mumble.

“Fucking awful.”

And with that, her face got dunked into the brim of the smelly, custard filled boot. Shappi stuck out a tongue in victory as her tormenter was forced to get a face-full of the horrible gunge in the welly. After a few moments, Shappi let go, and Ellie raised up hurriedly out of the horrible boot, coughing a little bit. This one was obviously worse by the looks of it than the cream filled one. She fell backward onto her bum and lay on the cold metal breathing heavily, face screwed up as she wiped her mouth and tried not to think of the faint but nasty odour on her now. Shappi watched her and nodded.

“We’re not done are we?”

“No, we are not.”

A clang rang out, and Shappi’s bar rose up, just as Ellie sat up to look at her.

To be continued…

So that is part 1 of ‘The Throwdown’.

Like I said, these stories are…spontaneous. I go in with a basic idea and it just goes wherever it goes. But if you have any ideas, do let me know, I can maybe work it in. 

I hope you guys enjoyed it though, considering it’s been a while since I posted. I especially with this one love the twerking scene and the scene right at the end there with the tables turned. Those are examples of the story just branching off randomly.

Next part should be up within the week. And as for NGYOB, I now have more time on my hands, but I can’t say exactly WHEN it will be back. But I do plan on bringing it back fully.

MsM

The episode does not open in the usual studio, but inside a vast marquee. The audience are standing, not seated, and a sizable proportion of them are teenagers in blue and brown blazers. Located at one end of the marquee is a stage, upon which the Mucky Dip proudly stands, steaming with dry ice. Suspended from a crane, the chair of terror dangles over the vat.

The assembled crowd whoop and whistle as Sian bounds onto the stage, glamorously attired as is standard, but with an atypical piece of headgear.

Sian: Oh wow!! What a crowd! What a welcome! Good evening, St Noel’s Secondary School in Barrow-in-Furness!!

The crowd respond with a huge roar.

Sian: [cupping ear] I said good evening, St Noel’s High School in Barrow-in-Furness!!

The crowd fire back an even huger roar.

Sian: Amazing! I’m Sian Welby, this is Comeuppance, and yes, we have hit the road! We received some strange looks transporting the Mucky Dip up the M6, but we made it, and delighted we are to be in this Cumbrian coastal town.

More cheering from the audience.

Sian: And we’ve come here with good reason: tonight’s contestants are all staff members from this very school. And infamous staff members they are too! They’re used to stalking the corridors, striking terror and dismay into every pupil’s heart, but now it’s their turn to sweat in detention, while you the public mark their exercise books! And what punishment awaits the one who gets the most black marks? A punishment worse than lines, worse than litter duty, worse even than being sent to the head. It is of course a school trip to our rank and reeking Mucky Dip!

The crowds cheer with gusto as a high-mounted camera encircles the dreaded tank.

Sian: Oh, these kids like the sound of that! Let’s get started, shall we?

The maths teacher
Sian: First up for detention is Mrs Pascal, who has taught maths here for over a decade. She doesn’t want to reveal her age, so let’s call it x.

The guards wheel on Mrs Pascal to impassioned booing. Instead of standing in a cage, she is sat at a Victorian-style wooden desk, to which she is cuffed by one wrist. Reveling in her villainous status, she grins and waves her free fist in response to the hostile reception.

Sian: Ughhh. Maths!

More boos ensue.

Sian: Yep, that’s all I need to say, isn’t it? Double maths on a Friday afternoon! Now Mrs Pascal, I don’t want any complex arguments, hyperbolic tangents or obtuse angles, cos your sins are too manifold for us to log even a fraction of them. So let’s integrate the key factors, discard the remainder, and find the root of this problem. Isn’t it the case, that for anyone who isn’t irrational or a square, maths equals infinite boredom?!

Mrs Pascal: Not at all – mathematics is for everyone. Not only is it extremely beautiful in its own right, it’s indispensable in pretty much every area of life.

Sian: Now there I disagree with you. I spent years in primary school doing sums with pen and paper – long addition, long subtraction, [looking increasingly weary] long multiplication, long division – only to be told at the end it can all be done on a calculator! And then in secondary school we did all this stuff about calculating the angles of triangles. Surprise surprise, I’ve never needed that again! So what exactly is maths useful for?

Mrs Pascal: [patiently] Well look at this show, Sian. Every week you express the scores as percentages. That’s maths. And what volume of muck will fill the Mucky Dip? For that you need geometry – maths. And what about the show’s budget? For that you need—

Sian: [annoyed] Yep, the crew deal with all that stuff. Don’t be a smarty-pants, Mrs Pascal; it’ll increase your chances of getting dipped!

Mrs Pascal: Ahhh, probability! Another branch of maths!

Sian: And here’s another one: formulas. We have a seriously slimy, sloppy and smelly formula in the Mucky Dip, and it could feature in your calculations!

Mrs Pascal: Umm, that’s a chemical formula, not a mathematical one.

Sian: [scowls and turns away] So what do you think, school? Do you want to see Mrs Pascal in the muck?

Crowd: YYYEEESSS!!!

Mrs Pascal grins squeamishly.

Sian: And I’m sure many of you at home want to see that as well, but before you add your vote to Mrs P’s total, let’s evaluate the other contestants so you can differentiate between them.

The PE teacher
Second to be kept behind after class is Miss Field. She’s 25, and has taught PE here for three years.

The guards wheel on Miss Field’s desk. Intense booing issues from the crowd, to which Miss Field pulls faces and fires back banter.

Sian: Dear me, PE – the memories are flooding back. Miss Field, it’s only natural that some kids enjoy playing sport and some don’t. But even for those who love sport, there’s always some bully of a PE teacher waiting to put a damper on things. In fact, I sometimes wonder whether the job of PE teacher was created to keep low-functioning sadists off the streets!

Miss Field: [with a wry smirk] I wonder the same thing about the job of messy TV show presenter.

Sian: Touché. The difference is I’m only mean to those that deserve it; I don’t go round picking on children! I know you PE teachers. You choose the muddiest routes for cross country, you make sure the showers are freezing, you pick the most uncoordinated kid to demonstrate something so you can humiliate them, and if a kid is foolish enough to forget their PE kit, you make them do it in their undies!

Murmurs of agreement emanate from the audience.

Miss Field: Oh puh-leeze! The underwear thing is a complete myth! We have a spare PE kit for those who forget theirs. It’s extra extra small size, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers!

Sian: So my other points are true?

Miss Field: Look, I’m not an ogre. I just want to push the pupils to deliver their potential. And consider those pupils who aren’t academic; they spend 90% of their school time feeling inept and awkward. PE gives them the chance to do something different.

Sian: At least if you’re not academic you can sit at the back of a warm classroom and keep your head down. But let me ask you, Miss Field, what’s your favourite sport?

Miss Field: [strokes chin] Mmmm, it’s a tough choice, but I’d have to say basketball.

Sian: Ahh, I like basketball too. Especially the slam dunks [eyes flit up to the Mucky Dip] – know what I’m saying? And I guess you’ve experienced some bad smells in your time; a changing room full of sweaty PE kits must get pretty whiffy, huh?

Miss Field: [coyly] It certainly does, Sian.

Sian: Well imagine sometimes ten times worse and you’re getting close to the Mucky Dip. [Turns to crowd] Would you like to see Miss Field score a touchdown?

Crowd: YYYEEESSS!!!

Miss Field purses her lips and shakes her head adamantly.

Sian: [to camera] And no doubt you’re also raring to pitch in and serve justice to Miss Field, but before you step up to the line, let’s meet our final contestant.

The school cook
Completing our trio of tyrants is Olive. She’s 30 and has been St Noel’s school cook for six years.

Olive’s desk is brought out to join the other two. She feigns an aloof pose in response to the booing that greets her.

Sian: [to tune of Frère Jacques]
School dinners, school dinners!
Concrete chips, concrete chips!
Sloppy semolina, sloppy semolina!
Toilet quick, I feel sick!

The end of Sian’s ditty is accompanied by graphic wretching sounds from the assembled pupils.

Olive: [sourly] It’s nice to have one’s work appreciated.

Sian: Oh, don’t get me wrong, some people do appreciate school dinners. The school caretaker, for instance; he can use the leftovers to redo the grouting!

Olive: [sighing] I’ve heard them all, Sian. Many times.

Sian: But there’s a reason kids crack these jokes. I remember vividly that sinking feeling when I went up to the counter. The greyish cube of generic meat, the powdery instant mash, the bitter-tasting cabbage… Ugh, even Oliver Twist would think twice about asking for seconds! But it gets worse still when we go to the pudding counter – [shudders] oooohh, the custard!! Just what are those lumps made of?

Olive: [Taps nose] Now that’s something you’ll never know. It’s a secret that’s passed down from school cook to school cook. But seriously Sian, you’re way out of date. Walk into a school cafeteria today and you’ll find it much the same as a high street eatery, only with lower prices.

Sian: Yes, and with pizzas and burgers becoming a daily occurrence. A pretty appalling diet for a growing child.

Olive: Oh don’t go all Jamie Oliver on me! You complain that the meals are unappealing, then you complain when I give the kids what they want. Make up your mind!

Sian: Perhaps cook something that is both healthy and enjoyed by kids?

Olive: [tutting] And maybe I’ll cure the common cold and bring about world peace while I’m at it!

Sian: Anyway Olive, diabolical though school dinners are, I’m afraid you’ve been well and truly upstaged tonight. Bubbling away in that vat is something more stewed than your broccoli, more congealed than your gravy, more odorous than your sprouts, more clumpy than your rice pudding, and with more mystery ingredients than your ravioli! [Turns to audience] How about it, school? Shall we plunge Olive in the pot!

Crowd: YYYYEEEEAAHHHH!!!

Olive rolls her eyes.

Sian: [Faces forward] So those are our three staffroom sticklers, but which of them will get sticky in our Mucky Dip? I’m delighted to announce that we will donate all of tonight’s phone-call revenue to St Noel’s, to fund a refurbishment of the school buildings and travel grants for pupils, so there’s even more reason to vote. Ladies, good on you for taking part in this fundraiser, but don’t think we’ll go easy on you for it. The muck is as nasty as ever, and the whole school is waiting to see one of you brought down into it! Viewers, it’s over to you. Are maths teachers low in your estimation? Do PE teachers give you the run around? Or is your beef with school cooks? Whether you’re still at school or the memories rankle from decades back, here’s your opportunity to get revenge!

Poll closes 10 pm on Wednesday 1^st May. Voting allowed once every 12 hours.

Sian: Hello there! You’re watching the interim segment of Comeuppance. I’m Sian Welby and we are broadcasting live from St Noel’s School in Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria!

The crowd cheer and chant “St Noel’s! St Noel’s!”

Sian: And I’d like you all to meet Anita. She’s 18 years old and she’s the sixth form head girl. Anita, hi!

Anita: Hey Sian!

Sian: Anita, the reason we’re here is all down to your initiative, isn’t it?

Anita: [puffing up with pride] You could say that.

Sian: Would you care to explain how it all came about?

Anita: It all started at a student council meeting at which we were brainstorming for summer fundraising. As you know, a lot of fundraisers involve gunge or other mess, and we came up with the idea of doing our own version of Comeuppance. Basically we would have three staff members plead their case, then we’d collect money in named buckets and the staff member with the biggest total would get gunge poured on them or something. But then it occurred to me: why not have the real Comeuppance come to our school?

Sian: And that’s when you contacted our production team?

Anita: That’s right, and very enthusiastic they were too! They said they’d be happy to come and do an episode, provided I could find three staff members who’d be willing to take part.

Sian: And how difficult was that?

Anita: It took a bit of arm-twisting at first, but when I mentioned all the money we could raise, their eyes glazed over at the thought of all those new facilities. A sparkling kitchen for Olive, a state-of-the-art gym for Miss Field, and um… more protractors for Mrs Pascal. So they agreed.

Sian: Very nice work. Now, some of the viewers may think that you’re rather unsporting, putting up these staff members for the horrors of the Mucky Dip while staying clean yourself, but that’s not true. Because you’ve agreed that if, and only if, we raise at least £750,000 for St Noel’s, you’ll take a custard pie! Isn’t that right, Anita?

Anita: [nervously nodding] Indeed so Sian.

Sian: Well let’s get prepared for that eventuality. Tom and Charlie, please could you bring out the custard pie?

The guards push out a large paddling pool, causing Anita’s jaw to drop. Through the clear walls of the pool, a thick filling of brilliant yellow custard can be seen, with a layer of flurrying white cream on top. The guards return back-stage and come out with a slide, which they position so that it leads into the pool. The audience loves it. Anita stares accusingly at Sian.

Sian: What’s the matter? You said you were ok with getting a custard pie.

Anita: I expected it to be a pie in the face!

Sian: Oh, don’t worry! It will go in your face – and everywhere else! But only if we raise that magic £750,000 by the close of voting. Let’s take a peak at how much has been raised so far!

Sian: [rubs chin] Mmmmm, it’s going to be hit and miss whether we make it. Anita, you might stay clean. What do you think about that?

Anita: Well, I’m not too keen on swimming in that custard, but my main priority is to raise as much money as possible, so… [shrugs at camera] C’mon, step up that voting! Let me have it!

Sian: You heard her! Remember, it costs £1.50 per vote and 100% of that will go to St Noel’s. So what are you waiting for?!

Sian walks over to the three desks.

Sian: Ladies, I wouldn’t be too smug about Anita’s plight; that custard pie is a mere trifle compared to what one of you faces. In fact, we’ve arrived at that part of the show where we agonise you with the unveiling of the muck, so without further ado…

Crowd: LET’S PREVIEW THE GOO!!

An overhead camera points straight down into the gaping mouth of the Mucky Dip. Tonight’s colour scheme is sky blue and tawny brown – the same tones as the kids’ uniforms – nestling in irregular patches of roughly equal prominence. The shot spirals inwards, revealing smaller splodges of more murky hue, and even some objects embedded in the surface.

The scene switches to a camera at the edge of the Mucky Dip, panning over the pool of goo. The surface betrays a shiny thickness, and is also pocked by lumps of varying sizes. Ensconced in the blue and brown gunk are dark green blobs and strands, like some kind of vegetable, and what appears to be several socks and a pair of shorts. A chorus of “EERRRRGGHHHH!!” arises from the teenagers as the scene unfolds on big screens mounted either side of the stage. The staff members are even more disconcerted as they watch on monitors, their repulsed faces exhibited in a box in the corner of the screen.

Sian: How about that? We’ve matched your school colours! And we’ve even gone to the trouble of stirring in some items related to your jobs. So Olive, you may have recognised the stewed spinach and pickled onions from your kitchen, and Miss Field, I’m sure those old PE kits didn’t go amiss. Mrs Pascal, it was a bit more difficult to find an ingredient relevant to you, but eventually we hit upon pencil shavings, so we’ve heaped in plenty of those.

Mrs Pascal: [agitated] Very nice. Now how about those voting numbers?

Sian: Ohh, this lady loves her numbers, doesn’t she? Very well, the mid-way scores are as follows:

The spectators holler. Miss Field groans and slumps over her desk. Mrs Pascal wipes her brow with relief, while Olive pumps her fist.

Sian: [laughing] Well, uh, what can I say to that!? We needed a lot of blackboard there!

Mrs Pascal: You should’ve used a broken scale.

Sian: Olive barely off the starting mark there, in a clear vindication of school dinners. Mrs Pascal also languishing far behind. But Miss Field!! If this were a track event you’d have lapped them by now!

Miss Field leans with her elbow on the desk, grinning bashfully as she cradles her head.

Sian: Seriously, Miss Field, we’ve never had a score this high before! It would seem that PE teacher is the most unpopular job in Britain!

Miss Field: It’s a conspiracy!

Sian: Perhaps the personal appeals will dent it. Ladies, each of you will now get fifteen seconds to address the class – I mean viewers – and explain why it shouldn’t be you going in that manky mire! Olive and Mrs Pascal, you may be tempted to treat this as an academic exercise, but don’t forget that whoever of you comes second will have to travel to the Comeuppance studio in London to face judgement next week, and that’s worth avoiding. Olive, what have you got cooked up for us?

Olive: [smirking] Admit it, you love school dinners! You won’t get such hot, nourishing meals made for you so cheaply again in your life! And those custard lumps? Full of protein. Now eat it all up and I might give you a lollipop!

A klaxon blares across the marquee. There are some isolated heckles and taunts.

Sian: Think I’ll forgo the protein, ta. Mrs Pascal, let’s have your carefully calculated piece.

Mrs Pascal: [demurely] Don’t dunk me! The pupils enjoy my lessons; some tell me it’s the best sleep they’ve ever had! And they love using mathematics in class, particularly subtraction – always calculating how many minutes til the bell rings!

The klaxon blasts just as Mrs Pascal draws her closing breath, followed by a moderate level of booing.

Sian: Anything to see the positive side, Mrs P! Now, Miss Field! [walks up to the desk so that she’s standing over the beleaugered PE teacher] It’s looking very grim for you, Miss Field, but I know that as a sportswomen you don’t give up until the final whistle, so why don’t you bowl a curveball and knock us for six?

Miss Field: [adopts her strictest posture and glares into the camera] Think I’m a meanie? That’s just me in a good mood. You really don’t want to get me in a bad mood! So for the sake of my pupils, stop voting for me. Cos if I go in the Mucky Dip, they’ll suffer Monday morning!

The marquee explodes with boos, hisses and jeers, drowning out the klaxon. A chant of “Miss Field, you are going down!” (to the tune of Go West) begins. Miss Field shakes her head and fires back banter at the crowd.

Sian: Ok, point made! Quiet please! Quiet in class! Dear me Miss Field, using kids as a human shield – whatever next!

Sian strolls to the front of the stage, leaving the three seated staff members in the background of the shot.

Sian: Is Miss Field doomed or will we see the mother of all turnarounds? If you gagged over school dinners or lost the will to live in maths class, it’s not too late to make your voice heard. And don’t forget, if you want to see a schoolgirl slide into a giant custard pie, you need to keep those votes flooding in! See you again for the final part.

Hi All,

Here are the results from matches 193-224 of the opening round of the Gunge Grand Prix:

We are now into the home stretch of Round 1, with the final 32 matches going live yesterday evening, and closing at 8pm next Tuesday. The plan is then to conduct the 2nd round draw on Wednesday, with the first Round 2 matches going live on 15th June. Stay tuned for further updates, and for the last time in Round 1, get voting!

Suzi read through some of the comments on the livestream. There were all sorts of things being said about her, the company and the show, and very few of them were good. “My name’s gonna be mud by the end of this, isn’t it?” she sighed, internally cursing her boss for putting her in the middle of such a show. Still, she was a professional, and so wasn’t about to let herself be overwhelmed by what was being said. After all, there was still one last bit of the show to do, and it was the very reason that people were watching in the first place. She looked into a camera and spoke.

“Welcome to the final part of this special edition of Suzi’s Slop Drop. Before I go any further, I just want to address the online audience for a moment. Thanks for voting and watching. I know a lot of contentious stuff has been said on the show tonight, but when it gets down to it, this show’s all about giving someone a damn good trashing with a metric fuckton of goo,” she smiled, cheekily. The camera then zoomed out as Suzi looked to her first guest, Anita Sarkeesian. “Anita, you had a tiny proportion of the vote before, but we’ve seen turnarounds before. Still confident?”

“Absolutely! After all, I’m ahead by such a margin that even if people have started voting for me, it shouldn’t make much of a difference!” Anita smiled, smugly. “I think June’s going to be going down that slide, which I must say has a very problematic name.”

“And what would you have called it?” Suzi asked, raising her eyebrow at the pop-culture crtic.

Anita pondered for a moment. “Slime Slide or Punishment Pipe maybe? Both are just as alliterative!”

“Not bad, actually! Still, it would be amusing that if you just renamed the very thing that’s going to gunge you!” Suzi giggled before turning to the other contestant. “So June, you got pied earlier. Think you can avoid the gunge?”

“Let’s be real – not really!” June giggled. She nervously touched her hair and toyed with it. She’d clearly had a chance to wash it between the previous part and the present, but it was still a bit damp. “But hey, it’s been fun!”

“Not confident that you’ve done enough to turn it around?”

June shook her head. “I tried but I doubt it.”

Suzi nodded and looked to the giant screen at the back of the stage. “Well, we’ll see if you’re right to feel defeatist or some kind of miracle has occurred. No pie this time because whoever’s ahead at this point is heading straight down the Patriarchy Pipe… Or Slime Slide, if you prefer. Though I get the impression you’d both prefer to call it something you’re not going down!”

Once again the light green circle appeared, followed by a line going from the middle to the circumference, spinning clockwise and leaving a darkened section in its wake. The section was larger this time around than the first time around…

…but not drastically. Anita let out a “yes!” and punched the air. June just lowered her head and covered her face.

“Well, it seems June’s fans started to turn out to turn it around but didn’t do anywhere near enough to save her,” Suzi surmised. “Anita, you must be pretty pleased with that result.”

Anita nodded. “I’m very pleased! This is a great victory against the forces keeping women down!”

“Ugh… I can take the goo but your smugness is…” started June.

“Let’s not start this argument again! Right, both of you come up to the tower with me. I’d recommend going barefoot – it’s slimy up there!” Suzi interrupted.

While June tutted and removed her shoes and socks, Anita blinked and looked to Suzi. “Me too? Are you going to put me down the slide?” she asked, trembling a little bit.

“Do you want to go down it?” Suzi deadpanned.

“Not really. I’m just wondering why you’d want me to go up there otherwise.”

“Well, I thought it would only be right to let the poll winner have the honour of pulling the lever and sending June to her doom!” smiled the presenter. “Well, not ‘doom’. We’re no toxic ultraviolent piece of media.”

Anita let out an unsure chuckle and kicked her shoes off. She and June followed Suzi up the metal spiral staircase. When they arrived, they saw that there was a waterfall of thick lime green gunge pouring down the back wall, forming a channel of gunge leading down the slide. Some of it had spilled over and created large puddles on the floor. “Woah, that’s slippery!” Suzi giggled as she tried to maintain her balance.

“It feels gross! I don’t envy you!” Anita smirked, looking at June.

“Especially since she’s got to sit down in it,” Suzi added.

“WHAT?!” June grimaced, looking at the slimy stream. “It’s gonna run all over my…”

Suzi nodded. “I know, but what can you do?” she shrugged. “Go on, get in!”

June lifted her left foot up and dipped her dainty little toes into the gunge stream. She giggled a little bit as it seeped through the gaps between them, tickling them a little. “Oh my God!” she squealed as her foot vanished into the stream. She dipped her other foot in and turned to face the slide, lowering her backside down carefully. Her legs, clad in dark blue jeans, disappeared into the gunge. “Ew ew ew ew ewwww!” she squirmed, arms flailing as it lapped on her back and seeped down her jeans, completely coating her black knickers. The gunge spilled over, completely covering the rest of the ground in the slippery sludge. June scooped up a few handfuls and threw them towards Anita.

The media critic raised her hands up and tried to block the incoming gunge. “Eurgh, you brat!” Anita laughed as the gunge washed over her feet and specks of sludge impacted on her open palms. “Suzi, how do I send her down the slide?”

“Why that’s simple. You simply walk over to the lever by the tunnel entrance and pull it. Just erm… try not to fall down” Suzi answered. As Anita shimmied cautiously over, the presenter looked to the already very gungy June. “Any last requests before you take the trip?”

“I wanna see Anita stand under the waterfall thing,” June laughed, through a mix of the slippery sludge sliding all over her and amusement at the idea of seeing Anita almost as messy as she was about to be.

“Not happening!” Anita said, yanking the lever down, triggering a rousing rendition of Ride of the Valkyries. The waterfall began to flow even faster, creating a wave that caught June and washed all over her, seeping into her long, brown hair. It carried her into the pipe and downwards towards her messy fate. It also splashed Suzi and Anita a bit, splashing their bodies but not leaving them anywhere near as messy as June was about to be. Suzi fell flat on her backside, her skirt sticking to her petite derrière. “Are you okay, Suzi?” asked Anita.

“I’m fine. I’m also sure you and everyone else would rather see what’s happening with June, though,” Suzi smiled, picking herself up. Her bare legs now had a coating of bright sludge on them.

Inside the tunnel, June was letting out all sorts of loud noises. In particular, there was a loud “WHOO!” as she approached the first corner, underneath a load of bright, colourful lights. Whipped cream flew from a couple of the nozzles, hitting her directly in the face. She licked her lips and tasted it, but mostly got a very sour taste of lime. “Lime slime. Nice…” she grimaced. Barely able to see what was coming next, she continued onwards, getting lashings of strawberry custard launched at her from the sides. They flew at her in great waves, making her squeal with surprise. Chocolate sauce dripped from the ceiling. The thick, sticky concoction displaced the slippery green gunge in her hair, matting it together. As she approached the steep drop, she felt herself speeding up again and then plummeting for a brief second. Her heart skipped a beat as the gunge washed all over her. She finally passed seven nozzles, which splattered her with a veritable rainbow of colours from all angles.

Anita peered over the balcony and laughed as June emerged from the pipe. She wasn’t visible for very long, but she was totally covered from head to toe in all sorts of colours and consistencies of gunge. Barely a speck of the once-clean June was now exposed to the air, and the young woman continued on, towards the vat. It was now overflowing with run-off from the pipe, leaving a big green layer on top of the already lurid hot pink slop inside the pit. June fell into it, her bottom penetrating the gunge first, followed by the rest of her body. She vanished for a split second before re-emerging. “Wow, June!” Anita gaped at her rival, who was now dripping with thick, smelly sludge. “You totally deserved that!”

June just looked down at the gunge and pouted as she shivered. She had been utterly trashed, but stood up tall even though she was waist-deep in pink sludge. “I’m never gonna wash this crap out, am I?” she sighed.

“Or live that amazing gunging down!” Suzi chuckled. “But, that’s about all we have time for. So from a very happy Anita, a very slimy June and me, your lovely host Suzi Harrison, goodbye!”

It’s done. Now we can put this all behind us.

Sian: Welcome to the final part of this Comeuppance special, coming live from St Noel’s School in Barrow-in-Furness, and presented by me Sian Welby! Voting has been intense and we’ve raised loads of dosh for the school, so thank you for your generosity, but as of now the polls are closed. If you call your vote won’t count and you may still get charged.

Sian strolls to the side of the stage, where Anita stands fidgeting in front of the pool filled with custard and cream.

Sian: Soon we shall find out whether maths teacher Mrs Pascal, PE teacher Miss Field, or Olive the school cook shall receive some severe extra-curricular discipline, but they’re not the only ones who could be getting messy. I’m here with Anita, the sixth form head girl, who has pledged to slide face-first into this giant custard pie if the total funds raised hits £750,000. Anita, how you doing?

Anita: I never said I would slide in face-first!

Sian: Oh dear, this poor girl is so nervous! She’s been pacing about something rotten this last hour and a half! Well it’s time for the moment of truth – drum-roll please. The total amount that you the viewers raised for the school is

The audience gasps then groans. Anita raises her fists in relief.

Sian: Awwww. We didn’t quite make it! Anita, you’ve escaped by the skin of your teeth!

Anita: Yes!

Mrs Pascal: But we’re within five percent of the target. Isn’t that close enough?

Sian: Close, Mrs P, but no cigar.

The crowd start booing.

Sian: Sorry everyone, but that’s the way it is. We may be harsh on this show, but we’re always fair.

Anita: Seems a waste of all that custard though. Maybe you should go down the slide instead!

The crowd like the sound of that very much.

Sian: [turning very stern] Uh-uh! That is definitely not going to happen. Just because you’ve had one good idea, Anita, don’t let it go to your head! Now get yourself over by the big red button and stop misbehaving!

Sian proceeds to the three desks while Anita obediently stations herself at the plinth.

Sian: Right then you three, sit up straight! Let’s have some discipline in class. We know the total number of votes, but just how have those choices fallen? It’s time to get the final scores!

The lights dim, save for three narrow spotlights trained on the seated contestants. Tense music plays.

Sian: The public have given you their marks, and they are as follows:

The school roar with all their lungs as the results flash up on the screen. Olive and Mrs Pascal both celebrate and turn to Miss Field with a “rather you than me” look. The latter, though fully expecting this outcome, covers her face and shakes her head slowly.

Sian: Pretty indisputable verdict there. Stand up Miss Field! Show her the red card boys!

The guards step forward, unlock the cuff around Miss Field’s wrist and coerce her towards the chair.

Crowd: MISS FIELD, YOU ARE GOING DOWN!!
MISS FIELD, YOU ARE GOING DOWN!!
MISS FIELD, YOU ARE GOING DOWN!!
MISS FIELD…

Sian: Ok, ok! Thank you! You can make all the noise you want in a minute. [Unlocks Olive’s cuff] Olive, if you would please get to your feet also. The voters have spoken unequivocally: you will not be stewing in our unsavoury urn, and can return your kitchen fresh, clean and dry. How do you feel about that?

Olive: It’s the happiest I’ve been all night.

Sian: That I can well believe! Here’s your Jammy Dodger trophy, which you can have out on your serving counter to really rub the kids’ noses in it when you’re ladling mystery mush onto their plates! Thanks for being a good sport and raising all this money for your school.

Olive: No problem Sian. See you tomorrow, bright and early.

Sian: [frowning] Err, will you?

Olive: Didn’t the crew tell you? They’ve asked me to cook you breakfast. You do like your porridge luke-warm and lumpy, I hope?

Sian: [dismayed] My mouth’s watering already. Ladies and gents, girls and boys, a stomach-turning round of applause for Olive the school cook.

A slow hand-clap sounds from below as a chuffed Olive walks off-stage. Sian stands over the still seated Mrs Pascal.

Sian: A bit of maths for you, Mrs P: your score was less than Miss Field’s, but greater than Olive’s. Do you know what that means?

Mrs Pascal: [with a cheeky smile] That I came second?

Sian: Oh, she’s sharp isn’t she? It also means that you have to take part in next week’s show, and there’s a non-zero probability that you will get your comeuppance yet!

Mrs Pascal shrugs as Sian walks off.

Sian: Thank you very much to all of you who voted and raised so much money, and thanks to everyone here for being such a great crowd. The anticipation in this marquee is absolutely electric, and I’m sure you’re just as excited at home. [Arrives next to Anita at the plinth] Why? Because our changing room tyrant is suspended above the sin bin, and she’s about to take an early bath!

The doom-laden music thunders through the PA system, and the scene turns to a close-up of a small pair of PE shorts, half-submerged in the muck, their original colour unknown but their present hue a muddy brown. The camera zooms out, revealing the blue and brown patches of slop, dotted with various scraps of flaccid vegetables. Then the shot pans up to meet Miss Field’s bare feet, her trainers having been removed. Her toes point with athletic poise down at the goo. The camera continues its ascent, up Miss Field’s snug leggings and onwards to her nubile torso. Illuminated by the steady stream of camera flashes from the audience, the PE teacher hangs her head and holds her nose.

Sian: Ho ho ho! Not too fresh up there, is it Miss Field? And if you think it’s bad now, wait til you’re covered in it! Anita, the honour is all yours [gestures the button].

Anita: [apprehensively] It’s not booby-trapped like last time, is it?

Sian: Do you think I’d still be standing here? [Looks out to crowd] School, how many of you have dreamt of this moment? The frosty mornings out on the pitch, the cold showers, the tiny spare PE kit if you forget your own. Miss Field makes your humiliation her vocation, but now we’re going to humiliate her in a big way!

Up in the chair Miss Field prepares herself, her toned muscles tensing.

Sian: Miss Field, from the pupils of St Noel’s, and on behalf of the victims of PE teachers everywhere…

Sian and crowd: HERE IS YOUR COMEUPPANCE!!!

Anita slams down the button, setting off a spectacle of sparks and flashing lights. As the winch gives way, Miss Field lunges forward against the straps, tipping the chair with her, and throws wide her arms and legs. She belly-flops in with an almighty splash, sending gunk leaping across the stage.

Sian: [leaping to avoid a flying sock] Woooah!!

For a few seconds the cables quiver while a toilet flush sounds. Then they pull taut and haul out the prostrate PE teacher. The weighted chair rights itself and she flips back into the upright position, while the trombone plays a discordant “School’s Out for Summer”. The once imperious games instructor is totally caked in the thick, lumpy gunge. Her ruined hair hangs matted in strands of blue and brown, partly draped over her face, which is itself dishevelled under a coating of light blue, bits of cabbage hanging from it. Miss Field’s front torso is predominantly plastered in brown, save for a blue left boob and a peppering of dark green grot, and her saturated training top has dragged down to reveal an inch of cleavage. Her leggings are similarly sodden in a mixture of the two colours, and her bare arms and shoulders are coated.

Sian: [Egging on the crowd] Ooohhh yes!

A barrage of camera flashes glints off the gunge as the crowd go mental, the roar in the marquee as jubilant as it is deafening. Miss Field plays up to her humiliation, sticking her tongue out and pulling various poses of disgusted defeat. Unusually for a comeuppancee, she makes no attempt to wipe her face. She does, however, sweep back her hair and hook it behind her ears. As she does so, an object moves amongst the pile of muck on the top of her head. She peels it away, revealing it to be a pair of PE shorts. She holds up the small, slimy garment in front of her, then tosses it into the crowd.

Sian: Woweee! A slam dunk, a touchdown, a perfect dive – whatever you call it, that was incredible!

Mrs Pascal: You got me as well! [points to a blob on her shoulder]

Sian: Let it be a small taster for next week! Oh, and we’re not done yet! Miss Field, we’ve got something you should be familiar with.

The guards wheel on a giant fan, mounted at the same height as Miss Field and with a box attached to its front. The fan whirrs into action, blasting Miss Field with grass cuttings, which stick to the gunge. The winch rotates the chair, so that the spluttering PE teacher gets uniform coverage. In no time she is all but buried under a fuzzy coat of grass.

Sian: Oh yes, she loves to see her pupils munch the turf when they’re in a scrum; now she knows what it tastes like! That was a fantabulous comeuppance – perhaps the most popular of the series – and I’m sure it’ll be just as acclaimed in super slo-mo.

The slow-mo replay shows Miss Field brace for action as the sparks fly around her. In a flourish of fitness and good-humour, she throws herself forward and plummets to her fate front-first. Gunge flies in all directions as she hits home.

Sian: And let’s see it again from above!

The bird’s-eye view shows the PE teacher’s slender figure spread into star-formation as she falls towards the slop. Her tight legging-clad bottom, visible through the wire-mesh chair is the last part of her to be consumed by the slop, but a star-shaped indentation remains on the ghastly surface after she is gone.

Sian: She got exactly what she deserved! Anita, it must have been damn satisfying to push that button.

Anita: [grinning] Immensely!

Sian: Glad to hear it! We didn’t raise quite enough to send you into that pie, but it’s still a stupendous amount and you can be very proud of what you’ve achieved. All the best for your A-levels and wherever life takes you after that. Let’s have a big hand for Anita please!

The spectators duly show their appreciation.

Sian: Oh, I’ve just received some news from the director: our sponsers have agreed to top up the total to £750,000 – so guess what!

Sian shoves Anita by the shoulders, sending the girl sprawling backwards. Anita tries to regain her balance, but her calves barge into the rim of the pool, which the guards have surreptitiously edged into place behind her, and she begins to totter. Horror grows on the head girl’s face as she realises where she is headed. Frantically and comically, her arms windmill, and she almost succeeds in bringing herself to a stop, but momentum wins the day and she pitches backward, landing flat on her back with a soft splut, and submerging into the sea of custard.

While the audience laughs and cheers, Anita’s plimsolled feet flap up and down over the rim of the pool. Slowly, her head and shoulders emerge, and she levers herself by her elbows. The pretty schoolgirl is a mass of yellow and white, outlandishly misshapen by the thick goo. Her bunches stick out from the sides of her head like a pair of giant yellow pom-poms, her blazer is destroyed, and her mouth gapes in a huge black circle.

Grinning, Sian scuttles to a safe distance, lest Anita should try to get her back.

Sian: We couldn’t let her get away with it, could we? [Looks up] And as for you, Miss Field, have you learnt your lesson?

Miss Field: [hands on hips, rasping through grass] Sian, the pupils may find it funny now, but they won’t be laughing when I next take them for PE!

Sian: I’m sure they won’t; that pong will drift all the way across the playing field, pwwweeuughh!! Ha ha ha! Needless to say, Miss Field, you took that gunging like a champ and you’ve been a fantastic sport (no pun intended for once). And you’ve raised all this money to boot, so fair play to you. However, seeing as you’re unrepentant as ever, you can have some more grass.

The fan resumes, assailing Miss Field with another storm of grass cuttings.

Sian: We must leave it there. Join us again next week to see another scoundrel get their comeuppance in our Mucky Dip! Ta-ra!

Sian stands at the edge of the stage and waves as the camera slowly zooms out. The schoolkids and townsfolk clap and dance to the music in true party mood. Still gaping, Anita staggers to her feet in the pie, great lumps of cream and custard dripping from her skirt and running down her legs. Chained to her desk, Mrs Pascal regards her caked pupil and trashed colleague with a mixture of amusement and trepidation. Looking like the Jolly Green Giant, Miss Field waves to the camera, a smile faintly discernible under the myriad blades of grass. From somewhere in the crowd the pair of shorts are chucked back at her, slapping her in the face. The final scene is a slow-mo replay of the PE teacher emerging from the muck, swinging from the front-down to the upright position.

So this is basically what happens when a song gets stuck in my head and I start to fiddle with the half-forgotten lyrics and suddenly arrive at a concept for a whole story series.  As a pilot it’s a little rough but I thought I’d put it out there and see what people think, and if it’s got any legs.  And apologies to the author of a Certain Show for dragging it into this mess.

It’s time for Wammermaniacs
And we’re messy to the max.
So pick up a pie and smash
Someone of a higher class
We’re Wammermaniacs!

Come join the Wammer sisters
And the Wammer brother Snot
Just for fun we leave cottage cheese out until it clots
Then we stir in something gross, like gravy and shallots.
We ate too much sucrose,
This premise is grandiose…
I think the author’s lost the plot.

We’re Wammermaniacs!
We’re bringing gunging back.
So tonight why not stay in
While Obama plays theremin?
We’re Wammermaniacs!

Meet Sabrina and Aries
Twins you can barely tell apart
Their brother gets less screen time,
And all the crappy parts
But he still gets paid
Thirty-three cents more
Yes we get political
And sometimes quite satirical
Why are you heading for the door?

We’re Wammermaniacs!
We wear durable contacts.
It feels so weird to dance
With baked beans in our pants.
We’re Wammer-man-ee,
Messy and brainy,
Here’s the shows namey:
Wammermaniacs!
Now get your snacks.

*Commercial.*

[We fade in to a studio, where two near-identical blond women sit at a broad, black desk, smiling at the rapturous applause prodded out of the studio audience. On camera left, her hair a pure golden that gleams in the studio lights, is Aries. Above the desk we can see she wears a crisp black blazer and frilly cream blouse; she is the picture of professional broadcast journalism. On camera right, her hair streaked with a broad band of purple, sits Sabrina, who wears a simple cotton dress of the same hue. As the applause and incidental music dies down, their murmuring is captured on the studio microphones.]

Aries: Are you sure that dress is appropriate for a news broadcast?

[Sabrina looks down at her attire, her mouth gaping in mock betrayal.]

Sabrina: I beg your pardon? What’s wrong with my outfit?

Aries: It’s just a little… little, really.

[Aries looks back at the camera and grins nervously, realising they are being overheard.]

Aries: Welcome to Wammermaniacs, I’m your host–

Sabrina: I’ll have you know this is completely appropriate to wear on television. Unless I’m doing the weather, obviously.

Aries: Goodnight everybody.

Sabrina: Anyway the last thing we need is to bicker. We have to stick together, now that we finally have some women on late night TV.

Aries: And speaking of late night TV, I’m your host Aries Wammer, and this is my counterpart, R2D2.

Sabrina: Cute. I’m Sabrina Wammer, the brains of this outfit.

Aries: So you’re saying I am the prettier sister?

Sabrina: Not if you’re going to dress like Madeline Albright every night. We’ll wind up cancelled by next week if you don’t take that coat off.

Aries: I happen to think that the content of our stories will be what draws viewers. Which brings me to tonight’s top story: Controversy abounds at the studios of a rival TV station, where the increasingly popular proletariat distraction of a certain television show has come a little unstuck–

Sabrina: What’s horse racing got to do with it?

[The question throws Aries, who opens and closes her mouth, stammering for a second.]

Aries: What… what?!

Sabrina: Wasn’t he a famous horse?

Aries: That was Secretariat, you fool. Proletariat means… look, have you read 1984?

Sabrina: Read it? I was born in it. You too, actually.

Aries: … Anyway, come to think of it, this certain show we are discussing reminds me of the Two Minute Hate. And hate certainly abounds as questions are raised by viewers and show organisers alike about the legitimacy of their latest ballot.

[A brief clip reel runs, showing the various victims of a Certain Show as they, shall we say, are dipped into something that could be described as mucky. Because audiences need clips to keep paying attention. Also, jump cuts.]

Aries: The punitive programme has come under fire after a recent update on voting suggested that the potential victim, an athletic gym teacher in tight tights, was running away with the vote over the other candidates, a school chef and a math teacher.

Sabrina: What were their names again? Miss Field? Mrs Pascal? Who does wood working class? Miss Teak?

Aries: Isn’t she in X-Men?

Sabrina: Hey, three minutes in and you finally cracked a joke.

Aries: After the programme’s host noted herself that this was an unprecedented lead at this stage of voting, show organisers swiftly added a footnote to ballots asking that voters keep in mind the spirit of the show, implying that the point was not to rank the attractiveness of the candidates. And, as always happens when you ask people to keep such things in mind, that quickly led to these chaotic scenes.

[A clip runs, showing a well dressed, middle-aged lady standing at a podium, banging her gavel against a chorus of boos.]

Definitely Not The Chair of the Nevada Democrats: Order! Order I say! And what I say goes, including ignoring your votes! I demand order.

[The boos continue, and to the bottom of the frame the hustle and bustle of an unruly crowd begins to show. Suddenly a voice cries out from the group.]

Voice: Here’s your order!

[Whumpf! Whoever that was, they have a good arm, as they manage to hurl a classic cream pie straight into the face of the lady at the podium. A roar erupts, of laughter and cheers, as the woman wipes at her eyes and rushes from the stage. Sure, she might have been trying to tell people how and why to vote, but a little schaudenfreude mollifies the disgruntled masses as they imagine the shock and shame takes their projected villain down a peg. A whole peg!]

Sabrina: Hey, this time the revolting peasants were the ones to cry “let them eat cake”.

Aries: I’m pretty sure that was a pie. And I strongly condemn throwing anything at anyone who–

Sabrina: Who does what? Tries to tell you how to vote? Ignores your voice and decides they know better and that your reasons for ticking a certain box weren’t legitimate? They’re lucky to get pies and cakes, if you ask me.

Aries: Nobody did. Nobody will. Anyway, we now go to our senior civil unrest correspondent, our little brother Snot. Snot, what do you have for us?

Sabrina: Take-out, I hope. They only have salads in the green room.

[We cut to a man in his late 20s, his dark suit and checkered shirt clashing wildly with his thick, red-brown beard. He has the same blue eyes as the sisters, sitting above a bulbous nose, and his mouth twitches into a smirk as soon as he realises the feed is focused on him. He grips his microphone all the tighter, eager to make a good impression.]

Snot: Well–

[Splotch! Another pie hits him square in the face. The tin slides off, its greasy squeak caught on the microphone, as dollops of cream flop and fleck across his blazer. A blur of spraying slop and slipping students fills the background – whatever assembly had taken place to try to deal with the unexpected vote has now descended into a literal food fight, with our correspondent caught in the middle of it. In swift fashion, we cut back to the studio, where Sabrina laughs at her brother’s misfortune.]

Sabrina: That’s all the time we have for you, Snot.

Aries: What?! We sent him out there for that? Can’t he at least ask someone a question?

Sabrina: Shh! Every second a pied guy is on screen we shed viewers like a Secretary deletes emails.

Aries: Oh for the love of– Fine, let’s move on to the interview. Tonight’s guest is a ballet star who has taken the stage by storm.

Sabrina: Literally, in a beautiful, artistic, balletified production of “Singin’ in the Rain”.

Aries: Balletified is not a word.

Sabrina: Neither is Wammermaniacs. But whatchya gonna do when Wammermania runs wild on you?

Aries: … I’m just going to start pretending you’re not here. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for our guest, Keira Wallace!

[The audience applauds and cheers, as an instrumental version of the show’s jaunty theme blares above their heads. The studio lights whir around before settling on the edge of the soundstage, where Keira waves. Dressed in her finest pink tutu, she shuffles across the stage with the expected grace, and finally pirouettes before flopping lightly into the hastily rolled-out seat. The noise dies down, and Aries greets her with a professional smile.]

Aries: Keira, a pleasure.

Sabrina: And you said my outfit was a problem, sis.

[With a demure smile, Keira crosses her legs, ignoring Sabrina’s remark. She is on stage every night, and used to being looked at. She looks to the more friendly co-host, greeting her in return.]

Keira: A pleasure to be here, Aries. It’s always nice to do something a little different.

Aries: Well our show is certainly that. As is yours – we’ve seen many cinematic classics brought to the stage, but not in the form of ballet. And for this particular film, a lot of thought must have gone into the production, to even come close to showing the same story.

Keira: That’s right, it’s been a long time coming. I think I was still at university when I first read about a company looking to produce it, and I never dreamed I’d be on the stage, filling the great Gene Kelly’s rainboots.

Sabrina: Pfft, a woman taking a man’s role, like that gimmick will ever catch on.

Aries: … Ahem. Speaking of rainboots, you really do endure a downpour during the titular number, don’t you?

Sabrina: If that leotard were white then titular would be a good word for it.

[Keira, again ignoring the more abrasive sister, nods to Aries’ question.]

Keira: That’s right, we have a rain machine right over the stage. It’s a whole new way of dancing when you have to make sure you don’t slip on the puddles, but it’s actually quite refreshing after being under the spotlight for most of the show.

Aries: Well I’m afraid you’re going to be under the spotlight again now, as we’ve come to the final part of our show. Ladies and gentlemen, this is our Moment of Wam.

[The studio lights fade as melodramatic music drums along. All that remains illuminated, in three bright columns of light, are Keira and Sabrina, with Aries seated between them. Aries now holds in her hands a set of cards, turning them inward as she senses her sister trying to catch a peek at them.]

Aries: Stop that. Now, we don’t have a rain machine, but we do have a mysterious contraption high in the studio ceiling that is definietly not Gus with a bucket.

[A green dollop plops onto Aries’ shoulder, streaking her blazer. She sighs, casting her eyes upwards.]

Aries: Thanks, Gus. Now, the rules here are simple: I will ask each of you three questions about current events, and you will try to answer as many correctly as you can. The winner is whoever gets the most right, and they will become our first Wammermania Champion.

[Aries sighs again, and gestures across the studio.]

Aries: And because Sabrina likes tacky things, the Wammermania Champion will be awarded this gaudy, godawful trinket.

[Another spotlight flares on, showing a pillar with a pillow perched upon it. Seated in pride of place on the pillow is a white leather championship belt, gleaming with tiny diamonds and emeralds, picking out a large W against its gold base.]

Sabrina: That belt is coming home!

Aries: Now, that is the prize for the winner, and as you might have guessed, the loser will also go home wearing something absolutely appalling. And I do mean go home – this studio’s so new our plumbing hasn’t been finished yet. So, as you have both agreed to these terms, I shall begin with our guest. Keira, are you ready?

[Keira glances up, sitting back further in her seat.]

Keira: Let’s go.

Aries: Question one: Who is the prettier sister, Sabrina or… Sabrina! You replaced the questions!

Sabrina: Who, me? I would never!

[Aries scans the card, seeing nothing but ridiculous questions scrawled by her sister. In frustration she tosses it over her shoulder, shaking her head.]

Aries: Fine, apparently we can’t do a single segment properly tonight, and we’re running out of time, so I’ll come up with one question myself and the first to answer is the winner. Ready?

Keira: Yes!

Sabrina: Hey, wait a sec–

Aries: Too bad. The question is… In which city did Muhammad Ali defeat Sonny Liston to win the heavyweight championship?

[Keira sucks on her lip, thinking hard. As her mind works in overdrive to glean any information about that fight, her body squirms in her seat, the smooth material of her outfit wrapping and wrippling over her lithe muscles. Sabrina, meanwhile, bounces excitedly in her own chair.]

Sabrina: It was Miami Beach, Florida!

Keira: No!

[Aries sighs once more, and nods.]

Aries: I’m afraid so. Sabrina’s right, so you know what that means.

Sabrina: It means I’m the champion, that’s what it means!

[Sabrina hops off her seat, sliding right across the newsdesk. She runs across the stage as the studio lights return to full force, and grips the belt in her hand. Raising it high overhead, she points a finger at Keira, and cackles.]

Sabrina: Get her, Gus!

[Splat! Keira shrieks and hunches her shoulders, pinned to her chair by the torrent of cold, gloopy green… stuff. As thick as house paint and running like a waterfall from the ceiling, it laps back and forth over her, coating the dancer in its torrent like a chocolate bar in a factory. Stunned by the deluge, Keira’s mouth gapes, and slowly she peels herself from her seat. As the cascade slows, she slicks back her hair, sloshing and spraying greenness all over the desk, sending Aries and Sabrina scurrying back. The crowd applauds and, dripping and sodden, Keira gamely takes a bow. As she leans forward, a little river of slime slops out of the front of her leotard. Slowly getting upright, she knows that the walk backstage is going to feel interesting. At least it’s not far… They were joking about the plumbing, right?]

Aries: Geez, Gus, that was one hell of a bucket. I’d like to thank our guest for being such a great sport, even if I’m disappointed it wasn’t my obnoxious sister stuck under the slime. Make sure you check out Singin’ in the Rain when it comes to your city, and you might just see Keira still washing some green sludge off her. Goodnight everybody, and here it is again, your Moment of Wam!

[As the credits roll, replays fill the screen, showing in slow motion the moment Keira realised she had lost the quiz, her face as the slime first struck her head, and finally that last, brave bow before an appreciative audience.]

Girls falling face first in mud – photo complication

I have little-to-no idea what’s going on in this J-pop-inspired music video. I do know that a woman gets her hair thoroughly gunged from 1:55, though. In a bit of a rarity in music vids, we actually get an aftershot. It’s over in a matter of seconds, though – not such a rarity!

Anyway, here’s Kelsey Ellison with “Pom Pom”.

Sound of the Crowd was a late night entertainment show on E4 aimed at the “yoof” demographic where the studio audience would vote and decide on various parts of the show. One of the strands on the show was called “Gunge or Glory”. The premise of Gunge or Glory was that two performers would go head-to-head against each other and the audience decide who they want to save from getting a thorough gunging.

The set of Sound of the crowd has a very shiny black floor, bright red studio lights and a studio audience of about 200 people.

The presenter, Alex Delaney – a prototypical squeaky voiced mop-headed 20 something in a red checked shirt, skinny jeans and trendy white trainers addresses the studio audience after a segment of the show where the audience has just voted that a grown man should eat a worm sandwich, as you could imagine Sound of the Crowd is a show desperate to shock and offend. But often just comes across as desperate.

“Now we come to the part of the show where you get to decide the fate of someone’s dignity – That’s right – it’s time for GUNGE OR GLORY! Now let’s bring out our contestants. Please welcome Adam Armstrong and Luisa Omielan” 

Both contestants walk out Adam Armstrong must be about 26 and is dressed in a bola hat covering his long blonde hair and a waistcoat and skinny jeans combo and he is very handsome and chiseled with designer stubble. Luisa is wearing leopard print tights and a black belly top exposing her curvy midriff and she is wearing blue eyeshadow.

“So we’ve seen this before, but for those of you who don’t know these two are about to perform for you and when they a finished you are going to vote for who you want to SAVE from getting the gunging of a lifetime in our dreaded gunge car wash.”

The camera zooms in on the car wash and it is very similar to the Noel’s House Party car wash, but the chair which the losing recipient sits on is a toilet presumably in order to make it more humiliating.

“Ladies and gentleman please welcome Adam Armstrong”

Adam Armstrong is a singer-songwriter who probably thinks as himself as a one of a kind musical messiah when actually his music sounds almost exactly the same as all the other piano singer-songwriters that are played through the airwaves of Radio 1  such as Tom Odell and James Bay and is enjoyed by the aforementioned “yoof” demographic. He does however play his song “Concrete River” with much sincerity and heart – almost as if he forgot that he was on a vulgar late-night E4 show and believed him self to be performing for royalty at the Royal Albert Hall or in front of thousands at the O2 Arena instead of 200 disinterested young people who applied for a free ticket to a television recording. He finishes his song and the audience applaud wildly.

The camera diverts the attention back to Alex who introduces Luisa.

“Now, the lady who wants to convince you to keep her clean; It’s Luisa Omielan”

Luisa Omielan is quite a confident stand-up comedian and seems quite aware of her attractiveness. Her long dyed blonde hair is shoulder length and is wearing blue eye shadow to complement her attractive face. Her routine is almost exactly identical to the one in this video

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2MskQOinwE

She addresses the audience as “Ladies” and “bitches” a lot as in “Am I right bitches?”and she almost swaggers round the studio floor   part of her routine is to strip off and expose that sexy curvy body which she does and not only does she pull her tights down, but she actually takes her top of as well showing her fairly impressive breasts only covered by a black bra and her lower half by a pair of black knickers.

The audience laughs throughout her performance and applauds as she finishes.

The camera focuses on Alex again as he stands in front of the gunge car wash.

“Now it’s time for the moment of truth! Who do you want to save from the gunge?”

We then see Adam and Luisa standing next to each other. Adam looks like he just doesn’t care what happens and Luisa who is still only wearing a black bra and knickers puts her hands close to her face and smiles nervously.

“To save Adam press A and to save Luisa press B”

The audience is shown pressing some handsets.

Alex reveals the results.

“Well, I can reveal that 86% of our studio audience has voted to save Adam meaning it’s a landslide and Luisa is going to be gunged”

Luisa then puts her hands over her mouth the squeals and giggles.

The results shouldn’t be too surprising. Who were they going to save the chiseled sincere singer-song-writer who performs the sort of populist BBC Radio 1 pap that people seem to eat up or the overly-confident and cocky comedian who only seemed like the perfect fit for a gunging?

“Oh my days bitches, why would you do this to this to me?” laughs Luisa

Alex then takes her by the arm and sits her down on the car wash toilet. Luisa looks vulnerable, but sexy. Her insanely hot body shines under the studio lights and she laughs and looks rather cute while doing so.

“So Luisa, how are you feeling right about now?” asks Alex

“Oh my god! I’m gonna get gunged” Luisa says in a rather high pitched tone.

“To be honest with you though I think I’ve been covered in more gunge than this in the bedroom. Do you hear me ladies?”

The Audience erupts in laughter again at her heavily implied cum joke. 

“Well there’s nothing left to do then to show Luisa the gunge”

Alex then pulls a lever and the car wash seat turns around and jaunts forward. Luisa then goes through the big car wash brushes messing up some of that lovely wavy died blonde hair. Luisa then shows of her dimples with a sexy laugh and then she pulls a rather cocky face embracing what is about to happen – she pulls this face for about two seconds until a heavy stream of thick bright pink opaque gunge splashes down causing the umbrella effect over Luisa. We hear the most bellowing “AAGGHHHH!” as this happens. We could not see Luisa she was no longer a semi-nude clean woman she reduced to a glossy dome of hot pink gunge and it almost looks still until Luisa puts her hands under the dome of gunge which streams though her fingers. She then makes the mistake of trying to wipe her face and of course this just means that she smears pink gunge all over her pretty and adorable face covering her forehead, cheeks and nose and you can see her laughing with joy and elation as this happens. You can see that her sexy shoulders and arms are also completely covered in pink gunk. Another gunge dome forms, but it ends after Luisa slicks her gunge coated hair back and this then causes the gunge to turn to a stream and then run right down her face enveloping it completely to the point where the only recognizably feature on her face is the bump of her nose. She the tries to wipe the gunge from her eyes but it keeps streaming. The gunge then streams down into her boobs and down to her sexy slightly chubby belly covering them both fully in gunge and then stops and Luisa’s chair is bought forward and turns around and to face the audience. Her sexy body is almost completely covered in gunge including those legs – her almost bare lap is a pit of pink gunge meaning her thighs are completely coated. She then wipes her face and laughs. She then sexually rubs the gunge into her almost nude frame smearing it in all over her breasts, belly and legs and them blows a gungey kiss to the camera. To most – this is a bikini clad woman smearing a paint-like substance all over her self, but to anyone even remotely interested in WAM – it’s borderline pornographic and trilling to watch!

Alex then walks over to her with a microphone.

“So how was that Luisa? Do you feel like Beyonce now?”

Luisa then gives a high pitched laugh while slicking her hair back tightly – her forehead and cheeks are fully coated and there is a blob of pink on her nose.

“I think I still look stunning bitches. Am I right?”

The audience applauds and agrees with her.

Alex then turns smug.

“Now Luisa I do have a confession”

Luisa looks nervously intrigued.

“Were not actually finished yet…would you like to see Luisa get gunged again”

Luisa becomes genuinely terrified.

“No no no oh no please I’m already a mess!”

“If you want to see Luisa gunged again press A if you don’t press B”

The audience are once again seen voting.

Well the results are in and I can reveal the 100% would like to see you get gunged again?

Luisa then screams “No please no!”

It’s become obvious that Luisa genuinely has no idea that there would be more gunge being dropped on top of her.

The gunge is then realized once again and this time the gunge is pure white and is thick and once again forms a dome, but this time the dome isn’t still and dances around rippling and spinning all over the beautiful and funny victim and as she had already slicked her hair back the dome stops and becomes a stream once again plastering her face. She then tries to rub the gunge off her cheeks revealing the tanned skin on the face, but it just keeps getting covered again. She then gasps for air and then the gunge continues to stream once again making the bump on her nose the only recognisable part of her face. The goo once again streams down onto her breasts and chest and on to her lap and this time she rubs the gunge into herself in a undeniably sexual fashion while it is still falling on her allowing it to cover her face. The gunging then slowly stops. She then slicks her hair back tightly behind her and laughs it off as she wipes her face down with her blue eye shadow mixing with the gunk.

Alex then returns.

“How was that Luisa?”

“Well now I feel more like Friday night with my boyfriend. Am I right bitches?” she says referencing the white stuff all over her.

You can see that her whole body is coated with white and pink and that some of it has mixed together creating a lighter shade of pink.

Alex then begins the next segment of the show and walks away from Luisa.

It was an odd feeling for Luisa as she sat under the lights covered in gunge as despite her rather erratic stand up routine she had never been humiliated like this before, but she did clearly enjoy herself and liked the feeling of the thick gunge and embraced her national humiliation unlike many others, but it was still the most humiliating moment of her life and everyone that she knew was going to see this at some point.

A stage hand then walks over to her to take her to the shower where she can think about the whole ordeal just a bit better.

You’re all are getting sloppy, and not in a good way. How come I had to find this on UMD rather than the usual case of it being someone on UMD finding it here? :L

But yeah, ITV reality show Love Island had a slime wrestling game, with the bouts being decided by who could rip the other’s socks off first. No, that’s not a synopsis of my next WAM story. That is in fact a thing that happened.

Am I going to have to start watching this show? :L

Sian struts onto the stage, with the uniformed guards either side and one step behind her. A brass ensemble strikes up the instantly-recognisable intro of a 70s disco classic, and the trio begin dancing.

Sian: [with the guards providing backing at the appropriate places]
People, there’s no need to feel down,
I said people, there’s no reason to frown,
I said people, when you’re played for a clown,
By the folk who make your life hell.

Jobsworths, make you go to and fro,
And the shysters, make you short of your dough,
And the posers, make your frustration grow,
Well it’s time to get your own back!

Sian twirls on the spot during the brief instrumental break. An eruption of sparks from the rim of the Mucky Dip heralds the chorus.

There’s no escaping our M-U-C-K!!
There’s no escaping our M-U-C-K!!
We have gallons and gallons of horrible gunge,
It’s all waiting for the plunge!
It’s pretty grim in our M-U-C-K!!
Won’t wanna swim in our M-U-C-K!!
You can get your revenge, you can have a good laugh,
You can give them a mucky bath!

While Sian sings, the wire-mesh chair descends to stage level. Sian sits sideways in the chair, while one guard draws it back and the other lifts Sian’s foot, showing off her luscious legs.

People! There’s a show you can dial,
Where the villains, will be put up on trial,
And we’ll dip them, in our gunk that’s so vile,
If you vote to send them in there!

The guard holding back the chair releases it, and Sian leaps off into the other guard’s arms.

So now, don’t you get yourselves vexed,
There’s a number, vote by phone-call or text,
For the scoundrel, that you’d like to see messed,
And we’ll make it happen for you!

Sian jumps down to her feet and the three start dancing again.

There’s no escaping our M-U-C-K!!
There’s no escaping our M-U-C-K!!
It’s thick and it’s lumpy, it has quite a pong,
It’ll right the most heinous wrong!
The nation’s wrath, it’s our M-U-C-K!!
An early bath in our M-U-C-K!!

Sian: Come on! Let’s hear you all sing it!

Audience: M-U-C-K!!!
Sian: Who needs a lynchmob when there’s
Audience: M-U-C-K!!!
Sian: People, people are you listening to me? People people, turn your on your tv!

The music peters out, leaving the applause of the audience. A final shower of sparks emanates from around the Mucky Dip.

Sian: Wooo! Thank you! That was amazing! Tom and Charlie, I didn’t realise you were such nifty movers!

The guards have already reverted to their stolid and silent selves.

Sian: Suit yourselves boys. Hi everyone, I’m Sian Welby and this is Comeuppance! If anyone’s tuning in for the first time, you’re a bit late to the party, but don’t worry; we’ve a stonker of an episode coming up. Down in the cells we have three irritating, intimidating and infuriating professionals – the kind whose day is made when yours is ruined – and tonight they will have to fawn and grovel for your clemency. Why? Because whoever attracts the greatest share of your ire will face a harsh and humiliating punishment: strapped into this here chair, hoisted upon high, and plunged into the ghastly depths of our Mucky Dip!

While the spectators express their enthusiasm, the camera sweeps over the gaping rim of the towering cylindrical vat, the interior of which is clouded over by a frothing fog of dry ice.

Sian: There’s a special twist to our muck this week, as we shall reveal later. For now though, I’m sure those sitting towards the front of the audience will vouch for the whiff of French cheese and fermented fish that’s diffusing their way!

Shouted from audience: I thought that was you!

Sian: Cheeky git! You’re lucky our three positions are already filled. Speaking of which, let’s crack on and meet our first contestant!

The maths teacher
Our runner-up from last week’s back-to-school special is Mrs Pascal, a maths teacher from Barrow-in-Furness in Cumbria. She’s a bit coy about her age, but suffice to say she’s in her prime.

The guards wheel out a cage from backstage, inside which Mrs Pascal stands. The audience boos her entrance.

Sian: First of all, Mrs Pascal, let me ask: how’s Miss Field getting on?

Mrs Pascal: [smirking] Well Sian, it’s become a lot easier to find her on the school campus; we just need follow the trail of grass cuttings!

The audience laughs.

Sian: You’re in no position to be smug. Now, I’m damned if I’m going to talk about maths again, so let’s discuss teachers in general. From Miss Scatcherd and the Trunchbull, to Pink Floyd and the Demon Headmaster, you lot command a unique notoriety in the cultural psyche, don’t you?

Mrs Pascal: But you’re forgetting Miss Honey, John Keating and Dewey Finn. A good teacher inspires like no other.

Sian: Not this week they don’t, because they’re all on strike. What’s your gripe, huh? Thirteen weeks holiday not sufficient? Three-thirty too late in the day to clock off? Too many coffee breaks in the staffroom?

The audience boos.

Sian: [looking round] Yuh! It’s too early to say if you’ll be a dodger, Mrs P, but you’re certainly jammy!

Mrs Pascal: Not “all of us” are on strike, and you’re a fine one to talk about short hours, Sian. You spend Friday evenings presenting this show, and then there’s a few five-minute slots for Channel 5 Weather and the Health Lottery. Talk about part time!

Sian: [offended] I also do the cycling on Channel 4, and if you don’t mind, a lot of prep goes into my presenting.

Mrs Pascal: Oh, whereas my lesson plans just fall into my lap!? And for you info, I don’t go home at 3:30 every day; [proudly] on Tuesdays and Thursdays I take after-school maths club.

Sian: [incredulous] Do kids actually go to that?

Mrs Pascal: Well I call it maths club… it’s more like detention really. [Stops and frowns] Are you chewing?

Sian: So what if I am?

Mrs Pascal: [sternly] You know my policy on gum. Wrap it in paper and put it in the bin – right away!

Sian: [defiantly blows a bubble] We’re not in the classroom now.

Mrs Pascal: I’m not here to argue, Sian. Bin. Now.

Sian: I’m afraid the bin’s too high to reach, Mrs P, and it’s already full of something far stickier than gum, as you might discover later on!

Mrs Pascal folds her arms and fixes Sian with her most withering teacher’s glare as the latter turns her back on her and addresses the camera.

Sian: I can just tell that loads of you want to put Mrs Pascal in that long-overdue detention, but before you commit please give your full assessment of our other two contestants.

The anti-file-sharing lawyer
Second up in the dock is Judi. She’s 31 and from the Isle of Wight, and for the past four years she has operated as an anti-file-sharing lawyer.

The guards wheel out Judi to booing and hissing.

Sian: Ok folks, picture the scene: a respectable, well-to-do person – a vicar, say, or a nice old lady – receives a letter, in cold legal verbage, accusing them of downloading some smutty movie or contentious rap song. The letter gives the recipient the option to “settle”, by paying a not insubstantial sum, or else face a court case over the infringement. The poor Reverend knows nothing about the downloaded movie – less still of the lewd acts described in its title – but the prospect of a scandalous court case frightens him so much that he posts a cheque forthwith. This, ladies and gentleman, [jabs a finger at Judi] is the extortion racket that Judi here is involved in!

Judi: [who has been rolling her eyes throughout Sian’s vignette] Save me the strawmen! We don’t go through the phone-book looking for vicars. We use sophisticated methods to detect illegal file-sharing and the IP addresses involved.

Sian: Even accepting that to be true, the reliability of IP detection is dubious, and an IP address is not a person. The bill-payer may not be the person who downloaded the file; perhaps they had a guest over or their connection was hacked.

Judi: [waves a hand dissmively] Too bad for them – legally they’re responsible. You can make all the excuses you like but it doesn’t change the fact that these people are downloading copyrighted material illegally, and artists are missing out as a result!

Sian: And they’re continuing to miss out, because in many cases none of the money you rake in goes to the artist, because they signed away their copyright to a publisher, who subsequently sold it you!

Judi: Nothing wrong with that. The artist freely made the choice to—

Sian: And what’s more, you actually upload many of the files to filesharing sites yourself, which renders your copyright claims null and void!

Judi: [angrily] That’s completely untrue! You better retract that accusation, Welby, because I’m also trained in libel law!

Sian: [Pulls out a piece of paper] Judi, we recorded the IP address of your office as the uploader.

Shouts of “busted!” emanate from the audience.

Judi: B..B..But those detection methods are unreliable! And an IP address isn’t a person!

Sian: Strange, either there’s an echo in the studio or you just copied what I said earlier. In any case, Judi, here at Comeuppance we have a file-sharing pool of our own. It facilitates high-speed downloads and uploads, and it’s perfect for leechers like you!

Judi puts her hands on her hips and pouts as Sian turns away.

Sian: And I’m sure lots of you are impatient to seed Judi’s voting ratio, but before you share your opinion, please peruse our final contender.

The spammer
Sian: Her name is Trudi. She’s also 31, also from the Isle of Wight, and for the past six years she has sent out internet spam for a living.

The audience boos and jeers as a caged Trudi is wheeled out into their glare.

Sian: So Trudi, most people will have worked out that you and Judi are twins.

Trudi: That’s right Sian. Ironic that Judi doesn’t like copying, when she’s actually a copy of me!

Judi: Don’t listen to her; I was born first!

Sian: [smirking] And I gather that the pair of you are very competitive, which is the reason you’re here on this show?

Trudi: That’s right. Judi clearly has the more obnoxious profession of the two of us, but she seems to think that I do. A friend suggested we go on Comeuppance to settle the argument once and for all, so I said bring it on!

Judi: Only after I said bring it on.

Trudi: [raising voice] I definitely said it first!

Sian: [Standing between cages with hands outstretched] Alright, enough bickering! Judi, you’ve had your say so let’s have you quiet now. [Goes to stand in front of Trudi] Like your sister, your crimes relate to the internet. The difference is that while Judi’s ilk only bully an unlucky few, you spammers are a daily nuisance to everyone! [Looks to audience] Ain’t I right?

There’s hearty agreement and plenty of booing from the audience.

Trudi: [snaps] Can you not use the s-word!? I notice you used Judi’s proper job title rather than calling her a “copyright troll”.

Sian: But you are a spammer, aren’t you?

Trudi: No, I’m a mailshot coordinator! “Spamming” is illegal, whereas what I do is perfectly legit. You won’t get emails about Nigerian princes and Russian “bedroom performance” pills from me – just carefully-selected, solicited marketing communications.

Sian: Ah yes – solicited! i.e. when someone forgets to untick the tiny box that says “if you don’t prefer not to be excluded from not receiving third party promotions then don’t untick the box!”

Trudi: [shrugs] That’s consent, isn’t it?

Sian: And what about when someone uploads their entire address book to “tell all their friends?” I’m fed up of getting “invitations” sent on behalf of someone I corresponded with years ago!

Trudi: Then email that person to tell them. Don’t shoot the messenger!

Sian: What about when the messenger uses their own address book?

Trudi: [fiddles with her glasses] I’m not sure what you mean.

Sian: [icily] I mean, ever since you contacted me to request appearing on the show, I’ve received emails pushing everything from dog-food to camping trips!

Trudi: Ummmm….

Judi: See, I told you she’s worse than me!

Sian: [raising a hand] I didn’t ask for your input Judi! Trudi, you may be interested to know that we have an extra-large spam folder, and it is brimming with odious offal. You could well be delving into it!

Trudi points at Judi and mouths “vote for her” as Sian turns to face the camera.

Sian: And so there you have tonight’s parade of horribles. All of them deserving of a Comeuppance, I’m sure you’ll agree, but alas our chair of chastisement seats only one. That’s where we put the matter to public vote – a kind of referendum if you will. Who’s up for a referendum?

A muted groan comes from the audience.

Sian: Oh come on, it’ll be fun! The question is simple: who shall remain clean, dry and fragrant, and who shall leave dripping with our dreggy dross? Will the numbers stack against our teaching tyrant Mrs Pascal? Or will things very get gruesome for one of our twosome – Judi the copyright cretin or Trudi the slippery spammer? The lines are open and the muck is waiting, so have your say and make them pay!

[As the scene fades out]

Trudi: Stop calling me a spammer!

Judi: Oh pipe down and accept what you are!

Trudi: Copyright troll!

Poll closes Wednesday 13^th July at 10 pm. As usual, you can vote multiple times but with a gap of least 12 hours between votes.

Already posted this to finds, but on reflection, it deserves a front page post, topping as it does so many folks’ all-time-faves lists.

I was only 8 when this aired, but the “nobody’s perfect” quip during the initial exchange of banter is just as I remembered it. I also recall a sense of intrigue at seeing young women in contention for the gunge tank instead of the bog-standard blokes. It struck me as a little improper, but also rather exciting!

18-year-old Nicola was a great sport in this. She pretty much knew off the bat she’d be getting it (as Noel said, save BT the trouble), and played up to it with great humour throughout the lead-up. That said, her anxiety looks very genuine when she is actually seated inside and the foam starts to rise!

But I’m still smarting from aftershot denial…

Sian: Welcome back to Comeuppance! I’m Sian Welby, your hostess with the mostest. We’re roughly half-way through tonight’s vote, which will see either maths teacher Mrs Pascal, anti-piracy lawyer Judi, or her spam-happy twin sister Trudi punished in the putrid pit that is our Mucky Dip!

Sian is sitting at a desk, located on the opposite side of the Mucky Dip to the cages. An older woman is also seated, smartly dressed and rather prim.

Sian: And it’s my pleasure to be with Professor Penelope Thimbleswick-Watson. She’s a senior fellow at the Winchester Academy of Macroeconomics, and a board member of the polling company OiGuv. Professor Thimbleswick-Watson, a warm welcome to you.

Thimbleswick-Watson: Good evening Sian. It’s pronounced “Thinnick”.

Sian: My apologies. Professor, you’ve carried out extensive research in the days leading up to the vote. What are your conclusions?

Thimbleswick-Watson: One thing’s for certain, Sian, we’re looking at a divided nation. [A coloured map appears on a screen behind the desk] As you can see, the copyright lawyer is enjoying – perhaps that isn’t the right word – solid backing in London, Wales and the West Country. Meanwhile, the Midlands and the North are strongly in favour – or I suppose disfavour – of the spammer.

Sian: And it looks like Scotland has decided to do its own thing as usual.

Thimbleswick-Watson: That’s right. Step north of the border and the vote for both twins evaporates. I expect every district in Scotland to vote for the teacher. And as for Northern Ireland… [sucks breath] this vote could trigger a full-blown constitutional crisis.

Sian: I don’t think they’ve got over Princess Priscilla’s comeuppance yet.

Thimbleswick-Watson: It’s also worth saying that there are anomalous pockets of voting in some of the cities. Take a look at Liverpool, for example.

The map zooms in and an overly-complicated graph pops up.

Thimbleswick-Watson: Here we have a 50-50 split between the copyright lawyer and the teacher. This might have something to do with the Sun declaring itself for the spammer.

Sian: All very interesting, but ultimately it doesn’t matter where the votes come from, but how many there are for each candidate. Professor, I’m going to ask you to give your prediction on tonight’s final positions – i.e. who will come first, second and third at the close of voting – but I don’t want you to announce your prediction, lest it should influence the public’s choice. Instead I’d like you to write it down on the sheet of paper provided in front of you. You’ll understand why in a minute.

Thimbleswick-Watson: [cagily] I’m not sure it’s possible to give a firm conclusion. The margin of error is quite large based on the sparse data at hand.

Sian: Come on Professor, what do we pay you for? I’m not asking for percentages, just the order in which the contestants finish. So if you would kindly write down your prediction, then fold up the paper and hand it to me…

The piece of paper is shown pixelated as Thimbleswick-Watson deliberates over her decision. Looking uncomfortable, she folds it twice and hands it to Sian, who tucks it down the front her dress.

Sian: Ta very much. Now let me ask you, do you know what a “Thank You Desk” is?

Thimbleswick-Watson: No.

Sian: Maybe by the end of the show you will. You see Professor, when the polls close and the final result is revealed, I’m going to open up your prediction to see if you got it right. If you did, then great – another success for the CV. But if your prediction turns out to be wrong, then you’ll have more than egg on your face!

Thimbleswick-Watson: [rattled] W-what do you mean?

Sian: Let’s just say there’ll be a forfeit, and I think you can guess its nature.

Thimbleswick-Watson: You can’t be serious!

Sian: If you’ve ever watched this show, you’ll know that we’re very serious when it comes to mess.

Thimbleswick-Watson: Sorry, but I didn’t come here to play infantile games!

T-W makes to stand up, but the guards block off each end of the desk. Realising there is no way out, the Professor sheepishly lowers herself back into her chair.

Sian: Did you bring a change of clothes with you?

Thimbleswick-Watson: Of course I didn’t!

Sian: Oh dear! Everything crossed that you get it right!

T-W bleats as Sian gets up and crosses the stage to where the cages are stationed. Mrs Pascal’s cage now occupies the central position, having been switched with Judi’s.

Sian: As you can see we had to make some rearrangements. The twins wouldn’t stop bickering, so the best thing for it was to put a teacher in between them.

Mrs Pascal: They soon simmered down after I threatened them with fifty sets of simultaneous equations!

Sian: Well I have some figures here that we will interest all three of you – the midway voting scores. But first it’s time to unveil the full horror of the muck that awaits one of you. Last week while we were in Cumbria, Sasha our muckologist-in-chief spent her time dredging the beaches of Sellafield, and she’s concocted something rather special. Can we dim the lights please?

The crew oblige. A ghostly green glow is apparent around the rim of the Mucky Dip.

Sian: And without further ado…

Audience: LET’S PREVIEW THE GOO!!

Like the core of a mad scientist’s reactor, a resplendent lime-green radiance greets the overhead camera, punctuated by small, equally luminous blotches of pink and yellow. The gunge is much more translucent than usual, adding a striking sense of depth, but the roughness of the surface, akin to textured glass on a bathroom window, indicates it is as thick as ever. The scene shifts to the Dip-side camera, to reveal the yellow and pink blobs elevated like islands in the vivid verdant sea. Throughout this spectacle, the inset corner box displays the faces of the contestants – none are exactly chuffed by the revelation.

The lights go up.

Sian: [rubbing hands togethers] Ooo yes, our special glow-in-the-dark goo! Ladies, whoever of you goes in will be visible from a mile off, and smellable from an even greater distance! Now, let’s see those midway scores!

Sian: Ooo, nice round figures!

Trudi: [blinking through her glasses at the screen] Damn!

Judi: [dancing in her cage] Oh yes! Oh yes! Eat that muck, Trude! Eat! That! Muck!

Judi turns 90 degrees, sticks out her rear and flaps her hands away from it, as if directing flatulence towards her sister.

Mrs Pascal: [rolling eyes] Judi, if you find that gesture so amusing, you can do it in the corridor for an hour!

Sian: Thanks Mrs P, but I can take charge of this. Judi, let me remind you we’re only halfway through. There’s still plenty of time for the scores to change, so your celebrations might be premature!

Trudi: Yeah Jude, keep sticking that ass out, cos I’m gonna come back and whip—

Sian: [stamping authority] But needless to say Trudi, you have a significant lead that’ll take some overturning. Mrs Pascal, the arithmetic looks promising for you. [Calls over to the desk] What do you make of it, Professor Thimbleswick-Watson?

Thimbleswick-Watson: [sharply] Thinnick-Watson!

Sian: You know folks, I reckon she’s not too happy with the way the scores are panning out [winks]… or maybe she just wants you to think that. [Turns back to cages] In any case ladies, whether the outcome stays like this or changes could well depend on the personal appeals you’re about to deliver. You know the score – 15 seconds for each of you – Mrs Pascal, go!

Instead of facing the camera, the teacher fixes Sian with another steely glare.

Mrs Pascal: You’re still chewing, aren’t you? Bin! Now! And 100 lines: “I will not chew gum in class.” And that dress is far too short for the classroom. Something funny, Sian? Maybe you’d like to explain yourself to the head—

The klaxon blares, followed by a low level of booing.

Sian: I’m the head around here. [Blows another bubble] Right Trudi, it’s your turn, and let’s have something a bit more cordial than your copyright letters.

Judi clasps her hands together and grins with glee.

Judi: Delighted at how you’re voting. And you’ve not even heard about Trudi’s bad habits yet. She picks her nose and she eats with her mouth open!

Trudi: I do not!

Judi: And sometimes she combines the two pastimes!

Trudi: Liar!!

The klaxon blares, but Trudi is no mood to let these allegations pass.

Trudi: Do you wanna know what her bad habits are?!

Sian: Not now.

Trudi: She sits down watching the telly, takes off her socks and stuffs them down the back of the sofa! There’s a pile of ’em down there!

Sian: Trudi, this is not the time…

Trudi: And boy do her feet stink! She’ll be well at home in the Mucky Dip!

Judi: [louder] Utter lies! I’ll tell you what stinks: her room after a curry!

Sian: Girls, please!

Trudi: [even louder] Nonsense! You’re the biggest farter in the family!

Judi: AM NOT!

Trudi: ARE TOO!

Sian: Can you debate this some other time?

Judi: AM NOT!

Trudi: ARE T—

Mrs Pascal: SILENCE!!!

Mrs Pascal’s razor-edged tone echoes around the studio as silence duly and rapidly falls. Judi and Trudi stand sheepish, and even Sian is chastened enough to remove the gum from her mouth.

Sian: Uh, thanks Mrs Pascal. Trudi, you spent at least 15 seconds slagging off your sister, so that can count as your personal appeal.

Trudi: What!? That’s completely unfair!

Judi: Ha ha, you are such a loser!

Mrs Pascal: [menacingly] Don’t let me tell you again, you two!

The twins fall quiet as Sian turns to the camera.

Sian: Well folks, we haven’t had an appeals segment like that before! You might be forgiven for forgetting that this is a programme about professions, not family feuds. And it’s hard to believe that this pair are 31-year-old IT experts. But hey, if their squabbling influences your vote, so be it! Our lines remain open for your calls, so make your opinion counts. Will Trudi get filtered into our spam folder of shame, as the scores suggest? Or will a swing see Judi downloaded into the Dip? Or will an electoral upset send the disciplinarian Mrs Pascal into the slop? And will there be a Thank You Desk for Thimble-Woman? Join us at 10:30 to find out!

The segment opens with a downward shot into the Mucky Dip, the greenish glow discernible even under the bright studio lights. The scene then cuts to Sian, stood in front of the vat.

Sian: Welcome to the concluding part of this week’s Comeuppance, with me, Sian Welby! Thank you to everyone who cast their vote on this important matter. The polls are of this moment closed, so please do not call; it won’t count and you may still be charged.

Sian wanders over to the desk where Professor Thimbleswick-Watson is sitting.

Sian: We’re pleased to be joined by polling expert Professor Penelope uh… Thingy-Watson, who is staking her reputation – not to mention her cleanliness – on the outcome of tonight’s vote. Professor, what reaction has there been to the midway scores?

Thimbleswick-Watson: Not a good one in the financial markets – shares in spam companies getting absolutely hammered. However the National Union of Teachers has just issued a statement welcoming Mrs Pascal’s trailing position.

Sian: We’re still verifying the final result, but I’m hearing in my ear that turnout is towards the low end of the range we’ve experienced on Comeuppance. What effect could that have?

Thimbleswick-Watson: It means there’s more scope for fluctuations. Or to put it another way, the scores might have changed significantly since half-time.

Sian: Mmmm, let’s hope it doesn’t upset your predictions [taps the front of her dress], else it could be Thank You Desk time very shortly!

T-W gulps. Sian crosses the stage to the cage area.

Sian: Hear that, ladies? Thimblethingy says there could be a big change in the scores!

Trudi: It’s going to be Judi. That’ll wipe the smile off her face!

Judi: You’ll be eating your words, sis, and a lot more besides!

Mrs Pascal: Quiet you two!

Sian: Well it’s time to find out; the final verification is complete!

The lights fade, leaving only the glowing muck and three isolated spotlights on the nerve-wracked contestants.

Sian: The people have voted, and this is their verdict:

Mrs Pascal sighs with relief. The faces of the identical twins diverge in expression.

Judi: Yes!! [clenches fists with delight] Ha ha, yes!

Trudi: I don’t agree with this result! I demand a second vote!

Sian: Second vote?! The people have already spoken – loud and clear. Take her away!

The guards yank open the cage door and haul Trudi over to the waiting chair.

Sian: You might want to take your specs off, Trudi… ok, you’re keeping them on. Good luck with that.

While Judi does a celebratory dance in her cage, Sian unlocks the door to Mrs Pascal’s.

Sian: Mrs P, you’ve had quite an adventure – last week up at your school, this week here in the Comeuppance studio. Have you enjoyed your time with us?

Mrs Pascal: I’ve had a fantastic time thanks.

Sian: Thank you for taking part. I trust it’s all the more fantastic that you’re not going anywhere near the Mucky Dip.

Mrs Pascal: [grinning] Sian, I haven’t been this satisfied since Andrew Wiles proved Fermat’s Last Theorem in 1994!

Sian: You need to get out more. Anyway, you get a Jammy Dodger trophy to keep on your desk and let the kids know who’s boss. Though having seen you in action tonight, I’m sure they already know. Ladies and gents, a calculated round of app—

Mrs Pascal: You’re chewing again, aren’t you?

Sian: If you would kindly walk—

Mrs Pascal: [hands on hips with an unamused expression] I’m not moving until that gum is out of your mouth. We can stand here all night if you wish.

Scowling, Sian removes the gum.

Sian: Ladies and gents, a calculated round of applause for Mrs Pascal.

The audience delivers a slow handclap to Mrs Pascal as she strides off-stage. Sian goes over to a still dancing Judi.

Sian: No such pardon for you, Judi, but the longstanding argument between you and your twin sis is finally settled: spammers are officially more hated than copyright trolls, and she’s about to get very mucky as a consequence!

Judi: I’ve waited for this moment a long time, Sian. [Looks up] Woop, up she goes! How’s the view, Trude?

Purcell’s plaint of portent plays and the scene switches to the rim-side view. The vivid and viscid green gunk, replete with yellow and pink blobs, fills the screen. The camera makes its ascent, meeting Trudi’s shapely bare feet a yard above the slop, and continuing up her shins. Trudi’s pinstripe dress comes just short of her knees. She places a hand insolently on her hip. Her face, when it comes in to view, further illustrates her irritation at the turn of events.

Sian: Oooh, she does not look amused, does she? This woman and her ilk have misdirected millions of mouse-clicks, squandered squigabytes of storage; now it’s time to click the trash button and send her into the junk directory! Can we dim the lights please?

The crew duly bring down the lighting level. The green goo shines eerily upwards, illuminating Trudi’s legs. Sian hands a remote control through the bars of the cage.

Sian: Judi, I’m going to let you do the honours – not because I want to reward you, but because I know it will humiliate your sister all the more! Trudi, on behalf of pretty much everyone who uses the internet…

Sian, Judi and audience: HERE IS YOUR COMEUPPANCE!!!

A beatified expression on her face, Trudi extends her arm and with theatrical elaboration, presses the button. The fizz and whizz of sparks ensue, dazzling through the darkness. A second later the shadowy, underlit figure drops. A luminescent corona leaps up around Trudi as she lands, and a glowing wave sluices over the side as she submerges. A robotic voice intones “Warning! Radioactive contamination!” while the gunge thrashes and churns, sending secondary waves over the rim. Then the cables, unseen in the gloom, pull taut to salvage the comeuppancee.

The fanfare of shame and a great cheer from the audience accompany the emergence of a luridly luminous blob – a mishapen and bloated humanoid figure shining like a beacon across the studio – mostly green, but splotched with the other hues, including two pink circles for boobs and a comical dome of yellow crowning the top of her head.

While Judi’s maniacal laughter echoes from below, the glowing figure flails ungracefully. Eventually one of the hands finds the face and pulls away her glasses, which have miraculously stayed with her during her dip.

Trudi: Bletttch!

As Trudi wipes her face, a rainbow fountain of luminous jetlets (at least two dozen) erupts from the rim of the Mucky Dip, all aimed inward. Trudi is engulfed in a spectacular display of light and colour.

Sian: Ohh wow!! How amazing is that!?

Eventually the fountain abates, leaving Trudi a multicoloured mess.

Sian: Absolutely sensational! Maybe we should have the lights up now.

The lighting returns, causing fresh fits from Judi at the sight of her sister in all her gunged glory. Trudi’s head-to-toe covering is a good inch thick, but its translucence allows her to be seen underneath it. Her hair hangs bedraggled and wrecked, and the muck has evidently filled the inside of her dress as thoroughly as it has coated the outside.

Judi continues to cry with laughter. A glob of goo, slung by Trudi, splatters against the bars of the cage.

Sian: OI!! That could’ve hit me! You can have another shower for that.

The multicoloured fountain resumes, causing Trudi to cower and squeal.

Sian: Another comeuppance served, richly deserved as always. And for those who wanted a clearer view as she went in, here’s an enhanced video in super slow-mo.

The replay shows Trudi’s descent into the dunk tank, with the video enhanced so that her features can be seen in the darkness. Her hand remains planted on her pelvis as she plunges, her mouth is puckered in a pout, and her eyes fix her jubilant sister with resentment.

Sian: And from above!

Even with the picture enhancement, the bird’s-eye camera shows Trudi as little more than a shadow against the glowing gunk, getting smaller as she hurtles towards it. The luminous goo convulses as she splashes down, globs flying up and away. And then the shadow is gone.

Back in the present, a technicolour Trudi has wiped her glasses as best she can and replaced them on her face. She has slicked the excess muck from her hair, which hangs like a sodden rope over one shoulder. She now has both hands on hips and continues to pout.

Sian: Look at that – well and truly spammed! Now she knows what it’s like to be deluged with junk, ha ha! Judi, did you travel here together?

Judi: Yes, in my car. But with a smell like that, I think I’ll make her take the train back!

Sian: Wise indeed. [Looks up] Trudi, is this going to change relations with your sister?

Trudi: I’m never speaking to her again!

Judi: This just gets better and better!

Sian: Awwww! In fairness Trudi you’ve been a very good sport; I hope this doesn’t take too many years to live down in your family. Judi, you may laugh now, but you could be laughing on the other side of your face next week. As runner-up you have to return, and you may get your comeuppance yet!

Sian walks away.

Sian: And by the way folks, next week’s episode is going to be the last in the series, so be sure not to miss it. But as for this episode, we have some unfinished business. [Stands in front of the desk] Don’t we, Professor?

Thimbleswick-Watson sits looking much more relaxed than five minutes ago, a serene smile on her face.

Sian: Hmmm, she looks rather pleased with herself. I think we could be disappointed here. But let’s see.

Sian untucks and unfolds the piece of paper and presents it to the camera.

Trudi
Judi
Mrs Pascal

The audience groans.

Thimbleswick-Watson: [raising fists] Hurrah!

Sian: [frowning] But this is just a list of names! You haven’t indicated the position each contestant will finish in.

Thimbleswick-Watson: [snorts] Yes I have. It’s written in order from first to last. Pretty obvious.

Sian: No, it’s not obvious at all. It could just as easily be ordered from last to first. I’m afraid I can’t accept this. Lads, bring on the supplies!

The guards approach from either side, each wheeling a trolley laden with buckets. The audience cheers with gusto.

Thimbleswick-Watson: [gawping] Whaaat!?!

Sian: Ok, at the count of three. One!

Sian and audience: TWO!!

Thimbleswick-Watson: This is completely unfair!

Sian and audience: THREE!!

A guard slings a bucket of green slime, topped with a little foam. It lands short of T-W’s head but slaps against her suit and blouse, causing her to spasm and shriek. The professor looks down in horror, but soon has bigger problems to contend with as the second guard aims higher with a bucketload red gunge (not ITV gunge but proper thick gunge). She screams catches the side of her head, ruining her neatly cropped hair-do. In a quick succession yellow gunge assails her other side, and then a batch of blue sploshes straight in her face. The gunge keeps coming, and before long T-W’s hair and suit are blanketed. The prim and proper professor’s composure crumples and she begins to laugh – albeit a squealing, squeamish laugh.

Sian steps in front of the desk. Behind her, the guards have switched from buckets to foams guns, turning the disheveled academic from multicoloured to white.

Sian: She’ll be more careful to be precise in future! That’s all we have time for in this episode. Thanks for watching and join us for the series finale next week; you’d be mad to miss it! Good night!

The outro music starts up. Sian turns and grabs a bucket from a trolley, joining in the offensive against T-W. Over in the cage, Judi continues to celebrate the win over her twin, but her triumph is tempered by growing concern of what she might face next week. Up in the chair, Trudi tries to wipe off the excess muck, but Sian and the guards have other ideas. They switch targets, leaving a bedraggled T-W to slump in relief over the desk, and fire their foam guns up at Trudi, giving her a fresh top-coat of white. The parting scene is of a dazzling Trudi being hauled from the Mucky Dip.