The Sunday Sport Letters
Back in around 1995, a group of regulars at The Bear pub in Bedford started writing letters to Page Three legend Vida Garman’s problem page in The Sunday Sport, putting a Pound into a kitty for each entry, the intention being that the first person to get a letter published would take the money. After a very long time, The Sunday Sport dedicated an entire page to The Bear’s customers and their problems, so there was never an outright winner. And what happened to the prize fund remains a mystery to this day! Anyway, for the first time ever, here are the letters that somehow ended up in my possession in their entirety; the one that got published is the last one. Enjoy!
Until recently, everything in my life was akin to watching a dog licking its balls – my wife left me, a teenage lovechild turned up seeking her roots, and I got caught nicking a Picnic bar from the youth club I used to run. I was a broken man, but I still had the single comfort that I found in the Church – a thirteen-year-old potential nymphomaniac who used to sing in the choir!
We went out a few times and fell completely in love, but when I tried to give it to her after morning worship last Sunday, she turned me down, claiming she wasn’t ready to receive my four-inch girth. I was gutted, but she said she’d do anything else to prove her love for me, so I asked her to crap in my mouth.
She jumped at the chance, so we sneaked off to a nearby Portaloo. It was so romantic – laid face-up, resting my head on the rim, whilst she straddled the karsey, giving me an uncensored butchers at what my tong was missing out on. Then it came! Tons of the stuff – it was like she’d had it corked-up for weeks, but I wasn’t complaining! I scooped every last winnet into my cavernous go
It was only when she was wiping her arse on my hair that I noticed she’d got threadworms. Now I’m no doctor, but I’m worried that I might have the little buggers now! What should I do?
My wife recently went on safari in Kenya with a few male friends. And I’ll tell you what, the prospect of my bird with a bunch of teenage musclemen in the jungle left a greasy slob like me feeling less than potent, so as well as the usual precautionary injections she needed for the trip, I thought I’d better give her one of my own!
The night before she left, I ordered her to lay facedown and naked on the marital waterbed, then I secured her with rope and masking tape. By now she was gagging for it – I’ll never forget the ravenous look of expectation on her mooey that night as I pulled it out! I minced towards her, and balanced the onion precariously on her generously dilated arsehole. Then I stood erect above her, and with the panache of a world-class footballer, I booted the vegetable deep into her penalty area. It’s true what they say about onions, you know – this one certainly brought tears to the wife’s eyes! I bent down to examine my triumph, plunging my hand into the lucky dip that was her secondary crevice, and pulling out what was left of the onion and her anal wall. I sniffed my prize – her shitter may have smelt like a Frenchman, but judging by her groans of satisfaction, there was no way she’d be after a good rogering until she got back home!
So it all worked out well, you’ll be thinking. And you’d be right – too bloody well! She’s been back for three months now, and she still doesn’t want it. I know I gave her a good seeing-to, but surely her feelings of ecstasy should have subsided by now. What can I do?
After being abandoned at birth by my out-for-a-good-time parents, I was taken in by an ageing paraplegic auntie. And I’ll tell you what, I certainly fell on my feet when she found me under a bush – she was a randy bitch! Five shags a night every night from the age of four! Now, it might sound like heaven, but try explaining that one away when you fall asleep during a remedial spelling test!
Well, she died fifteen years ago, but so as not to feel lonely, I chose not to inform the relevant authorities of her demise, and her wheelchair-bound corpse has resided next to the kitchen table ever since.
I don’t have any complaints about her company – quiet, unobtrusive, and for the first couple of years at least, she was always good for a grope. But of course, all good things come to an end, and like the coming of autumn, bits of rotten flesh and muscle began to drop off, and eventually I had to resort to my childhood memories to get my kicks.
Sadly, my immense sexual appetite soon required more than erotic images from the past, and for a time I found relief in hardcore pornography and my love for cats. This kept me more than content, that is, until last week.
On coming home from a night-out getting pissed outside the local swimming pool, I stumbled into the kitchen to prepare a fried supper, and in my drunken stupor, fell down on top of my horny auntie. Alright, she was no more than a dusty skeleton, but I didn’t give a toss – she had to satisfy me once more!
I tore off my trousers and manoeuvred myself onto her, straddling her motionless legs. I crapped on her lap – she might have been dead, but she still knew how to turn a man on! I rubbed the moist heap along her thighs and around the smooth pelvic shape, stopping occasionally to have a tempting sniff of my fingers. It didn’t take me long to cum – well, can you blame me? Feeling satisfied, I returned to my fry-up, and as I waited for the lard to melt, I turned to glance at my resting lover.
To my terror, I’m sure I saw her skeleton move – a sort of sensuous quiver that made my blood run cold! I ran from the house and haven’t been back since. The thing is, I’ve never believed in ghosts or anything like that – could I have imagined it? And if so, does it mean I’m going mental?
I am a 43-year old tosser whose only sexperience was seeing my pissed-up mum having a dump on the kitchen floor when I was twelve. For a few years afterwards, ‘milking the cow’ took no time at all with that little episode still fresh in my mind, but eventually it just didn’t turn me on anymore, and all I got out of my love-antics was a sore dong.
My sex-life needed a new twist, and after a few minutes of thought, I discovered the missing ingredient. First, I painted the walls of my bedroom white, and then I hunted down my dad’s best suit and some of my mum’s sexy underwear. Finally, I sorted out half a potato, poster paint and some sensuous music. Now I was ready!
I felt like Don Juan dressed in dashing jacket and tie with matching stocking, suspenders and towelling panties. This would be great! On went the music – “Wild Thing” by The Troggs, and I began to dance around my romantic shrine pressing the paint-smeared potato against the virgin walls. I tore off my knickers as I felt the climax building up inside my aching balls, singing at the top of my voice, “Wild Thing, you make my knob swing,” as my love-hammer pounded mercilessly against my stomach and thighs.
Then my mum walked in with a cup of tea. Now she wants me to move out. What can I do?
Being an avid fan of kung-fu movies, I often find myself demonstrating my own martial arts skills to a group of young children in my local park. And because my authentic oriental fighting garb does not call for any footwear, I am more aware than most of the hazards of dog foul.
Up until recently, I had no more than a healthy interest in dog shit. I mean, who isn’t fascinated by the prospect of a meaty turd, or hasn’t bent down to have a sniff of a fresh, steaming heap? And I’m sure I’m not the only Sunday Sport reader who has imagined dipping a grapefruit spoon into a juicy stool and sampling its delights! All perfectly natural, I’m sure you’ll agree!
My problems started last week. After giving an exhilarating display of my Samurai prowess, I was relaxing in the nude with my young associates on a secluded patch of grass. I happened to turn over, and on doing so, was confronted by a huge, wet shit. My god, it stank! I couldn’t take my eyes off it! I smelt its length like it was a fine Cuban cigar, and then began to lick its profile, taking the occasional nibble at its appetising shapeliness.
When I was full, I looked up, and to my surprise, all my young friends were staring at me, gob smacked! I wondered what was the cause of their shock, but then, looking between my legs, noticed my masculinity standing bolt upright, all two inches of it! I hadn’t realised how aroused I was, but once I did, I had to relieve myself! Positioning myself over the object of my desire, I plunged my knob deep into its moistness. It only took a couple of jabs for me to shoot. Then, exhausted but satisfied, I kissed the shit and went home.
By now, you’ll have realised I have a problem – I can’t go around doing this in public, so I was wondering, if I start eating dog food, will my own shit look, smell and taste as good a dog’s, so I can get my kicks in the privacy of my own home?
Although I suffered a crippling injury as an infant that left me wheelchair-bound, I like to think I live a fairly normal life, and that’s the impression I like to give everyone around me.
However, there are some things I just can’t do on my own – taking a bath, for example. So whenever I fancy taking a long soak, my ageing mum has to give me a hand in and out of the tub. Of course, this means she gets a regular inspection of my knob. Now, I know I’m never likely to win the 100-metre dash, but give me a copy of The Sunday Sport and my couple of inches can reach the finish line as quick as anyone’s! And you’d be surprised how many birds get turned on by the sexual challenges a wheelchair presents. It’s just a shame that my prune-like face sends them running every time, or I’d be sorted!
But as I said before, I like to give the impression of normality, so I often regale my mum with tales of her disabled son’s sexual prowess, especially when I’m in the bath – being wet and naked in a room with a mature lady seems to stimulate my imagination! And you know what? She believes every word of it! Okay, it might be wrong to lie to her, but my guilt feels so worthwhile when I catch her proudly surveying my physical delight, appreciating at the same time its superb hygienic condition given its crazy schedule!
But this aspect of her pride got me thinking, and I decided that my length appeared a bit too well conditioned, considering the amount of abuse I claimed it got! So I rolled off to my local supermarket, and bought a tin of sardines. Then, right before my next bath was due, I emptied the contents into a blender, switched it on and let it do the business. I smeared the result all over my eager love-beast, working the putrid lather up from the base, around my helmet, under the foreskin and right into my japs-eye, or perhaps, due to a bizarre twist of fate, my fish-eye! My cock now stank, and it didn’t look too healthy either – mum was going to be well impressed when she peeled off my jock strap at bath-time!
And bloody hell, she was! She nearly fainted when she got down to eye-level with that serpent! So now my anecdotes have complete credibility, and fill my mum with even more pride, but since I’ve introduced this sensory aid to my storytelling, I’ve become a prisoner in my own home. Every time I set wheel outside the house, I get pounced on by a dozen frenzied moggies! I know I wanted some real pussy in my life, but this is taking things too far! What should I do?
I’m a fat old wanker whose knob hasn’t even seen daylight for ten years, let alone forced entry into some raw minge. Then a couple of days ago, whilst frying-up some black pudding, I decided to do something about it! I set my sights on the first dirty slapper that came along, and I didn’t give a toss what it looked like. So off I stalked to the bathroom, where I got myself tooled-up for sharking.
I was nervous at first – being a bloated slob, I’ve never even bothered trying it on with birds before, but I’ll tell you what, I couldn’t believe how easy it was! Alright, I suppose I was looking pretty dandy, but still, I never even imagined I’d get a result within five minutes! Alright, I’ve seen better-looking turds down my bog after a curry on Saturday night, but who cares? It was a potential hole to a desperado like me all the same!
Being a romantic sort of bloke, I offered to buy my new bird dinner – I told her to tart herself up in something sexy, and I’d come ‘round at eight with fish and chips and a couple of cans of stout.
It all went like an Amazonian tribe-woman – I could tell she loved me, and like I said before, I wasn’t going to say no to a whiff of her snatch! Yes, even this gourmet dish didn’t distract a non-stop horn all evening – I’ve never seen anyone smoke a gasper so elegantly!
After twenty minutes of wining and dining, she said she needed a crap, but when she came back completely starkers, I realised it had just been a ruse to get at my desirable physique! This was the moment I’d been waiting for, so as soon as I’d finished my halibut supper, we headed upstairs. I was so desperate for it, I even saved my picked-egg for breakfast!
You can guess what went on for the next couple of minutes – even though my mammoth three-inch helping of Fray Bentos went off in my Y-fronts, after waving it about in her face for a bit, we were both left feeling less than randy any more! You could have cut the romantic atmosphere with a knife!
So, what’s my problem? Well, I want to persuade the scuzzer to let my mates in on the loving as well. Any advice?