Gunge Grand Prix: Groups 33-48 Results

Good evening,

Please find below the results from Groups 33-48 of the opening round of the 2017 Gunge Grand Prix, bar that of Group 41, which is open to vote in for a further 24 hours due to a tie.

Groups 49-64 are now live until next Wednesday, so please get voting!

No Group 33 %
359 Liz Hurley 9
480 Hannah Tointon 35
128 Kelly Brook 27
477 Gabby Logan 29
No Group 34 %
255 Katrina Bowden 40
364 Cate Blanchett 13
153 Ellie Taylor 21
202 Shakira 26
No Group 35 %
178 Saira Khan 8
129 Ronda Rousey 32
25 Natalie Pinkham 25
77 Danielle Panabaker 34
No Group 36 %
509 Lindsey Vonn 31
496 Vanessa Marano 38
132 Alexa Grasso 9
285 Amy Lee 22
No Group 37 %
189 Sarah George 5
50 Chloe Bennet 59
367 Kate Winslet 23
503 Nastia Liukin 14
No Group 38 %
371 Annabel Scholey 9
297 Alexandra Dowling 12
115 Victoria Pendleton 31
145 Vicky Pattison 49
No Group 39 %
366 Bridget Reagan 4
205 Emma Stone 64
436 Kristen Schaal 26
226 Kristen Stewart 6
No Group 40 %
156 Veda Scott 24
484 Nicola Peltz 62
384 Roxy D’Lite 7
274 Saiki Atsumi 7
No Group 42 %
109 Bella Thorne 53
60 Katie Cassidy 18
125 Troian Bellisario 7
336 Claudia O’Doherty 23
No Group 43 %
306 Shannon Flynn 27
183 Cheryl Cole 52
249 Grace Chatto 16
378 Gen ‘Lufisto’ Goulet 5
No Group 44 %
487 Anna Popplewell 21
82 Melissa Benoist 38
287 Elizabeth Olson 33
269 Jessica Brown Findlay 8
No Group 45 %
344 Jennifer Anniston 39
10 Hayley McQueen 23
236 Isabel Hodgins 23
413 Lucy Verasamy 16
No Group 46 %
57 Tomi Lahren 22
333 Amy Childs 27
396 Cara Delevingne 46
270 Ginger Gonzaga 5
No Group 47 %
16 Kirsty Gallacher 40
193 Claudia Fragapane 28
277 Jenna McDougall 17
235 Charley Webb 15
No Group 48 %
440 Alex Morgan 39
162 Christina Hendricks 45
62 Maddy O’Reilly 11
370 Olivia Williams 5
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Dog ate my homework episodes 10 and 11

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Gunge Grand Prix 2017 – Groups 17-32 Results

Evening All,

Please find below the results from Groups 18-32 of the Gunge Grand Prix. Please note that due to a tie, Group 17’s vote is now open for a further 24 hours, so feel free to vote on that if you haven’t already done so. Voting for Groups 33-48 is now live, so head to the relevant page on the Gunge Grand Prix to vote NOW!

No Group 18 %
298 Emma Hamilton 8
338 Kendall Jenner 43
319 Katy B 23
473 Kaitlyn Dever 26
No Group 19 %
451 Sophie Rundle 15
200 Keira Knightley 43
474 Anne Hathaway 24
160 Sofia Vergara 19
No Group 20 %
495 Alexandra Daddario 19
398 Olympia Vallance 20
327 Emily Kinney 8
101 Hayden Panettiere 53
No Group 21 %
489 Christa Theret 2
35 Sierra McCormick 48
262 Kaitlin Olson 21
185 Sacha Parkinson 29
No Group 22 %
321 Jess Glynne 10
283 Karen Gillan 39
490 Emily Scarratt 3
74 Sophie Turner 48
No Group 23 %
252 Briga Heelan 8
310 Anna Williamson 35
304 Jayma Mays 8
257 Isla Fisher 48
No Group 24 %
271 Charlotte Wessels 11
300 Nozomi Sasaki 40
361 Victoria Smurfit 15
247 Sarah Jane Mee 34
No Group 25 %
392 Yvonne Strahovski 21
92 Charlotte Flair 13
76 Emily Blunt 39
397 Candice Brown 27
No Group 26 %
468 Rachel Bloom 8
326 Kristen Bell 32
386 Sarah Hyland 39
113 Sara Pascoe 21
No Group 27 %
291 Carly Chaikin 29
302 Milynn Sarley 15
196 Katerina Johnson-Thompson 31
214 Ellie Kemper 25
No Group 28 %
106 Rita Ora 41
415 Andrea McLean 18
223 Rashida Jones 23
165 Sheridan Smith 18
No Group 29 %
169 Nicole Kidman 21
427 Halsey 10
454 Shailene Woodley 42
179 Rochelle Humes 27
No Group 30 %
379 Jessica ‘ODB’ Kresa 2
499 Nicola Roberts 47
29 Annette Edmondson 30
494 Chloe Hewitt 21
No Group 31 %
75 Victoria Justice 48
177 Lucy Fallon 15
444 Ella Wahlestedt 15
315 Claudia Winkleman 22
No Group 32 %
457 Paige (WWE) 32
393 Aimee Garcia 8
33 Ryan Newman 26
414 Christine Bleakley 34
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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 everyone, it’s good to be back writing!

It’s been a while now since I put up this post about all the famous – or should I say, infamous? – GYOB Gunk Dunk disappointments. Basic overview: I’m going to rewrite a couple of the Gunk Dunks, send some females into the goo that escaped without one bit of muck.

I don’t know for definite, but I think I will do three of these Redux stories; there were three main Gunk Dunk era’s suggested with the names that people commented to me with. I may do more, but I want to get back to writing the full episode NGYOB’s – this was only a mini-series if you like, so I thought splitting it up like that was a good idea.

I’ve chosen based off clips/photo evidence, and also which ones I know I’ll enjoy to write. Oh, and if you keep reading, there is one or two little treats in this story which I hope will be appreciated!

So without further ado, and without saying who it is straight away, enjoy the first GYOB Redux…


The famous few notes of the Get Your Own Back theme played out, and the camera hung low pointing right down to the famous gunge that had terrorised many adults for quite some time. It took it in for a moment and then very slowly at an angle, turned upward. A pair of bare feet which were peeking over the side of the footrest, rhythmically flexing outward and then in, nails painted maroon. As it continued up and slowly zooming out now too, it captured a a pair of toned looking legs, obviously belonging to someone who was used to keeping fit and doing plenty of walking. As the audience continued to cheer, the camera now hastened and zoomed fully out, framing perfectly the Gunk Dunk and it’s hapless victim just inches above it, wearing a yellow GYOB top and a pair of shorts.

Those watching at home were now of course treated to the full view of the Gunk Dunk, a small almost circular pool, an orange wall keeping in containment a sickly looking slurry inside. Behind the unlucky woman was a small ramp, on each side flanked by a pair of stairs, and a diamond shaped neon sign up above representing the GYOB logo. it all looked bright and cheerful, and even more so than usual due to the added tinsel on the outside of the Gunk Dunk, and wrapped festively around the railings on the stairs. In fact the whole studio today was festive and bright; the only thing not so much, was the ominous broth inside the tank. It was a vile, dense morass of greeny yellow, with faint swirls of pink blotched around it. And sloppily written in it was a festive message reading out ‘Merry Christmas!’, which promised the person above it far from a merry time indeed. Spotlights shone down onto it with one or two filters, causing the goo to come alive with slow moving patterns projected onto it. At the very edges of the tank was a black tarp, and some of the slime had crusted and splashed a bit up against it. This gave an indication toward the texture bubbling away; thick, slimey and sticky. And with only one ramp and one chair, there was only one person who would shortly be sent into it, live in front of the studio audience, and her adoring fans across the United Kingdom, having lost embarrassingly to a bloke in a pink, yellow spotted suit by the name of ‘Mr Blobby’.

On her seat of shame, Michaela Strachan was shaking her head, her eyebrows raised and hands tentatively placed on her knees, watching the audience cheer madly at her current position. Throughout the games, Michaela had been wearing a santa suit, but that had now been traded in for a classic GYOB outfit. She was now sporting a yellow top with the shows logo emblazoned upon it, and a pair of shorts which showed off her lovely legs to all of the cameras in front of the Gunk Dunk. Her blonde hair had been cleaned up a little bit since the chaos of the last game, and it now was straight and brushed, with her fringe hanging over her forehead. Michaela always did take pride in her appearance, careful to look the part for cameras, but despite this, she didn’t doll herself up with a ridiculous amount of TV makeup. This made her one of the more ‘human’ presenters of the day, and an attractive one at that; as part of the Really Wild Show, she’d visit exotic locations and often showed off her athletic and fit body, and today was no different above the Gunk Dunk. But as she feigned a fed up face to the audience, she was acutely aware that her travelling and adventurous job had landed her right at the mercy of her young audience – as well as above the embarrassing and infamous, resident CBBC gunge pool. She wasn’t the only famous face to have ended up above or in it, and the thought of her being the latest made her toes curl a little bit, but a very faint smile on her also assured her she was having a lot of fun.

“Well after a fiendishly festive Get Your Own Back today, we are here at the finale, the big one, the best Christmas gift anyone could receive – unless your name is Michaela Strachan of course – it’s the Gunk Dunk!”

Dave raised his arms, spinning around for a moment, as though modelling his stylish red blazer. Next to him was the young lad who had brought Michaela onto the show, 12 year old Gavin. He’d fought valiantly in the last couple of games, and had managed to pull ahead. Despite writing in and nominating Michaela, Gavin was a big fan. Like most kids his age, he watched the Really Wild Show and had seen Michaela on numerous shows and and guest appearances. But still, as he flicked his eyes from the pretty presenter to the lever in front of him, he couldn’t wait to be the one to send her into the mucky mire in front of her.

“Ohh yes, yes. So Michaela, you’ve been around the world, seen all sorts of sights but I bet you haven’t seen a sight like this before have you?”

The blonde looked from Dave and down at pool. Her feet on the edge of the seat looked as though they were floating on it. As she looked for that brief moment, she realised that in it’s standing state right now, it was almost rough on the surface; one or two minuscule lumps seemed to almost pulse. The colour was contrasting heavily with her skin tone, the yellow and green having slightly blended together, and although appearing thick and grim, it certainly looked sticky and to a small extent, a bit wet or cold looking. And this was only the small section that she could see and feel the chill of just past her exhausted feet; when she looked up, she saw an ocean of the bog extending in front of her, grinning faces in the seats and two or three camera’s slowly jostling along their dollies. Gavin, in this split second felt a rush of excitement, as he watched her almost stare into the gooey abyss, the smile now forming at her mouth was obviously one of growing awkwardness – different from the smiley and enthusiastic Michaela of the games, this perched presenter now realised the spotlight was fully on her, and that the gunge in front of her wasn’t just a possibility or joke, it was very real that she would be plunged into it for a full on bath. She took this in as she looked back to Dave, eyebrows raising.

“Err, not…exactly Dave…um no. A swamp in Africa comes close, but not quite.”

A couple of sniggers rose up on comparison to a swamp, and one or two very low boo’s that she suspected came from one or two of the production team, as this measured up with Dave’s next comments.

“A swamp in – oh she won’t let us forget her exotic adventures will she. What do you make of it then ma’ love, this festive slop in front of you?”

Closing her mouth for a moment, and looking down into the sludgy pit once more, she leaned over a bit, and looked it up and down, then leaned back to Dave and pulled a very faint grossed out face knowing what the audience would love to hear a renowned and experienced travelling presenter like her say.

“Well, I don’t like the look of it and I don’t like the smell of it.”

Dave cackled and one or two the audience whooped at this, as Michaela now melted her face into a repulsed expression as she shook her head and leaned it back as though trying to escape breathing it in.

“Oh you may not like that, but we all love that I think – who wants to see Michaela get absolutely smelly?”

As the audience yelled even louder, Michaela shook her head even more madly, mouthing out ‘No!’ to everyone around her, and then putting her fingers in her ears and closing her eyes tight as though to block everyone out. Dave continued to cackle and looked down now to Gavin, who was happily cheering with his peers and raising his arms as though he’d already done the deed. 

“Alright Gavin, so I want your help now. You see what you will have to do there Michaela, is answer three questions. For each one you get right, you stay just where you are on that first notch. However get a question wrong and what do we do everyone?”

Dave looked around as the audience yelled their usual response back at him, “Crank her up!” He nodded and clapped his hands together.

“Yes up and away you will go, so you’re going down Michaela – but the question is, from just how high?”

He winked at the camera as Michaela now folded her arms and slumped forwards, looking down at her feet and the mucky bog below them. Lifting her toes up from the rest a bit and curling the ones on her right foot up as she listened, her eyes focused on the goo below. She felt a slight chill on her legs and she frowned with a pouting face, at the last moment, looking up to Dave as he leaned over with Gavin, young boy reading out the first question.

“What shade of colour is Teal?”

Michaela looked around the studio for a moment and breathed in confidently, a small smile etching across her face and looking almost devious, feeling she may catch them out. 


“Close but…No! no it’s Green! What do we do?”

As soon as Dave said no, she pulled a frustrated face. The kids in the studio yelling their response. The blonde presenter looked up as the chair moved her upward, and she placed her hands on her thighs, sliding them slowly up and down. She was never good at colours and art, but she was sure of that one. Still, it was only the first question.

“Alright, first notch. Talking of green, Michaela is looking pretty green right now – and you’ll be a lot greener in a few moments if you don’t get these next ones right! HAHAHA! Alright next question Gavin…”

Gavin now read out the second question and she continued to run her hands up her thighs, thinking about what the green in tank may do to her hair. Would it stain it? Would it it make it go all clumpy or be quite soggy?

“What sound does Pingu make?”

On her seat and facing the cameras and lots of smiling faces, her mind drew a blank. She’d of course seen the show, but couldn’t fully remember the noise the penguin made. With a quiet sigh she put her hands to her soft and cleanly-that-morning-washed hair.

“Err…oh, uhm…Er…”

It wasn’t coming to her and Dave sensed it as he made her jump a little bit.

“BZZZZ! No, out of time there, cannot let you have that it was ‘noot noot’, everyone knows that! I have a feeling that’s what Michaela is now saying to herself – what do we do?”

“Noot noot yourself Dave.”

This drew a small laugh from the young audience as once more the chair motored into life, and carried her up another notch. She lowered her arms to her sides, and dug her hands into her knees as it stopped, now halfway between the bottom and the top. Before the finale had started, she’d been a bit chilly at the bottom of the ramp, but she was now wishing she was back there. The butterflies in her stomach weren’t calming her nerves. 

“Alright final question, one more Michaela and you’re coming in right from the very top there – take it away Gavin.”

“What is badgers favourite food?”

Michaela looked up to Gavin who was watching intently, and Dave who was pulling one of his many animated faces. She looked up for a moment at the spotlights of the studio and opened her mouth like a schoolchild thinking over his work, but it came to her a second later.

“Errrrr…oh, OH! I know this! Insects and bugs, and occasionally roots.”

Michaela was positively bouncing in her seat, grinning like a cheshire cat as she answered the animal related question. It wouldn’t save her from the gunge but at least she wouldn’t be going all the way up and so she may have a chance to stop herself from going fully –

“NO! That’s wrong!”

The audience burst out into fits of laughter, at the fact that a wildlife presenter got such a question wrong. She stumbled on her words for a moment as Dave took the reigns from Gavin, not allowing her to talk, but instead gawp over at them both as the kids all around happily laughed and begin clapping a little bit. 

“Oh deary me. You know for the a CBBC presenter you really should have known that, we were on about Badger of Bodger and badger fame! Porridge, he loves porridge! You won’t love this though, what do we do?”

The audience cried out their response as Michaela felt a bit of red flushing to her face. She had heard and watched the famous show, but of course she was thinking of the real animal, as such her career. She grinned with a frustrated expression as the chair she was on now rumbled to life.


*Not too bad, eh?*

“Oh no. Oh no, no.”

Sliding her hands up to the side of her head, feeling so stupid in all honesty, over the final question, Michaela opened her mouth with a slow and quiet moan. Her stomach was lurching and all she could seem to focus on now was the grimy looking surface of the gunge. Of her gunge, she thought as the chair stopped and a couple of bells sounded out. It was only her on the ramp of course, where she then bunch up her fists on her head and closed her eyes, abashed to be surrounded by swirling lights and screaming children. She continued to shake her head as she shouted out.

“N – No! Oh No! N – Noo!

She broke down into her hands for a moment, laughing a little bit now out of embarrassment and shame. Her toes curled around the edge of the seat and then shuffled themselves into each other her knees shaking widely from side to side in nerves. She fully covered her face and hunched up, bowing her head, hair bouncing around as she continued to shake her head. Dave loved this so much, he let the audience continue for another 15 seconds or so before finally quietening them.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Oh yes! You’re at the top there Michaela, just stay there. You just take in that lovely Christmassy gunk below you.”

As he said this, a few more whoops went up as she removed her hands from her face, her smile showing her embarrassment, yet her face seemed strained. She closed her eyes tight and bowed her head again, placing her trembling hands on her knees, not daring to look at anyone or anything around her.

“Now Gavin, look at Michaela up there. Always goes away to fancy exotic locations as part of the Really Wild Show, swims with sharks and meets all sorts of interesting animals. She gets to go on all sorts of adventures and she has such a great time that you don’t think it’s very fair at all. Well send her on a new adventure she’s really gonna hate – into the great GYOB swamp’ o Gunk! 3, 2, 1, GET YOUR OWN BACK!”

Dave backed up as Gavin obliged, reaching forward with a proud hands and pulling back the lever to send off his favourite TV presenter into the history books as well as the gunge. he turned round looking up. A low camera halfway up caught Michaela Strachan, a feigned face now of pure horror and mouth wide open, get lit up by sparks on either side of her. The chair then fell down forward, carrying Michaela toward the camera. Her toes were flexed upward, feet resting on the footrest with one crossed over the other at the ankles, yet her legs squeezed tightly together awkwardly as much as they could. She was leaning back on the chair, almost as though trying to keep as much away from the oncoming muck as possible and her hands were raised up to her breasts, fingers outstretched backward. She kept her comical look as she sailed down the short ramp, and into a deluge of wet looking blue. It cascaded all across her legs, painting them as they went past, the gunge cool and sticky on her toes and in between as she passed right under the torrent. It missed her face, but splattered all over her shoulders and head, staining her once glistening blonde hair, and covering her yellow top with a striking contrast. As soon as she was directly under it, the chair tossed her forward, away from the relative safety of the short ramp and into the slimey cesspit of greeny yellow.  That’s when Gavin heard it over the roar of the audience –


Her face may have been clean for a few seconds longer from the blue waterfall of sludge from the sky, but it certainly wasn’t now, as he watched her eyes scrunch tightly up and – after her disgusted, playing along exclamation – her mouth tightly grimace head for the dank muck. She was at an angle as she fell, her face plunging into surface, the gunk thickly rippling away, followed by her chest and stomach. She slowed for a moment, then surely enough a moment later, her formerly silky hair vanished, as did her backside and upper legs. her lower legs though hung on the surface, and then very steadily sank into the churning gunge, her spattered feet slowly kicking. As more blue from above rained down, the last anyone saw of her for a moment were the feet and two wavy lumps on the surface; her arms underneath the gunk trying to get a gripping. At last, to the cheering of the audience and laughter of dave the feet also vanished from view and all everyone were left with, was a thickly swashing surface of greeny, bluey slime. 


Was all Gavin needed to say as he gave a fist bump, Dave behind him coming back beside him laughing, and then pinching his nose nodding.

“Ohhh nasssssty!”

In the tank, two symmetrical waves slowly moved backward, and then forward, and a moment later a slimey, caked green hand rose up. Looking like something out of a horror movie, it gripped the side of the tank, green globules of goo dripping from it. The green and gripping hand was joined a moment later by another hand, but this one was also tainted by red and blue; the red not moving and staying stuck and the blue stringing like snot away from it’s owner. A split second later and Michaela’s completely transformed head rose. Not part of her scalp, or sides, remained untouched – all of it was claggy, with green. Some parts were tainted red, but underneath the green, was the blue that she’d been doused in before the dunk. Her once bouncy and charming fringe was now saturated, stuck to her forehead and even covering her eyes partially as she rose up sloppily from her gooey destination. She heaved herself up higher, revealing a completely coated face of gunk. Her left cheek and fringe had gotten most of the blue from the shower, whilst her right cheek and chin had sucked up the green. A couple of blobs of red from the festive message though were blotched onto the tip of her chin, her nose and one slimey looking ear. It just wasn’t possible to fully tell what expression she was pulling, but as she stretched away from the side of the tank, arms slathered in shiny but clammy slurry, a small hole appeared under her nose. A small globule formed underneath her nostrils as she let out an exasperated –


Her two hands raised to her eyes to scoop out some gunk, as a spattering of yellow now rained down all around her, covering her in yellow blotches. Dave took his moment as Michaela continued to gape, goo dripping from her lips, and wiped her cheeks.

“Looks like a swamp monster, and sounds like one eh? WOAH!”

At that moment a heavy, large amount if bright green rained down, in one viscous stream into the tank. It connected with Michaela’s already suffering hair, and domed completely over her. A cringe filled yell sounded out as the funnel of goo bounced from left to right, dousing her well and truly. It left no part of her alone, blubbing over her shoulders, and then right over her head once more, and even wobbling back for a moment, allowing the audience a quick look at the now very green children’s presenter. She slipped forward a little bit, sinking to her neck, as the green attack from above ended, and a fresh pink one now fell. The goo splashed directly over her head, appearing for an instant to force her chin and mouth down into the foul muck, right when she was in mid gasp. It spurted and turned to a patter as Dave rang out now, the onslaught finally allowing him to comment.

“Oh, yuck. That is SO gross. So much for a festive Gunk Dunk, that was nothing but disgusting that was. Gavin, how do you feel? She has such a nice time wherever she goes and almost rubs it in peoples faces with how much she travels – but she didn’t enjoy that I don’t think and you certainly rubbed her face in some serious muck today – feeling good?”

Gavin took one look at Michaela, she’d cleared her eyes, and mouth, but there was still plenty of her not cleared of gunge. it still cling to her top, her hair and to her hands. He raised his arms and cheered happily as he watched Michaela back up a little bit, rubbing goo back from her face.


*This was a lot of fun to do, was this one!*

“I feel so happy, so excellent!”

Dave was handed two prizes,one a coat and one a small logo shaped clock.

“Well I’ll tell you something else excellent, you’ve won a couple of prizes here. First of all here is a GYOB clock trophy – there you go, your welcome – and a fancy GYOB jacket as well, there you are. Alright everyone put your hands together for Gavin!”

Gavin happily held up his new Christmas winnings, as Dave clapped with him and the audience shouted pretty loud. Dave nodded and clapped his hands together, smiling and nudging toward the tank. Inside of it, Michaela was now up to her shoulders, her arms bobbing on the surface, and eyes cleaned. The reds and blues in her hair were still dripping away and her face was stained and even looked slightly dry already. She was pulling an upset looking face and had her mouth half open, looking up to Dave.

“Oh Michaela – whew, my goodness, P-U! You weren’t lying about the smell of this stuff early were you!”

The audience cracked out laughing as Dave covered his nose and Michaela looked down and half pretended to sob, a slight bit of yellow spattering down onto her. Dave shrugged and tried again to speak to her without talking about the state she was in.

“Michaela thanks for coming along today – oh! Mr. Blobby actually has something which may help you, cheer you up a little here he is -“

The large recognisable rival bounded up, screeching as he usually did. With him he had a bucket which he immediatley upturned. With a major gasp and a couple of coughs, Michaela disappeared in a fluff of white, as a huge amount of fake snow coated her. It was as though she was sugar coated, white all over her, sticking to the sloppy gunge she was covered in. The moment Mr. Blobby did this he half yelled, half laughed once more, something which made Michaela grimace and keep one eye open and one closed. She watched Dave walk up to the camera, grinning and shaking his head.

“What a performance, thank you Mr. Blobby, and thank you to you watching at home. Well that’s all from Get Your Own Back today, merry Christmas and have a wonderful New Year! Bye, bye everyone, bye bye!”

A different camera captured Dave waving away, as behind him a thick torrent of blue and a little bit of red now sloshed into the tank, doming over the feathered covered wildlife presenter, giving her a fresh coating of horrible feeling gunge. She fluffed around a little bit, swashing the tank around wildly, as it rained down and everyone in the audience cheered like mad. Dave waved too, and came to stand next to Gavin who was happily watching Michaela get completely doused in gunge once more, before the credits ended. 


Well this was certainly a lot of fun, so much so that this was done in one evening, photo’s and all!

A very easy choice for me to make, as out of the celebrity appearances on Get Your Own Back around that time, this was the easiest to find evidence for. I had a lot of fun with this one, as in our world of course someone foolishly decided Mr. Blobby should – You know what, we’ve spoken about that atrocity enough. I hope though that this serves as some sort of small justice. I had a lot of fun doing it, and I hope you have a lot of fun reading it!

I’d love to know what people think about this story, but the photo’s included that are photoshopped. It’s something I wanted to do when I thought up the idea of GYOB Redux.

I do not know when the next one will be up, but after (finally) getting back into the knack of writing, hopefully it won’t be forever and a day. Onto the 2000 era Gunk Dunk next!

(Oh, by the way, sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes – I hadn’t planned to finish it in one night. I will be going through it very soon and correcting any wrongs.)

– MsM

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Commission: All For A Good Cause

This story was commissioned by BishopBerkley, who takes credit for the underlying plot. It features Sarah, star of some of the Bishop’s own works. It should come as little surprise that the story contains knockabout slapstick, relentless victimisation, and familial relations that some may regard as unhealthy.

“So we’ve got a coconut shy, a tombola, a guess-how-many-sweets-in-the-jar, and a whack-a-rat. The missus is doing face-painting, and the rugby squad are competing in a strongest man contest.” Bill concluded his list. “Anything to add?”

“Farmer Johnson has to agreed to do a sheepdog demonstration,” Stuart, his son, informed him.

“Very good.” Bill jotted it down. “That just leaves something for Sarah to get stuck into…” The older man shared a smirk across the table.

“How about we put her in charge of the bouncy castle?” Stuart suggested.

“Not sure that’ll pass health and safety,” Bill replied. “The poor girl’ll give herself two black eyes!” He and Stuart guffawed. In the corner of the office, Stuart’s son Andrew glanced up from his Snapchat and grinned too. Sarah’s ample chest was a perennial source of mirth and banter in the town of Wamsey, to the extent that even her father, brother and nephew cracked jokes without it seeming inappropriate or creepy.

“Maybe we could stick her in a tent and have her tell fortunes,” Bill proposed.

“Nah, too confusing for the punters,” Stuart retorted. “She’ll say ‘look into my big globe’, and they’ll say ‘which one?’” More chortles ensued between the three males.

Andrew lowered his phone. “How about a gunge booth?” he ventured.

Stuart, being of the generation to know what gunge is, responded with a growing smile. Bill, meanwhile, frowned blankly.

“Basically, Auntie Sarah sits on a chair and people pay to pour buckets of slop or messy food over her,” Andrew explained.

Bill stroked his chin. “Nice idea, but will it turn a profit? Food ain’t cheap these days.”

“We can ask local shops and restaurants to donate their out-of-date stock,” Andrew said, eyes glinting. “I’m sure our good friend Chef will be willing to help.”

“Good thinking,” said Bill, chuckling as he recalled the pranks they’d pulled on Sarah over Christmas dinner. “But that reminds me: Sarah was rather sour over that restaurant incident. What if she kicks up too much of a fuss?”

Stuart’s eyes flitted deviously. “Let’s tell her it’ll be a wet sponge throw. By the time she learns the truth it’ll be too late.”

“And we can announce to the crowd that her protests are all part of her act, to entertain the kiddies.” Andrew added. “That way, no-one will get alarmed if she plays up.”

“I like it,” remarked Bill, appending his list with a satisfied squiggle of blue biro. “And if Sarah doesn’t, too bad; she’s missed her chance to have a say.” He checked his watch and tutted. “I told her very clearly the meeting would be at three o’clock. You don’t know of any reason why she might be late, Andrew?”

Andrew, feeling the indentation of car-keys in his jeans pocket, shrugged.

Sarah had searched high and low for the car-keys, and already it was five past three. She’d have to take the bus. Puffing with exasperation, she slammed the front door and strutted out.

The bus was approaching along the street – lucky timing, provided she could reach the stop in time. She broke into an awkward jog, every item of clothing impeding her haste. Her short, scarlet pencil skirt constricted her thighs; her handbag swung against her side; her bosoms jiggled in her white, low-cut top. But most of all, her high-heels forced her to run in the most unseemly posture, clopping precariously on the pavement as she went.

SNAP! Within yards of the bus-stop, her right heel sheared off, spinning away into the hedgerow. She swore, but kept jogging, ridiculous in her asymmetric gait. But at least she reached the stop in time. She leant out, raising a hand to the looming double-decker. But the bus showed no sign of slowing…

SLLOOOOSH!! The bus roared past, ploughing up a puddle from the roadside. A wall of muddy water slapped against Sarah, soaking her stockings, skirt and top, and whipping her blonde hair over her face.

As the bus steamed onwards, Sarah stood frozen in place, her hand still outstretched for the ride denied her. Her white top stuck frigidly to her torso on one side, stained brown but also turning see-through. Her skirt dripped, her tan stockings besmirched.

Slowly, Sarah retracted her hand, peeled her soggy hair from her mouth, and spat. Shock subsided to fury; what was that driver playing at?! She whipped round in pursuance of the number plate, but the vehicle was already vanishing round a corner. She swore again and stamped her deheeled shoe.

She decided she would at least use the situation to retrieve the errant heel; her brother Stuart was handy with the super-glue. Crouching on the pavement, she peered under the privet hedge that flanked the street. She crawled along, wincing at the uncomfortable wetness of her clothing.

There it was!

The heel gleamed amidst the soil. She reached under, aiming to pincer it with her long nails, but inadvertently sent it rolling away. Cursing, she slid onto her front and stretched under the hedge. Soil stuck to her wet top and branches scratched her arms. Another failed attempt nudged the heel yet further away. She burrowed in deeper.

Clammy warm air graced the back of her leg. A brush of gross wetness startled her further. A male voice from the street confirmed her fears: “Come away, Bruno!”

Sarah gasped; she hated dogs! The mutt continued to explore, its breath at the hem of her skirt.

“Bruno, come away! Leave the lady be!” But the voice spoke mainly with amusement, rather than demanding obedience.

With a spirited woof, the dog grabbed a stocking-top in its teeth, dragging the stocking down her leg. Sarah screamed. She scrambled forward, not caring for the branches that snagged her, and emerged into a tidy garden.

A shower of water greeted her face and cleavage. Then it swept away. Then it returned to splash her again. It was a lawn sprinkler.

OI!! ME ’EDGE!” Beyond the lawn, a bald man with a sandy-coloured beard shook a fist from his window. Behind Sarah, the dog continued to molest her; it filched her good shoe from her foot. She crawled onwards and staggered to her feet, intermittently splashed by the sprinkler. The householder was at the door now, brandishing a golf club. Sarah legged it across the lawn and scaled a panel fence, wooden splinters laddering the remaining stocking.

She tumbled into the next garden. A silver-haired businessman, half out of his suit, entwined a much younger, bikini-clad brunette on a sun-lounger.

The brunette shrieked and leapt up. “Is that your wife?!”

“Of course it isn’t,” scoffed the man. “My wife doesn’t go around in that kind of state!”

“Uh, sorry. Just passing through.” Sarah jogged across the garden.

“Nice rack though!” he leered after her.

Sarah clambered over the next fence. This garden was concreted over, and a snarling told her she wasn’t alone. Not another dog!

It was an ugly black one, its fangs bared, its gums blood-red. Behind it, an equally gristly skinhead glared. His neck was so thick that his shoulders and head were contiguous.

The canine pounced.

“Yeep!!” Sarah vaulted back over the fence, barks echoing behind her. The adulterous couple gawped as she made a return trip past them, then it was over the fence into the first garden, where the bald, bearded man was inspecting the damage to his precious privet.

“OI!!” he roared. “COME ’ERE, YOU!”

Golf club raised, he gave chase. Several times he and Sarah encircled the sprinkler, then she leapt over it in a bid to escape, enduring a cold spray up her skirt. With a parting stomp on the old duffer’s marigolds, she sprung over the opposite fence.

Sarah careened head-first into a side-street, and it was to her mixed fortune that an open wheely-bin was there to break her fall. SPLUT! She sank in, her legs flailing from the rim.

In her struggles she tipped the bin and fought her way out. One side of her hair was infused with spaghetti hoops, the other with scraps of cabbage. Her top was soaked with an unidentified green substance and a fish-head peeped from her cleavage.

Euuughhh!!” Sarah flung away the fish-head and brushed herself down as best she could. She limped back to the main street, carrying herself with as much dignity as she could muster, directing her indignation at pedestrians who stared and cars that honked.

A ladder leant across the pavement. Sarah was about to scuttle under, but then checked herself. She looked up. A bucket perched on the rung beneath the window-cleaner’s feet.

Bad luck, she told herself, and smugly diverted around the ladder. Unfortunately, the remaining section of kerb was narrow and the hapless woman’s wet feet lost their footing. She slipped sideways, barging into the ladder. The bucket toppled, plonking squarely onto her head and sending a wave of soapy water over her already ruined attire. Even well-established superstitions had it in for Sarah today.

“Did the fake bus-stop work?” Andrew typed into Snapchat. His eyes glowed with glee as he read his friend’s response.

Meanwhile, Bill droned on about insurance and council permits for the fundraiser. “…And that concludes the agenda,” he eventually said, ticking off the last item on his list. “Saturday should be a great success. Thanks for your time, gents.” He rechecked his watch, frowning. “Pity Sarah isn’t as dedicated to this undertaking.”

“She’s dedicated to her underwiring instead!” quipped Stuart, to which the men laughed.

“Hang about – here she is now!” Andrew exclaimed, pointing to the window.

Sure enough, Sarah sloped wearily up the driveway. Her top was a nasty green-brown, ripped in a couple of places and clinging to her contours. Her hair draped in a tangled rope over one shoulder. Her skirt too was splotched and sodden, her handbag had seen better days, and she’d discarded what was left of her stockings and shoes. Her feet sported a pair of cheap trainers, which she’d had to buy from a sports shop, much to the bemusement of the staff.

Bill stared at his daughter as she entered. “Blimey Sarah, you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!”

Andrew was bursting to say “wriggled through one forwards, actually.” But that would have revealed his involvement in the calamity, so he bit his lip.

“Sorry I’m late,” mumbled Sarah. “I couldn’t find my car-keys.” She pulled out a chair next to her brother, but he had other ideas.

“You smell like a dustbin!” he complained, screwing his face. “Go and sit in the corner, for goodness’ sake.”

Sarah picked up her chair and shamefacedly crossed the office. In particular she felt Andrew’s gaze on her, and avoided returning eye contact. Whenever these bouts of misfortune befell her – and they frequently did – her nephew took a most maddening enjoyment in them.

But had she not tried so hard to ignore Andrew, she might have noticed him dropping her keys into her handbag as she slouched past.

“Better late than never, I suppose,” grumbled Bill. “But the meeting’s over; we’ve already covered all the points.”

“Unlike you,” sniggered Andrew. Sarah peered down to discover her nipples brazenly protruding through the wet fabric. Embarrassed, she crossed her arms over her chest.

Bill continued. “But you’ll be pleased to hear that we found a role for you: you’re going to be sitting in the gun—”

Stuart coughed emphatically and signalled to Bill with his eyebrows.

“…Sitting in the, uh, wet sponge booth,” Bill corrected himself.

Wet sponge booth!?” cried Sarah. “You mean, you’re going to throw wet sponges at me?”

“Not just us,” said Bill. “Members of the public too. I reckon they’ll pay good money for the privilege.”

“Especially with such generous targets to aim for!” added Stuart.

Sarah stamped her foot. “No! I’m not doing that.”

“Not raising money for those poor children?” Bill frowned. “For shame!”

“Alright, I’ll do it,” sulked Sarah. “But not all day long. It’s only fair we take turns.”

“Sarah, I’d love to take a turn,” Bill shrugged. “But I have to stay in charge of the beer tent. Big responsibility, being the licence-holder.”

Sarah’s prompting glare progressed to Stuart, but he too had an excuse ready. “I gotta take the admissions money on the gate.”

Sarah harrumphed. “In that case, Andrew can take turns with me.” Despite the dreadful day she was having, she raised a little smirk at the thought of her insolent nephew on the receiving end for once.

Stuart shook his head. “Andrew’s on camera duty.”

“That’s right,” said Andrew smugly. “I’m gonna record everything for posterity.” He flashed his infuriating grin at Sarah. “Everything.”

“Right, glad that’s all sorted,” said Bill, putting away his paperwork. “Pub time, Stuart.”

Stuart got his feet. “Sarah, don’t forget you’re taking Andrew to McDonald’s while Dad and I have a pint.”

Sarah’s face fell yet further. “Look at me! I need to go home and have a shower!” Getting no sympathy, she continued: “And anyway, I haven’t got my car with me.”

“Borrow mine,” said Bill, chucking over his keys. “But dry yourself first; I don’t want the seats getting spoilt.”

Sarah opened her handbag to stash away the keys, then stopped short at the sight within. “But that’s impossible,” she whispered. “I looked…”

“Aren’t those your car-keys, Auntie Sarah?” said Andrew, peering over. “They were in your handbag the whole time!”

The men groaned at Sarah’s ditziness. “You’d lose your knockers if they weren’t screwed on!” sighed Stuart.

“One large Big Mac meal with strawberry milkshake, and nine chicken nuggets,” said the woman at the window, handing over the wares. She pulled a face when she clocked the state Sarah was in.

“I prefer eat-in to drive-thru,” Andrew complained as they pulled away.

“Too bad,” said Sarah grimly. “I’ve had enough of people gawping at me.”

“Better get used to it for Saturday!” Andrew goaded. “Hold my fries for me, Auntie.”

“I’m driving!”

“I didn’t say hold them in your hands.” Andrew tucked the carton of fries into Sarah’s cleavage, causing her to yelp at the hot, greasy cardboard between her tits. He emptied two sachets of barbecue sauce over the fries, being deliberately careless in his aim.

“Andrew!” snarled Sarah. A gherkin slice bounced off her cheek.

“Why do they put these things in? No-one likes them,” remarked Andrew nonchalantly.

“I’m not putting up with this,” Sarah seethed.

“Putting up with what?”

“You. Your attitude. It’s out of order the way you behave.”

“What you gonna do about it?” challenged Andrew. “Dad and Granddad always side with me. They think it’s funny.” Reaching over to take a fry, he prodded her in the side of the boob. “Tough titty!”

“Stop that!” demanded Sarah, her voice cracking. “Stop it or I’m stopping the car.”

Andrew prodded again, harder. “Tough, tough titty!”

Right!” Sarah pulled into the kerbside. As she did so, a thick pink liquid splashed her side, sticking to her hair, face, arm and boob. Pungent synthetic strawberry filled the air. In the passenger seat, Andrew sat with the empty milkshake cup.

“Look what you’ve done, Auntie! Why did you brake so hard?!” But a grin betrayed his guilt.

Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes. “You slung it on purpose, you little rat!”

Andrew ignored the accusation. “You’ve got it on the seat and everything! Granddad won’t be pleased.”

A tear traced a path through the milkshake on Sarah’s cheek. She knew he was right. Choking back sobs, she restarted the car and drove on in silence.

She pulled in at the local valet, but after knocking several times and peering through the window, she ascertained that they’d already closed for the day. Sighing in frustration, she turned around to find Andrew brandishing the hose from the jet-wash.

“What are you doing with that?!” she cried with alarm. “Don’t you d—”

SWOOSH!! Sarah screamed as frigid water blasted her in the belly. Andrew swept the hose up and down, paying especial attention to the chest area. The jet was so forceful that it made Sarah’s boobs dance inside her top. Spluttering, she turned and ran, Andrew aiming for her bottom as she legged it.

“What’s the matter, Auntie? You said yourself you needed a shower!”

Saturday arrived, the sky blazing blue over Wamsey. Sarah gazed from her window, greeting the day with a philosophical optimism; how bad could a few damp sponges be? Probably quite refreshing in heat like this.

Opening a drawer, she selected a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. A black t-shirt, of course – that was essential, especially since Andrew would be let loose with his camera. She wasn’t going to give the snap-happy rotter the satisfaction of any embarrassing revelations. She packed the items into a holdall, along with some similarly practical underwear. She then placed the holdall by the front door, where it wouldn’t be forgotten.

This was to be her apparel for the booth, but Sarah was determined to at least arrive and depart with her hourglass figure adorned in something more stylish. First, the undergarments. She went for the works in black lace: a sensuous but supportive bra that pressed her cleavage together; panties that, while not thonged, left plenty of her rounded cheeks exposed to the air; silk stockings and a slender garter belt. Over this she slipped a short, baby-pink summer dress. It wasn’t that Sarah was trying to tart it up or attract anyone’s attentions; this was simply her view of feminine dressing, and she wouldn’t be seen dead at a social event – even a family fundraiser such as this – in anything less.

She smiled at the result in the mirror, letting her long blonde hair flow loose. The dress was just such a length that when she bent over or stretched a leg, a stocking-top peeped into view.

She froze. Reflected in the mirror, the door lay open a few inches. A face peered in the gap – black hair, impish eyes, that maddening grin. Sarah shrieked, fumbled to pull her dress down, whipped round to face the intruder. “Andrew! What are you doing here?!”

“Came to make sure you haven’t forgotten the big day,” Andrew said, matter-of-factly rather than proffering apology. “I let myself in.”

“This is my bedroom!” Sarah protested. “How long were you standing there?!”

“That’s something you’ll have to guess at,” Andrew taunted, pushing open the door. “Anyway, time to get going. You better have your car-keys to hand this time!”

Fuming at her nephew’s conduct, Sarah went downstairs and clumsily stepped into a pair of white high-heels.

“Come on Auntie, only twenty minutes to splashdown!” Andrew hustled her.

“Just one minute, if you don’t mind.” Sarah snatched up the holdall. The contents felt a little heavier and harder than she’d expected, but she didn’t think much of it. She fixed Andrew triumphantly as she placed the precious bag in the car; she knew he’d wanted her to forget it.

At the Wamsey Harlequins rugby ground, everything was falling into place – much of it into a large plastic tub attended by Stuart. “Taste the difference.” He emptied a pot of expired cottage cheese, donated by the local Sainsbury’s, into the brown slop. He stirred the morass with a short plank of wood, watching the white lumps of cheese float in their greasy slicks, jostling with carrot peelings and bits of eggshell.

“Here she comes,” said Bill, watching Sarah’s car screech across the gravel to a sudden stop. “Good thing that lass has built-in airbags.”

Not wanting to spoil the ‘surprise’, Stuart flung a tarpaulin over the collection of buckets and containers in his charge. But in any case, Sarah had no time to gauge her surroundings, what with Andrew prodding and jostling her across the field. Her destination was a wooden hut, painted in yellow and white stripes, that had been erected expressly for her to get changed in.

Two rugby players stood by, observing her noisy arrival with amusement. “Didn’t know they’d hired a juggler,” one remarked. He was Ned Savage, captain of the Harlequins – a towering figure with a crop of dark-brown hair and a lantern jaw.

Colin Butcher frowned, the analogy lost on him despite his eyes instinctively locking onto Sarah’s springing chest. Another stalwart of the squad, he possessed less height than Ned, but made up for it in shoulder-span. His shaven head was wide and squashed, aptly resembling a rugby ball, his creased brow in place of stitching.

Reaching the hut, Sarah slammed the swing-door in Andrew’s face, half expecting that he’d try to follow her in. He walked away dusting his hands off.

She looks a handful or two!” Ned grinned as Andrew sauntered over.

“She’s my auntie,” Andrew said. “She’s volunteered for the gunge booth!”

“Gunge booth?” Ned raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have thought she’d be up for that – looks the precious sort.”

“Oh, she does it every year,” Andrew breezily lied. “Really hams it up, pretending to hate every moment, but it’s all an act. She’s a rugby girl, so she’s up for a bit of banter, a bit of rough and tumble.”

“Rugby girl, eh?” Colin grunted sceptically. “Never seen her at the matches.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t see her here.” Andrew glanced around shiftily. “Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but…”

“But what?”

Andrew’s voice quietened. “She follows the other team.”

Ned’s lantern jaw dropped. “You mean she’s a…” He stared at Colin, who for a few seconds returned a blank look. Then the penny dropped for the slower-witted player, horror spreading across his prolate face.

“A WOBBLER?!” they exclaimetd together.

“I’m afraid so,” Andrew nodded solemnly. “Been a Wobbler ever since her teens. A huge Wobbler! Maybe the biggest Wobbler in all of Wamsey.”

In addition to the Harlequins, who were rugby union, the town boasted a rugby league side: the Wamsey Warriors. Little surprise, a long-standing rivalry – hostility even – existed between the clubs. ‘The Wobblers’ was the disparaging name bestowed by the Harlequins upon the Warriors, who in return dubbed their adversaries ‘the Harlots’.

“She’s something of a mascot to them.” Andrew continued, revelling in his spiel. “Most weekends she’s lording it up on their team bus before the games, then necking snakebite with them in the pub afterwards.” He leaned in and whispered. “She spends a lot of time hanging round their changing rooms, too. What goes on I couldn’t say.”

“Is that so?” Ned stroked his jaw, a harsh glint coming to his eye. “We’ll have to make this gunging extra special for her!” He turned to Colin. “Go fetch the lads!”

Andrew wrung his hands. “Oh dear, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. I hope you won’t be too harsh on poor Auntie!”

“We have to punish her; she’s a Wobbler!” The way Colin spat the word Sarah might well have been a child-killer. He marched off to the clubhouse.

“Please, don’t tell her I told you,” Andrew entreated Ned, laying on the fake anxiety. He glanced at the changing hut. “She’s been a while in there; I should see how she’s getting on.”

Inside the poky shack, Sarah had cast off her dress and stood in her underwear. Upon unzipping the holdall, a pair of yellow melons rolled out. Her change of clothes was nowhere to be seen.

What?!” Sarah gasped. She shook the holdall in disbelief, but the only item to flutter out was a folded piece of paper.

She unfolded it: TOUGH TITTY!

The scoundrel! He must have switched the contents when he’d sneaked into her house! Sarah cursed. She’d have to face the sponges in her nice dress; it was the only option. She reached to retrieve it from the floor…

A hand slunk under the door and snatched the dress away. The garment was gone.


“Dear me, what’s up with her now?” said Stuart, hearing the bellows.

“She won’t come out,” Andrew shrugged. He’d already concealed the dress up his sleeve with a magician’s dexterity. “She’s making a fuss – as usual!”

“Should’ve given her a bigger changing booth,” sighed Bill. “Must be a tight squeeze with all three of them in there.”

“Come on Sarah!” called Stuart. “Folk are waiting out here!”

Sarah’s tantrum continued to emanate from the hut, but the walls muffled her words.

Bill scratched his head. “How are we going to get her out?”

“Maybe we can be of assistance,” said Ned grimly, nodding to his team-mates as they jogged out of the clubhouse. “Alright lads. We’ve got a bit of lifting to do.”

Four of the burly men went over to the hut, each crouching to grab a corner. “On the count of three: One! Two! THREE!!”

The rugby players lifted the hut until hoisted on their shoulders. Sarah had nowhere to hide, unveiled to the world in her black bra, panties, stockings, suspenders and stilettos. Her mouth stretched to a wide ‘O’ in response to her exposure. She wrapped an arm over her scantily-clad chest and clapped another across her partly bare buttocks.

The rugby players cheered lustily. Andrew snapped away on his camera. Mortified, Sarah fled.

“Stop her!!” ordered Ned.

The rugby players gave pursuit, forming a line in Sarah’s wake. Bill gave a nod to the brass band, who broke into a rendition of the Benny Hill chase theme. With her heels digging into the soft turf, and her boobs flopping about inside her bra, Sarah ran in a ludicrous manner. She weaved in and out of the fête’s various attractions, even negotiating an obstacle course set up by the local Army branch. Coconuts were sent rolling as she clattered past the shy. The rugby players could have easily caught her, but deliberately held back so as to make her look more of a fool. A growing crowd clapped along to the music as they looked on, assuming Sarah to be a willing stooge in a skit of seaside postcard humour.

As Sarah raced past a gardening stall, her eye caught a face she’d hoped never to see again – a bald man with a sandy-coloured beard. The recognition was mutual. “OI!! You’re the ’ooligan ’oo wrecked me ’edge!” The irate man grabbed a garden cane and joined the chase behind the rugby team.

Sarah was panting now, but she wasn’t giving up. A small gap beckoned in the fence ahead. She had no idea what she’d do after fleeing, stranded in town in only her undies, but it couldn’t be worse than being made a spectacle here. Putting on a spurt, she sprinted towards the opening.

A rope yanked taut across the gap, catching Sarah’s ankles. “AIIIGH!!!” She landed boobs-down in the dust.

Andrew stepped out from behind the fence, having laid the tripwire. “You don’t wanna leave now, Auntie. The fun’s just beginning!”

The rugby players scooped her from the ground, three of them carrying her underarm as they would a rugby ball. The gardener flicked his cane at her bare skin as they went.

“Now listen here, Andrew! You’ve gone too far this time – owww!!” The cane licked Sarah just above her hip. “You are in so much trouble!”

“Really, Auntie?” her nephew replied gleefully. “I think you’re the one that’s in trouble!”

Colin growled, “we know all about you and your dirty secret!”

“Do you now?” Sarah muttered.

“Yeah,” Ned said sharply. “You’re a Wobbler, aren’t you?”

“If you say so,” Sarah said wearily. She knew nothing about the local rugby scene, and assumed they were referring to her chest. “I’ve heard all the names before.”

“Well you’ll get more than names this time,” Colin threatened.

From Sarah’s sideways perspective, a paddling pool loomed ahead. A chair sat at its centre and a banner hung above, proclaiming: SAUCY SARAH’S SLOPPY SPECTACULAR. The words might have given her pause for thought, but she had plenty else on her plate at that moment. She was plonked roughly onto the chair, a pair of handcuffs promptly fastening her to its back.

“Hey! There’s no need for that!” she protested.

“After your that little excursion of yours, there’s every need!” her father told her with a wagging finger. “Ladies and gentlemen, lads and lasses, say hello to Saucy Sarah, who I have to say is, ahem, even saucier than we expected!”

“Yes, she’s certainly come dressed for the dads, hasn’t she?” said Stuart theatrically. A chorus of masculine cheers and “woo-hoo”s followed. Sarah’s cheeks burned crimson; her breathing was heavy from the chase, causing her buxom frontage to rise and fall in full sight.

Her brother continued: “Really Sarah, I understand it’s a nice day and you wanted something light and cool to wear, but wouldn’t a swimsuit have been more appropriate than the latest Ann Summers collection!?”

Hearty laughter ensued, causing Sarah to snap. “It was him!!” She instinctively tried to point but couldn’t with her hands cuffed. “Andrew! It’s his fault I’m like this!”

Stuart folded his arms and scoffed. “Now come on Sarah. It’s not your nephew’s responsibility to get you dressed in the morning, is it? You’re a big girl now.” He flashed an exaggerated wink to the audience. “Some would say a very big girl! Eh, gentlemen?”

More chortles and cheers. The crowd were loving Sarah’s ‘routine’, believing the whole thing had been scripted.

Bill carried over a washing-up tub filled with sponges and soapy water and placed it on a table about ten feet from Sarah. “Let’s start her off gently,” he murmured to Stuart. “I think she’ll blow her top if we bring out the gunge straight away.”

Stuart stood by the table. “So, ladies and gentlemen, lads and lasses, come chuck a soggy sponge at Saucy Sarah – one pound a time! Any takers?”

There were plenty of takers. Titillated dads, irked mums and boisterous kids all got in line. First up were a teenage girl and boy. The girl pitched a sponge, wringing wet. It socked Sarah right on the mouth.

“Oooo, fifty points!” Andrew enthused as he took photos. Sarah spat at the soapy taste, water dripping from her chin.

The boy threw even harder. With a “splud!” it bounced off Sarah’s right boob, leaving white soap suds on her black bra. “One hundred points!!” Andrew announced triumphantly. Sarah squirmed at the cold wetness spreading through the fabric of her bra.

Punter after punter stepped up to hurl a sponge. Sarah couldn’t parry the missiles, nor dodge them in any effective way, so had to take the stinging hits – on her legs, torso and face. Soon her stockings, hair and underwear were all sodden and soapy.

Meanwhile, to one side, the pound signs flashed in Bill’s eyes as each rugby player handed him a twenty, buying licence to do whatever they wished to his daughter. The gardener stomped off to arrange his own revenge. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Soon the sponges were finished. Stuart slung the remaining soapy water in Sarah’s face. “Well that was fun, wasn’t it ladies and gents? But it’s time to step things up a notch!”

Bill brought out a crate of cartons. “These were kindly donated by the local Aldi; they’re only a few months past their best-before so hopefully they won’t be too mouldy!”

Sarah stared agog. “What’s going on?!” she cried.

“We’re going to pour this slop over you, and much more besides!” Stuart announced. “That’s what going on!”

“But you said it would only be wet sponges!” Sarah bleated pathetically.

“Oh dear,” chuckled Stuart. “You may be my younger sister, but I didn’t know you were born yesterday!” Everyone laughed. He selected a carton of custard, shook it vigorously, and advanced upon her.

No no no no no!” Sarah wrestled with the handcuffs, her feet kicking ineffectually. “This is completely unfair!” It was bad enough being stripped to her smalls in front of an audience, worse being assailed with wet sponges, but the thought of being gunged was more than she could bear.

“Hmm, she doesn’t seem too keen on this, does she?” Stuart stood with the carton poised. “But should we let her have it anyway?”

“YES!! LET’S!!” roared the spectators, guilt-free in their continued belief that Sarah was acting out.

Nooo!!” cried Sarah, but the pour had begun. The custard snaked its way onto the crown of her head, garish yellow replacing her tasteful barley blond. Age had congealed the dessert and she felt the lumps plop onto her head. Now it flowed beyond her locks, onto her shoulders and back, taunting her bare skin. Her cringes and shrieks were countervailed by the public’s mirth, especially the children who gurgled with glee.

“She really puts herself into it, doesn’t she?” one well-to-do mother remarked to another.

“I must see if she’s available for hire,” the other replied. “She’d be perfect for my Joshua’s birthday party.”

The carton emptied, Sarah sat wearing her heavy shroud of shiny custard, dripping in disbelief and disgust. Her frustration increased when Andrew stepped up, brandishing a carton of rice pudding.

“What do we think, ladies and gents – another load here?” He made a tipping gesture over Sarah’s head. The crowd cheered keenly.

“Or how about here?” he positioned the carton over her cleavage. The crowd roared in approval, leaving no ambiguity as to their preference. He proceeded to pour – just a trickle at first – into the gorge. She squirmed as the lumpy rice pudding slid between her boobs and out onto her belly. Then Andrew broadened the pour, coating the tops of her boobs and much of her bra. The odour of gone-off milk sickened her.

“Tough titty,” He whispered in Sarah’s ear, causing her to snort with fury.

“That’s quite enough of that, you two!” Bill scolded Stuart and Andrew loudly. “You’re being very unkind!”

Sarah’s spirits soared; finally one of her family members was sticking up for her! She was about to open her mouth to agree with her father, when he spoke again.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves – keeping all the fun to yourselves while the good people of Wamsey are left waiting!” He shook his head before addressing the eager crowds. “Roll up! Roll up! Two pounds a carton!”

The spectators clamoured for ammo – not only custard and rice pudding, but semolina and tapioca too. Young and old, male and female, they all queued for their turn to sling, splash, spill and elseways send the soured slop over Sarah. Men lavished attention upon her chest and crotch area, and even poured it into her stockings. Kids threw it in her face with unremitting glee. By the time the crate was spent, she was a splotched mess, her stockings saturated. But if she thought it couldn’t get worse, she was wrong.

The rugby team returned from the clubhouse, each burly bloke carrying a large shaving-cream pie. “Sorry to disrupt the party, everyone, but I have a scandal to report,” Ned announced. “There’s a Wobbler in our midst!”

He pointed a denouncing finger at Sarah and the spectators booed in that pantomime-villain style. Sarah rolled her eyes under her custard coating.

“And we’re here to show what happens to Wobblers.” The players formed a line, each man readying his pie. Ned, at the front, charged towards Sarah. Leaping as he approached, he slammed his pie into her face, as if scoring a try.

The force rocked Sarah in her seat. Shaving foam exploded. The paper plate crumbled away in soggy pieces. But what aggrieved Sarah most lay in-between – a layer of baked beans. Some of the beans spilled down her chest, others clung to her face. Some had found their way into her mouth and even up her nose. She spluttered and spat.

A sea-change occurred. No longer was Sarah merely flummoxed, embarrassed and frustrated; she was stung, physically and emotionally. The jovial response of those watching stung her doubly. Neither shock nor sympathy came from any quarter.

Unable to wipe her eyes, Sarah could only blink away the harsh foam. She did so just in time to see the next rugby player charging at her, pie outstretched. She screamed, body tensed, as he bashed her in the boob. Stench and saltiness abounded; the pie’s filling was expired anchovy paste.

It continued, the muscular men hurtling toward her like steam-engines before whacking her with their wares. They weren’t vicious men at heart – most were family chaps with responsible weekday jobs – but the rough-and-tumble of the pitch had desensitised them to their own strength, and camaraderie was prone to get the better of them. And Andrew’s depiction of his auntie as a squally, snakebite-swigging rugby bird led them to think she could take it.

The audience too gave their stamp of approval – a low “oooo!” as each player took a run-up, then an “aaah!” in the aftermath of each hit. Andrew clicked away, getting action-shots. The fillings were as brutal as the delivery: plum tomatoes, pease pudding, sauerkraut, Stilton, raw egg and ravioli plastered poor Sarah.

Colin was last in line. Not a critical or nuanced thinker, he took the Harlequins-Warriors rivalry rather too much to heart. With a war-cry of “WOOOOBBBBBLEEERRR!!!” he lunged at his prey, socking her with an undercut to the chin. A cloud of white erupted from the impact; the pie was chock-full of flour.

Sarah was encrusted. The flour caked itself into every crevice, every facial orifice. As the cloud cleared she exhaled, generating a tongue of white like a dragon.

“Now now, Colin,” Ned admonished. “You’re meant to pie the lady in the face, not take her head off!”

“But she’s a Wobbler!” an unrepentant Colin reiterated.

Two of the players jogged over bearing a stainless-steel catering tray. “A donation of burnt onions from the burger stall,” they proudly announced. “And plenty of used grease!”

“I think that’s just what our Wobbler deserves!” Ned replied approvingly.

“But why?!?” Sarah’s voice was no longer petulant and peeved; it came thin and pitiful. “Just what have I done?!

“They’re narked that you refuse to be a Harlot,” Andrew explained cheerily.

“Well I’m not a Harlot!” Sarah insisted in a tremulous tone. “I’m not lowering myself for their sick urges!” Ignorant of local rugby slang, she again conflated it with everyday parlance. “They can call me a Wobbler all they want, but I’ll never be a Harlot!”

The crowd booed and the Harlequins exchanged grim glances. “In that case,” Ned declared, “we shall show no mercy.” He nodded to his team-mates, who upended the catering tray above Sarah. The contents slid out in a single plop, grey curly onions draping atop Sarah’s already ruined hair like a Georgian wig. Black-brown grease dribbled down. Sarah gagged; she couldn’t bear it. But it was going to get yet worse.

“Sixteen years!” fulminated a male voice. It was the bearded gardener, glowering as he lugged a sack. “That’s ’ow long I’ve been winning best ’edge category at Wamsey in Bloom.”

He hunched over until his face levelled with Sarah’s, his wiry ginger beard filling her vision. Half an hour ago she might have quipped that he could still win Wamsey in Bloom with the ‘edge’ that covered his ugly mug, but now, feeling onions slither down her cleavage, she was too deflated and dejected to respond.

“When I started growing that ’edge you was playing ’opscotch in the playground!” the hacked off horticulturalist told her. “Or maybe you was vandalising ’edges, just like you do now. Well, I’m going to vandalise you!

Issuing a laugh as grotesque as his face, he untied the sack. Notwithstanding all the gross food that covered her, Sarah was struck by the dank, earthy whiff that wafted out. The sack was filled with dark brown compost. Earthworms burrowed in and out of the peaty mass. Sarah had no will left to protest or plead. She just sat, meekly, silently, as the old git raised the sack and clods of compost tumbled onto her, dirtying the slick of mess that already coated her near-bare flesh.

“There! That’ll teach you to damage ’edges!” He slipped the sack over Sarah’s head and shoulders. Overcome with humiliation, the hooded hostage slumped in her seat. But the crowd hooted at the gag, unaware as she softly wept into the hessian.

Coffee grounds from the clubhouse, coleslaw from the Co-op. The fish-and-chip stall donated mushy peas and curry sauce, while the ice-cream van threw in strawberry syrup and sprinkles. Towards the end it didn’t matter what the stuff was; all contributed to one greyish-brown morass. They rubbed it in Sarah’s hair, filled her shoes before squashing her feet back into them. They crammed goo into her stockings, until the suspenders snapped on one leg.

Even the weather turned against Sarah. Clouds darkened the blue sky and a chill wind brought light drizzle. The silver-lining was that this dispelled the punters. Duly entertained, they sauntered off. Bill and Stuart decided to call it a day. It might have been four o’clock or as late as six; Sarah had no idea.

Bill bundled up bank-notes and scooped coins into bags, pleased as punch. “Never had takings like this before!” he raved. “Sarah, you stole the show! What an asset you are!”

“I think it was two assets in particular that stole the show!” said Stuart. “And what an inspired decision to wear frillies! Wonder why none of us thought of that.”

Andrew kept quiet. He’d thought of it, and schemed for it to happen, but it was wiser not to claim credit.

“We’re definitely doing this again next year,” Bill enthused, his finger flicking the big wads of cash.

“Why not next month?” Stuart suggested.

“If you don’t mind, I need to get cleaned up,” Sarah broke in, her voice flat and miserable.

Ned rubbed his chin. “The changing room showers won’t take all that crud, I’m afraid. We can’t have the drains getting blocked.”

“Let’s put her through a car-wash!” urged Colin, unflagging in his zeal.

“There’s a valet near McDonalds,” Andrew piped up helpfully. “Auntie Sarah knows it well!”

Sarah broke; she could take it no longer. “I want to go home!” she sobbed. “Please, just take me home!”

Ned pondered for a moment, a smirk forming in tandem with a wicked idea. He was in two minds; the Monday-to-Friday Ned, the Ned who wore a tie and sold insurance, told him that the horseplay had gone far enough, the girl was clearly distressed, and it was time to deliver her to her house with a towel wrapped round her. But weekend Ned was currently on duty – Ned the lad, keen to impress his fellow sportsmen with acts of oafishness. That Ned was hatching a plot, a plot so fiendishly brilliant that weekday Ned’s pleas for moderation fell futile against it.

And besides, the girl was a Wobbler.

“What are we waiting for, lads?” he said. “You heard the lady. Let’s take her to her rightful home!”

Sarah sighed with relief. Her tired arms eagerly awaited being freed, but she was in for a rude shock. Two players lifted her and chair into the air, still bound together. While chants of “what shall we do with a slimy Wobbler?” rang out, the snivelling Sarah was placed on the back of a pick-up truck, additional ropes securing her in place.

“Sorry about this,” Ned said sheepishly to Bill. “She’ll get the seats mucky if she sits inside.”

“Oh, I fully understand.” Bill gave Ned an amiable slap on the back. “She’s already spoilt the upholstery in my car.”

Ned shook hands with Bill and Stuart, then he walked over to Andrew. In a hushed, mean tone he said: “The Wobblers are gonna get their mascot back.”

It was Wednesday’s meeting in the charity office, and Bill’s eyes twinkled as he pored over the accounts.

“Six grand,” he announced with a whistle. “Nearly half of it proceeds from the gunge booth.”

“Glad I could be so lucrative,” Sarah said sulkily. She sat in a marine-blue halter dress. Her blonde hair, which had once reached proudly to her mid-back, had been cropped to ear-length; that was all that could be salvaged. Her skin retained a warm red glow from laboured scrubbing with a pumice stone. She was still finding blades of grass in various nooks and crannies.

“You dominated the local press, too,” Stuart said more sternly, taking out a copy of the Wamsey Enquirer. Sarah bleated; she’d already seen the headline and the humiliating photo in newsagents’ displays, but it pained her no less to see it again.

Stuart began to read: “Police attended an incident Saturday afternoon…”

“Oh please don’t!” whined Sarah, but her brother showed no mercy.

“…outside the Wamsey Warriors’ ground. Sarah Bishop, 28, of Berkeley Drive, was found tied to the railings in a state of partial undress, her body covered in glue and grass-cuttings. Ms Bishop was arrested for breach of the peace, public indecency, and littering. She was held in custody overnight…

“Held in custard, more like,” chuckled Andrew.

“…but charges were dropped on the understanding she would clean up the mess caused. Ms Bishop alleged that members of rival team Wamsey Harlequins were responsible for her state, having mistaken her for a Warriors supporter. However, police found no evidence linking the Harlequins to the scene. The Enquirer notes that Ms Bishop had earlier been dressed lewdly at a charity event at the Harlequins ground (see page 12). A young man, who asked to remain anonymous, told our reporter that Ms Bishop has a long history of exhibitionism…

Andrew stifled a snigger as he perused his phone. Ned had sent him a photo of Sarah’s ruined bra, taking pride of place in a display case in the Harlequins’ clubhouse. The police’s search for evidence couldn’t have been very thorough.

“It’s ridiculous!” griped Sarah. “How could I have tied myself up?”

Stuart wasn’t interested in her excuses. “Thanks to your antics getting plastered on the front page,” he said sourly, “our fundraiser was relegated to page twelve.” He turned to the spread, which featured further photos of Sarah’s afternoon ignominy, many of them contributed by Andrew.

“It’s a pity we can’t hold a simple charity event without you making a scandal,” Bill chimed in.

“Are for you real?” Sarah was nearing tears at the lack of sympathy shown by her family. “After all I’ve been through! It was your stupid idea to have this gunge booth, and you lied to me about it! I’m the victim here!”

Stuart rolled his eyes. “If only I had a violin, I’d play a sad tune.”

“We can play Auntie’s kettle-drums instead,” said Andrew. “Bom bom, bom bom!” He pretended to drum on the tops of Sarah’s knockers. Sarah yelped; even though he had only tapped lightly, her skin was sensitive from the aforementioned scrubbing. Bill and Stuart chuckled.

Sarah jumped to her feet. “That’s the last straw! I’m leaving!”

“Not so fast.” Her dad blocked the exit. He gestured to a table bearing three sloppy cream pies, which Sarah had somehow failed to notice.

“These were left over from Mrs Creedie’s cake stall,” explained Bill. “She wanted them to go to a good home.”

“That’s easy enough!” Andrew picked up a pie and rammed it into Sarah’s front. Cream exploded in her cleavage, coating her upper chest and the blue dress over both boobs. Sarah began to sob.

“Oh pipe down!” her brother sneered, nailing her in the face with the second pie.

Blinded and blubbering, Sarah shoved past the trio, making for the door. Bill snatched up the third and final pie. “This is for staining the seats in my car!” he scolded, slapping the confection hard against her rear on her way out.

The men watched from the window as Sarah fled down the driveway, her cream-coated bum waggling. Reaching her car, she rifled through her handbag with increasing agitation, eventually tipping its contents to the ground. She slumped against the car, pummelling the roof with frustrated fists.

“Would you Adam and Eve it?” Andrew smirked with that wicked innocence he’d perfected, his fingers clasping a small item in his pocket. “Auntie’s lost her keys again!”


Posted in Food (fights), Pies, Stories, Water | 2 Comments