On the site that was roomybonce.com I used to write various pieces which imagined Denis Norden as the Angel of Death. Each month he would interview recently departed celebrities as he guided them across the River Styx. Here’s the old intro for it:
If you’re ‘one of those people’ who thought the Grim Reaper was a constipated member of the Amish community, then you’ll probably enjoy these selections from my own personal diary of disaster, in which the lately lamented reflect on those moments in which they were caught in flagrante delicto with various friends, family members, and barnyard animals, or, as we in the business call them, ‘cock-ups’
Later on we’ll be seeing the most embarrassing occasions on which I, as the Angel of Death who will one day come for you all, attempted to prematurely reap the souls of those whose time had not yet come, or, to put it another way, those instances in which I was the one who corpsed.
But just before we usher in the ads, here’s a few words of wisdom from my ageless bony maw. If you ever wondered what was on my clipboard then know now that it is your name, and the name of everyone you’ve ever known, that I take down as I stare through the screen into your very soul while you guffaw at Pauline Quirke walking into a door, you gap-toothed cretin.
See you after the break.
I always thought that wasn’t bad, but the actual pieces proved more & more difficult to write as they became increasingly more & more scatalogical and less & less pornographic. I’d like to keep the pick of them here for old time’s sake, but give ‘em a read by all means. Richard Whiteley’s certainly made me chuckle.
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RICHARD WHITELEY O.B.E.
“Richard, good day to you and welcome to your final journey to Hades.”
“And good day to you sir.”
“Now, I have to ask you this first of all, as it’s been the issue in which most succubae have been interested. I hope it’s not too private a matter for you to discuss -”
“Well, it hardly matters now does it?”
“Exactly, and may I say how gratifying it is to see a soul so recently reaped accept his fate so swiftly.”
“My pleasure Dennis. Now, what was the question…?”
“Of course. The question is this: Did you and Carol ever ‘get it on’, as it were?”
“Ha! by which, I take it, you mean did we ever make The Beast with Two Backs?”
“Indeed.”
“Ho ho, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I’m afraid I have to say that our relationship was largely platonic.”
“Largely?”
“There was just the one occasion – I suppose there’s no harm in talking about it now.”
“Certainly not. Particularly as everything you’ve ever known is about to be extracted by barb-fingered demons intent on combine harvesting your genitals for all eternity. ”
“Oh, well, if that’s the case – ha ha – it was after the finger buffet to celebrate our 3000th show. Carol & I had both partaken of the complementary Grand Marnier – thank you very much Channel 4 – and er, we were, shall we say-”
“Pissed.”
“Yes – ”
“Hammered.”
“Definitely – ”
“Ratarsed.”
“You could say that. I’d prefer ‘jolly’ Yes, we were both very jolly, which is why, I suppose, she consented to anal sex.”
“Good lord!”
“My words precisely. Anyway we took a taxi to her Docklands Penthouse, and, er, I can honestly say I’d never known a journey so laden with expectation.”
“I can imagine.”
“Once we got inside we were at it like knives faster than you could say Jack Robinson.”
“Naturally.”
“The problem was, never having had much experience of, erm, interfacing, as it were, my, er, bald-headed hermit with a lady’s loonhole.”
“By which you mean anal sex?”
“Yes, not having had much of that I did a bit of research beforehand, on the off chance. Luckily, through Gyles and Richard Stilgoe, I had managed to garner a few words of wisdom on lubrication from a number of young gentlemen more familiar with the fickle nature of the Rusty Sheriff’s Badge.”
“By which you mean the anus?”
“Yes, they’d recommended a certain lubricant – I wonder if you’re familiar with it? Astroglide?”
“I’m sorry Richard, the word means nothing to me.”
“After what I’m about to impart you’ll consider that a blessing Dennis, believe you me. Ha ha! Anyway, where was I? Oh yes – did I mention that Martin Jarvis had followed us in a minicab?” 
“I think you skipped over that bit. Why, pray?”
“I just wanted him to capture the moment, purely for Countdown history you understand. Otherwise I doubt anyone would have believed me, do you? Anyway, while Carol was getting her coat back at the buffet I’d buttonholed Martin and told him to bring his new digital camcorder – a little wonder of miniaturisation, by the way – then, while she was powdering her nose at her penthouse I snuck him in – ha ha! – and hid him in the bedroom cupboard.”
“You cheeky devil!”
“Poor Carol never suspected, at first.”
“Go on.”
“Well, she put a bit of Barry Manilow on and we were soon bodyslamming to ‘Copacabana’ till she was frothing like a rabid Shirehorse. Fortunately ‘Mandy’ then brought us down to a far more sultry level, and I sensed the magic moment might be approaching. As I assumed it was Carol’s ‘first time’ I thought it wise to use quite a bit of this ‘Astroglide’ oil, so, as the intro to ‘Could It Be Magic’ swelled the room with romantic expectation and she finally offered up her chocolate tea-towel holder, I jammed the bottle in and squeezed rather over-enthusiastically. Ha, I must have half emptied the 4oz bottle into her, then the rest onto my old chap. I only learned later that one bottle usually lasts the average homosexual 6 months”
“Oh dear.”
“Oh dear indeed, ha ha. Anyway, predictably everything went very smoothly at first. Carol was a little tense, but with an Exxon Valdez size load spilled into her poop chute she quickly loosened up and got into it. I liked it too; it had a different feel to it. Not as good as vaginal sex, a little grainy, a tad tight, but still very nice. Before I knew it I was cavorting within her like the apocalypse was imminent, burying it to the hilt with impunity. It took barely five minutes for the vinegar strokes to kick in, at which point I really began thrusting like the Flying Scotsman. But then I’m afraid excitement got the best of me – I pulled out too far and my Little Richard flooped out of her fudge tunnel. I scrambled for my slippery bishop, but before I could slip it back in I heard a faint “psssst” sound and felt something wet and warm hit my crotch. It was fairly dark in the room (Carol loved candle light) so after I looked down it took me a few seconds to realize that my genitalia appeared to be covered in a viscous black liquid. I stopped moving and stared at my strangely coloured crotch for a good five seconds, completely confused, until I realized what happened, to which I could only enquire “Did you…did you just…shit on my dick?”
“As Barry Took said to Colin Farrell.”
“Oh yes! Ha ha ha. Now where was I?”
“Carol Vorderman had just shat on your one eyed jack.”
“Yes! Well, I reached down to touch the liquid faeces, still in complete and utter disbelief that my long time companion had shot explosive diarrhoea on my penis, when, without warning, the smell hit me. I have a very sensitive nose, and I have never been more repulsed by a smell in my life. The combination of the synthetic lubricant and rancid stench of raw faecal matter combined to turn my stomach, which was already full of sausage rolls and Grand Marnier. I tried to hold it back, I really did everything I could to stop myself, but there are certain physical reactions that are beyond conscious control. Before I knew what I was doing, it just came out: “BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”
I’m afraid I vomited all over Carol’s arse. She turned her head, said, “Richard, what are you doing?,” saw me vomiting on her, screamed “Oh my God!,” and immediately joined me: “BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”
Watching her throw up made me vomit even more. Her vomiting all over the bed, me vomiting on her arse, the next step was almost inevitable.
I heard the loud CRASH first, and turned to see poor Martin Jarvis break through the shutters and rip the closet door off as he, the dvcam, and the door tumbled out of the closet and crashed onto the floor next to us:
“BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”
The memory of the two second span where all three of us were vomiting at once is permanently seared into my brain. I have never heard anything like that symphony of sickness. It was like something out of the old Pink Panther movies.
I think the crowning moment was when my eyes locked with Carol’s, and I caught her moment of realization. Her shock and surprise quickly shifted to complete and irreparable anger. Between bouts of hurling she flipped out:
“OH MY GOD–BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH–YOU FILMED THIS, YOU ARSEHOLE– BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH– HOW COULD YOU– BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH–I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME–BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH–OH MY GOD– BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH–I LET YOU POKE ME IN THE BUM–BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH.”
She tried to stand up, slipped on the huge puddle of backflow Astroglide on the bed, and fell into both my pile and her pile of vomit, covering her body and hair in vomit, shit and anal lubricant. She flailed on the bed for a second, grabbed the top sheet, wrapped it around her, and started running from her room. Still naked and retching, my old fellow covered in cack and oil, I followed her as far as the front door. My last image of that night was of Carol collapsing in the lift, a shit, vomit and grease stained sheet clinging to her body as the doors slid mercifully shut on the gruesome tableaux.
I have to say that the atmosphere in the studio the next day was rather fruity.”
“Thank you for that charming vignette Richard, and welcome to hell.”
*This interview was adapted from a blog entry at tuckermax.com, the original source having already been made available to a wider readership through those wonderful fellows at b3ta. Roomybonce gives thanks to all concerned.
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RONNIE BARKER O.B.E.
“Good to see you again Ronnie. I’d like to say that I’m sorry for your demise, but I must confess to being secretly ecstatic at the thought of ushering your particular comedic soul into Satan’s charge.”
“That’s alright Denis, The Lord may be a shoving leopard -”
“Loving shepherd.”
“- but, as you well know, Hell is where the true dinner swells -”
“Sinner dwells.”
”- and so here I am, being rathered at the giver -”
“Gathered at the river.”
”- so the devil can inflict eternal purgery on my soul.”
”Oh I’m sure he will.”
”Fortunately I’ve always been partial to a spot of sick demon. Ninja Gut?”
“No thanks, I’ve never been a biscuit man. Ronnie, can we please speak English for a moment, or at least long enough for you to tell me in which way you, of all people, consider yourself to be a sinner?”
”Denis, I’ve always been an optimist. There’s always been a great deal of soap in my hole -”
”Ronnie, please.”
”- but I never thought any God could forgive me for what Ronnie & I did to Elaine Paige.”
”Oh? Do tell.”
“It was Christmas 1982 at the BBC. We were on a break between sketches and Elaine was getting ready to do her musical number.”
“It wasn’t ‘Memory’ from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s anthropomorphical musical ‘Cats’ by any chance?”
“Yes Denis, it was. It was always bloody ‘Memory’ from sodding ‘Cats’. She never sang anything else as far as I can remember, and I think I’m now safe in saying that I considered her a bit of a lazy bitch for doing so. And the same goes for Barbra Dickson and ‘January, February’”
“And Marti Webb with ‘Take That Look Off Your Face’ no doubt?”
“Yes, lazy bitches, the lot of them. One year I was round David Jason’s house for dinner and he played me a glorious song by one of those new ‘punk’ bands – David called them ‘The Dead Kennedys’ – and I tried to get Barbra to sing that on our next show.”
“Do you remember the song?”
“‘Too Drunk to Fuck’ I think it was called. Anyway she wouldn’t have it, the lazy bitch.”
“Pity”
“Anyway, the ‘Elaine Incident’, as we came to know it, began when there was an unforeseen lull in recording our Christmas special. Dear old Auntie Beeb had really pushed the boat out with the studio buffet – mountains of roast potatoes, a dozen turkeys with all the trimmings, and flagons & flagons of mulled wine – so by the end of the break we were all quite merry.”
”You were shitfaced.”
“Very much so. Elaine was particularly plastered, which is why, I suppose, she consented to orally accommodate Little Ronnie’s ‘Little Ronnie’.”
“By which you mean she chose to play your partner’s pink oboe?”
“Exactly. The floor manager had already popped his head round the door so she was against the clock, but she worked like a trooper, god bless her, and Little Ronnie had the wizard’s shoes in record time. Perhaps it was the wine, but on the spur of the moment, as she imbibed the last flob of his population paste, I decided to give her a Walrus.”
“A ‘Walrus’??”
“Yes, a short sharp chop either side of a lady’s neck as she swallows will invariably cause whatever manfat she’s swallowing to shoot up her nose and dribble out her nostrils, forming the characteristic two white horns by which the maneuver gets its name.”
“How ingenious.”
“So I thought, except, in this instance it didn’t appear to have worked. The floor manager came in to give us our final call while Elaine busied herself in the mirror and Little Ronnie tried to disguise the wet penny in his pocket. I watched her like a hawk as she piled on the slap but couldn’t spot a single bubble of nostril froth. Needless to say, I was somewhat crestfallen.”
“I can imagine your disappointment.”
“I’m afraid I fell back on the oldest practical joke in the book. As she walked to the dressing room door I offered her a mug of hot chocolate, to help wash away the bitter taste of Little Ronnie’s jitler.”
“It wasn’t hot chocolate was it Ronnie.”
“No Denis, it was melted Ex Lax.”
“Oh dear.”
“She gratefully drained the mug, wiped her mouth and stepped out before a live studio audience to sing her signature number like the consummate professional she is. Part of me desperately hoped she’d get through it without incident, but it was not to be.”
“That’s not going to save your soul old friend. How far did she get?”
“The bridge into the third verse – “Every street lamp seems to beat, a fatal-is-tic waaar-niiiiing…” On that last note I saw Elaine’s face spasm and her hand fly to her stomach. She disguised it, of course, as a dramatic gesture, but I could tell she was in trouble. A shiver went through the audience when her legs began to tremble and she started to visibly sweat. Maybe they thought they were watching TV gold minted before their very eyes, or perhaps they felt privileged to be witnessing the magical moment when a singer becomes truly one with a song, I don’t know. I only know that they couldn’t have been more wrong than in that split second before the Walrus kicked in and the twin horns of Little Ronnie’s spooge began to weave their way through Elaine’s downy moustache. And then, as she perfectly struck that top note – ‘Touch meeeee, it’s so easy to leave meeeeee” – her bowels voided with a ferocity that billowed her dress behind her like a mainsail in a gale. But never once did her voice waver! Never once did she lose that plaintive gaze into camera, even as the fetid stench of her diarrhea breaking over the audience caused half of them to fill their shoes with spew. No, she refused to buckle until the last note faded from her lungs, at which point she span around and sprinted offstage, her high kicking heels spraying the front row with her dripping excreta. ”
“Sounds like a show stopper.”
“Indeed it was, but at least it was the last we heard of fucking ‘Memory’.”
“Thank you Ronnie, and welcome to Hell.”
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CHARLIE DRAKE, THE GODFATHER OF SOUL, JAMES BROWN, and MAGNUS MAGNUSSON
Magnus Magnusson: Good evening, and welcome to this special edition of Mastermind. This week we’re coming from the smouldering banks of Hades, and before we start I’d like to thank Lucifer and his diabolic hordes for allowing us access to their glorious vault of horrific never-ending death. Now without further ado, may we have our first contestant please. And your name is?
Charlie Drake: Charlie Drake.
MM: Occupation?
CD: Pint-sized post war funnyman.
MM: And your specialist subject?
CD: The Life & Work of John Holmes, pornographic actor, 1965 to 1986
MM: Charlie Drake, you have one minute on the life & work of pornographic actor John Holmes 1965 to 1986, starting…now. Which 1973 brochure first advertised several porn ‘loops’ that featured John Holmes but credited him only as ‘Big Dick’?
CD: Swedish Erotica.
MM: Correct. In which 1985 superhero spoof did Holmes play one half of a well-endowed dynamic duo?
CD: ‘Dickman & Throbbin’
MM: Correct. In the films ‘Liquid Lips’, ‘Teenage Cowgirls’, ‘Tapestry of Passion’, and ‘Female Athletes’ what was the name of the private eye character, played by Holmes, and based on Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe?
CD: Johnny Wadd.
MM: Correct. Holmes made only twenty seven sequels in his career, but in which two films did he play Dr. Pecker?
CD: ‘Flesh & Laces’ and ‘Flesh & Laces 2′
MM: Correct. Which actress said of Holmes’s penis: “it was never hard. Having sex was like doing it with a big, soft kind of luffah”
CD: Ooooh, I know this one……Juliet ‘Aunt Peg’ Anderson?
MM: No, it was Annette Haven. Of the fifteen films Holmes made in 1979, name just one of the three in which he appeared uncredited.
CD: Pass.
MM: In which porn classic did the promotional tag line read “Tony ‘The Hook’ Perez has a dick so big that he gives even John Holmes a run for his money.”?
CD: ‘Anybody but My Husband’
MM: Correct. What was the stage name of the porn actress and so-called ‘anal sex queen’ who became Holmes’s second wife?
CD: Misty Dawn.
MM: Correct. Despite being an AIDS-riddled, cocaine-addled floppy cocksmith with a hand in several murders and a failing locksmiths business, for which charity did Holmes still find time to go door-to-door collecting?
CD: Greenpeace?
MM: Save the Whales. After contracting AIDS in 1986, Holmes continued to have unprotected sex in the adult film industry without informing any of his partners of his status, working until the disease emaciated him in 1987. Which notable female performer subsequently died of AIDS in 1993?
CD: Desiree Cousteau?
MM: Lisa DeLeeuw. What was the subtitle [weeoooweeoooweooo] I’ve started so I’ll finish. What was the subtitle of John Holmes Caballero Classic Series Volume One?
CD: ‘Let Me Count the Lays.’
MM: Correct. You passed on one. Of the fifteen films Holmes made in 1979, name just one of the three in which appeared uncredited. You could have had ‘Sissy’s Hot Summer’, ‘One Way at a Time’, or ‘Anal Ultra Vixens’.
CD: Awwww.
MM: And at the end of that round, Charlie Drake you have 7 points!
[applause]
MM: Now, may we have our next contestant please? Your name?
JB: James Brown.
MM: Occupation?
JB: The Hardest Working Man in Show Business.
MM: And your specialist subject?
JB: Wifebeatin’.
MM: James Brown, you have one minute on your specialist subject of wife beating, starting….now. In the World Health Organization’s multi-country Study on Women’s Health and Domestic Violence Against Women, what was the percentage of women who experienced physical violence in the Mbeya district of Tanzania in 2005 alone?
JB: I’m sorry could you repeat the question?
MM: In the World Health Organization’s multi-country Study on Women’s Health and Domestic Violence Against Women, what was the percentage of women who experienced physical violence in the Mbeya district of Tanzania in 2005 alone?
JB: Nineteen percent.
MM: Correct. In terms of domestic abuse, to what does the acronym I.P.V. refer?
JB: ‘Intimate Partner Violence’
MM: Correct. What is the American slang term for a sleeveless undershirt, such as that worn by Bruce Willis in the Die Hard movies?
JB: Wifebeater.
MM: Correct. In relation to the use of the term ‘wifebeater’ to describe a sleeveless undershirt, which organization, founded in 1966, protests that ‘the implication is that wife beating is not viewed as sufficiently serious to lift it above the level of something that’s OK to joke about’?
JB: The National Organization for Women.
MM: Correct. Singer Anna Mae Bullock famously married a man who regularly wore black ‘wifebeaters’. What was her stage name?
JB: Aw man, that’s hard….Diana Ross?
MM: Tina Turner.
JB: Shit.
MM: American professional wrestler Chris Spradlin adopted the alias ‘Chris Hero’ in 2005. But what was his previous ring name, suggested by the sleeveless undershirt he wore when wrestling?
JB: ‘The Wife Beater.’
MM: Correct. In the terminology of spousal abuse, savagely beating your wife with a mop handle is known as ‘doing a’ what?
JB: Uuuuuuh….hey, it’s me, it’s ‘doin’ a James Brown’!
MM: Correct.
[weeoooweeoooweeooo]MM: And at the end of that round, James Brown, you have six points and no passes!
JB: Ow! I feel good….
[applause]
MM: Now if we can have our final contestant please. Your name?
Denis Norden: Denis Norden.
MM: Occupation?
DN: The Angel of Death.
MM: And your specialist subject?
DN: Your soul, Magnus.
MM: Denis Norden, you have one minute on My Soul starting…now. When I was eight my father, Sigurstein Magnusson, told me the legend of Thor. What form did Thor take in my sheet-soiling nightmares from that moment until boarding at Edinburgh Academy in 1935?
DN: He took the form of your nanny Ingrid, and your nocturnal ejaculation coincided with the climax of your dream, in which the head of Ingrid’s mighty hammer brushed your prostate.
MM: Correct. In 1949 I broke off an eight-month relationship with a young lady on the grounds that I was preparing for the clergy and had to keep myself pure. What was the real reason for my disengagement?
DN: She had an elliptical mole on the underside of her left buttock that physically repulsed you to the point of nausea.
MM: Correct. In 1942 our family dog, Njall, had to be put down after breaking his leg. As the only witness to the incident, my claim that Njall had fallen off a wall was widely believed, but what was the real reason for the fatal fracture?
DN: Njall had attempted to eat your sandwiches as you tried to enjoy the stillness on Arthur’s Seat. The second he rendered your lunch inedible you were seized by a blind fury that compelled you to repeatedly thrash the creature with your broad oak walking stick.
MM: Correct. As a trainee journalist at the Scottish Daily Express I was sent to the Gorbals to research a feature on poverty in Glasgow. What was the name of the family, which included five children under the age of ten, on whose behalf I promised to go straight home and write a letter to the City Council’s Chief Housing Officer?
DN: The Mclintocks.
MM: Correct. And did I go straight home and write that letter?
DN: No, you went down the West End and got pissed with the Sports Desk.
MM: Correct. Did I ever, in fact, write that letter?
DN: No.
MM: Correct. And the Mclintocks’ youngest child, Little Jimmy. What became of him?
DN: He died of Tuberculosis two months later.
MM: Correct. So…how do I see Little Jimmy today?
DN: In your dreams. Your son Siggy is holding his hand on Calton Hill. They are dancing around the columns of the National Monument, laughing at the sky.
MM:…..Correct. [weeoooweeoooweeoooo]
DN: I believe I have 8 points and no passes Magnus, making me tonight’s winner. Thank you very much for joining me, and welcome to Hell.