Week of 29/04/2007 - 1:00am to 06/05/2007 - 12:59am

Mrs Pussy went to the barn to tend to her Stallion Arthur. A strident virile beast was he, of reputable pedigree and enormous heritage, though he was in clear need of a wash after a strenuous day of working in the fields. Mrs Pussy grabbed her oiled brush and began rubbing it against his long flowing tail. Arthur nodded his head in approval of this sumptuous treatment, whinnying and neighing lightly. She ran the brush all the way over his luxuriant coat, adorned with trinkets garnered over years of excellent service. Her smooth pampered fingers spidered all along the frame of his overwhelmingly muscular physique, in a tender, yet strangely sensual fashion.

She had always wondered what it would be like, to give him more than just a wash.

A surge of sexual daring swelled in her proud bosom. Mrs Pussy suddenly took her hand and placed it between Arthur's toned thighs, clamouring for the horse meat that had fascinated her for so long. However, as she did this, Arthur's hooves had started unbuttoning her sheet white blouse. Standing in only jodphurs and bra, she looked into Arthurs eyes, and he into hers. Then their mouths enveloped in a haze of sexual frenzy and lust. With a flick of his left hoof, the hinge connecting her silky bra had become undone. Her smooth milky-white breasts spilled away from their laced cage, prompting Arthur to give a neigh of approval. He started gnawing at her tender brown nipples, working his way down her gasping, electrified body. All the while, she was stroking his considerable horsey cock, all the time getting faster and more intense with her wrist movements.

Then, with a desperate yank of his jaw, he ripped off her jodphurs, wringing wet with sexual frenzy and horse phlegm. In an instant, she was completely naked. By this point, Arthur had climbed over his stable door and had started getting more rampant. He worked his enormous tongue down her body, eventually taking residence between the yawning honeypot twixt her splayed thighs. After a few minutes voracious tongueing, Arthur realigned his position a little higher, placing his considerable horsehood closer to Mrs Pussy's...er... pussy. He then started to inject his smooth long shaft into Mrs Pussy. Arthur started off gently, but as Mrs Pussy's womanhood began to become accustomed to his girth, he turned into a relentless horse-shaped sex machine.

Mrs Pussy was on fire. This was the most erotic moment she had experienced since Kojak. No man had made her feel like this before. She had never experienced the power of an orgasm brought upon by the penis of a man. Tendering ever closer to that perfect moment, she yelled louder and louder. The muscles in her vagina started contorting, clamping ever harder on Arthur's pump-action horsey shotgun.

Oh! She was so close, she could feel it coming faster and faster and faster! She rubbed her breasts desperately and held her thighs aloft in expectation of the great moment, only seconds away...

Then James Bond came in and summoned some crows to peck them to death.

An old woman my grandmother used to know, she'd spend her days just sitting in her chair. She'd sit and sit and sit and sit and she'd never get up, but to visit the toilet next door. They'd have to feed her, and they'd have to move her mouth for her, chew for her. She was terribly lonely following the death of her husband.

Perhaps it wasn't simple loneliness. She'd have visitors, but she wouldn't make them a buffet. She'd just sit in her chair and nod, feigning interest in their mutterings and small talk. She found them tedious. No one could live up to her husband and his musings; "Why don't they make cars out of crisps? Then you could eat while you drove." She was missing that special one who made it all worthwhile.

Then a tiger came to live with her, and she started enjoying life again, and at one point they got really close when they were drunk, but she got quite scratched up and they agreed to curb their physical desires to save the relationship.

* * * * *

...but her husband - missing for three years, presumed dead - he'd returned! It turned out he'd taken a wrong turn at Tesco roundabout!

The tiger answered the door. The two males locked eyes.

She appeared behind the tiger. "Rrr-r-r...Richard? Richard?!"

"Darling, what is this... a... a tiger?! Why is there a tiger in my house? Also, have you ever wondered why they don't make bigger post it notes?"

The tiger began to growl. "Growl." She grabbed the tiger by the collar. "Stop it! Stop it!"

It was no good, the tiger was struggling to break free, and she wouldn't be able to hold it for long.

"Maureen, why the hell is there a tiger here? Maureen! MAUREEN! Order this tiger to back down! Do tigers even growl anyway, I thought that more of a bear thing? Order this tiger to back down!"

Maureen exchanged glances with the tiger, and then her husband, in turn.

She let go.

"Maureeeeeen, nooooo! The tiger is biting my leg, argh! This really hurts! Argh, now it's got me cock! MAUUURRREEEEN! Maureen, what is it with pens, you put them in your pocket one way and they leak, the other and the flow dries up? Argh, now he's got my head inbetween his jaws and is slowly increasing the pressure placed upon't! ARRRRGH! Oooh, left a bit. Oooh, mmmm. Mmmm. Oh no, too hard, TOO HARD! ARRRGH! AAARRRRRGH!"

* * * * *

Later, at the dinner table, she put her fork down and thought about what she had done. Her tiger rubbed his head against her breast, reassuringly (and slightly sexually, he wanted some action after today's events). Feeling suitably reassured, she picked up her fork once again and tucked into her husband's leg.

...but it wasn't just any leg - it was her HUSBAND'S LEG!

What is a man? What actions define our masculinity? Is it the choices we make? The people we know? The things we create? There are many facets that contribute to the spiritual mortar at the base of the structure of man.

Boris Yeltsin was not just mortar. He was brick, cement, windows, conservatory and en suite bathroom. And bidet. A Titan amongst insects, he drifted rudderless amongst a wide sargasso sea of capitalist domination, making his own brave way in a world of cowards.

It was a journey he started in 1914. Born on the day Archduke Ferdinand was decapitated by a bear, (an event which triggered World War 1) there was no time for teething for young Boris. As soon as he was whipped out of his mothers womb, a gun was placed in his hand and he was shipped off to Germany to fight the bears. Quickly gaining a reputation as a sharpshooter, comedian and serial womaniser, young Boris made himself many friends, and many more enemies.

Three years later, at the age of 3, he led a mere 300 soldiers against a mass of Persian mercenaries under the orders of the rapidly dwindling bear threat, numbering in the millions. However, the other 300 soldiers, fearing for their lives, fled like a bunch of pussies. Young Boris though, stood his ground. Armed with only a flickknife, a small Walther PPK, and a Panzer Tank armed with a plasma cannon, he cut a bloody swathe through the Persian forces in about half an hour. These events inspired the modern blockbuster movie 'Hudson Hawk.'

Shortly after the end of the 1st World War, Boris went to live in the jungle to find himself. Little did he know however, that a mere 21 years later he'd be called back into action for World War 2.  Now at 25 years old, the full vision of a man (with a beard and everything) he led the allied forces against the evil threat of Wasps, led by the dastardly Turok Hitler.

6 years, and a body count of 8 billion wasps later, Yeltsin was crowned a true champion and the real winner of World War 2. However, his fighting days were clearly over, as he had been stung by a wasp on the leg, an injury that rendered him unable to fight for the rest of his days.

Boris continued his battles though, albeit in the political field. Marking himself as a political firebrand in the same way as Michael Collins, Rob Roy and Mel Gibson, Yeltsin led his native Russia to glories previously thought impossible. He sent them to Space first, gave them the vote and introduced them all to the money saving scheme of cannibalism.

However, though Boris led Russia onto a golden path, he did not join his beloved country on it. Though practically perfect, he was privvy to one terrible terrible vice: Um Bongo. Boris developed an addiction to Um Bongo shortly after his fighting days finished, in an attempt to replicate the excitement felt when throttling a man. His severe addiction turned him from the bearded colossus he was, to a mere ruddy faced chimp. As such, he was ousted from his political role and replaced by Dobbie the House Elf, who has turned Boris's great visions into a mere turd of their former selves.

It was his addiction to Um Bongo that led to his untimely death at the age of 117. He was hit by an Um Bongo truck whilst nipping out to Spar for a loaf.

Boris is survived by his wife Murray Brady, and his two dogs, also named Boris.

President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

Age: 57

Spouse: Guy Siner.

Strengths: Steely determination, master strategist, ruthless leader, sensible jackets.

Weaknesses: Cyanide, black pussy.

Weapons: Disarms with wit, kills with sexy.

Favourite food: Findus crispy pancakes floating in a sea of Ragu original pasta sauce.

Notable quote: “If Paris Hilton thinks that pedal-pushers and a pair of patent leather mules are still where it's at this season then I am happy for her, I am.  But I know, and you know, that it's got to be a knee-length a-line and toeless kitten-heels for Summer 07."