A few home truths

Written by Shaun Ferguson

Friday, 22 June 2007


The story you are trying to access may cause offense, may be in poor taste, or may contain subject matter of a graphic nature. This story was written as a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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Since I started writing for "The Spoof" I have had many emails asking me about my background, education and so on. Therefore I thought I would pen a few lines of bio here to placate my fan club.

I admit that I am not quite as young as my profile says. My voice dropped an octave two years ago and I now look at sex as something to try with another person, rather than just on my own. However I will be in my teens for a while yet and I guess I have plenty of time to explore those kinda things.

I said here somewhere that I want to save my purity until I am co-habitating and that would be just fine.

I started life on a crisp Christmas morning in the countryside of Southern England. There was plenty of room at the inn and, whether or not the stars were shimmering brightly in the night sky is not something you really notice in an English winter.

Dad was then serving in the Navy and had enough scrambled egg on his epaulettes to feed an army. Or a whole bunch of hungry sailors.

Mum had been a school ma'am but was now concentrating her efforts on raising sprogs and keeping our estate in good order. Well, it wasn't actually an estate, more a small house on the banks of the river in a particularly pretty area of backwoods.

I don't remember much about my early years, except what has been passed down in family reminiscences, of which I am highly suspicious.

At age five I was writing leading articles for the local newspaper, which is more a reflection on its quality than my skills. However at six-and-a-half (or it may been half-past-six) I accepted an invitation from the then new owner, Robert Maxwell to succeed the editor, who had been relieved of his position to his great relief.

Robert, or "Mr Maxwell sir" as he had us call him, was a flamboyant figure. Always seeming to wear clothes he had outgrown, his large figure cast a formidable shadow over every last corner of his gigantic empire.

So it was at the princely sum of £15 a week, paid to me in cash in a brown envelope each Friday, I joined his hallowed domain, not knowing or much caring that in a short time I was to play a part in his early demise which, until the publication of this composition has remained a dark secret.

I had been in his payroll for some 3 months when I was invited on a fishing trip on his plastic yacht. Apparently he was expecting the company of some American actor who for reasons unknown to me had expressed a desire to be introduced since my blurred photograph after a local rugby match had appeared on the front page.

In the event the Hollywood star was a no-show and "Bob sir" and I went out alone.

He spent most of the day fishing off the back of the craft and boasting to me about the size of his previous catches and the simple minds of city bankers who were apparently oblivious to his precarious financial position.

At some point in the trip I was in the galley cooking up his year-end accounts, when he shouted for another g and t. I poured the drink and rushed up the wonky ladder balancing the glass on a plastic tray, only to trip over the laces of the new deck shoes mum had bought me for the occasion, as I arrived on the top step. As I lost my footing I fell arse over face and landed at his feet. At that moment he was standing up and grappling with such a feisty catch I thought he must have snagged a submarine.

Maxwell jerked forward, tumbled over my prostrate body and fell with a mighty splash into the sea.

I suppose I should have told someone. Asked for a helicopter, some kind of search party or something. When you look back at an event it's easy to see what you should have done. At the time I was scared of getting fired so I ripped off my shirt, dived in the water and swam ashore.

I would have apologised to someone, but in all reality no one seemed particularly bothered and everyone I spoke to was rather pleased, so I kept the whole story to myself until today. I did own up to Max Clifford about a year ago when I was hard up for tuition fees, but he dismissed the whole thing as a lie and told me to "bugger off". I think he was still sulking over my claims of a sex romp with Arnold Schwarzenegger. I had been so certain he was gay.

Anyway, back to my bio.

After the local rag was wound up by the liquidators I concentrated myself on schoolwork and managed a place at Oxford where I am now studying for a degree in genetic engineering and rocket science. I have always fancied myself a writer so when I came across "the Spoof" a few weeks ago I decided to give it a try. Little did I know that within days I was to become their top writer with millions of points a day flying in to my credit.

You wont know about my writing success from the stats they publish here. My prowess has been a closely guarded secret known only by the editor-in-chief Mark Lowton. The superficial appearance that other contributors are doing better than me is the complex result of scientific algorithms and cash bungs that I wont go into.

So that brings me up to date. My current ambitions are to gain my degree, loose my virginity and climb Mount Everest, but two of the three would satisfy me immensely.

Before re-charging my laptop I just want to answer some of the questions that have been raised in my fan mail to "the Spoof". I can't answer anyone directly because I am under strict instructions from my parents not to engage in emailing or any other cyber-communication with strangers, in case some innocent sounding school girl from Streatham turns out to be a rabid serial killer. How a little girl could commit such dastardly deeds is beyond me and must surely be a figment of their over protective imagination, but so long as they are clothing and feeding me I had better follow instructions. Navel officers can get quite tetchy after a few tots of rum, as I have often been reminded.

To Sunshine in Las Vegas, NV- I am slim in build, six feet one in height and I have blonde hair and blue eyes.

To Sally in Richmond, VA - I enjoy rap and house, with a dab of garage.

To Simon in London, UK - Get a life.

To Gordon Brown in Downing Street, London, UK - Cook your own blessed books. I don't care how complimentary Robert Maxwell was, I am strictly legit now.

And finally to the lovely Rita in Glasgow, Scotland - Thanks for the photograph, I don't know which way up to hold it but it is far more illuminating than anything I saw in biology class.

23 June 2007

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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