Keira Knightley, Emma Watson And Vinnie Jones In Bad Romance Love Triangle

Funny story written by Skoob1999

Sunday, 22 January 2012


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image for Keira Knightley, Emma Watson And Vinnie Jones In Bad Romance Love Triangle
Vinnie Jones Delivering A Sack Of Coal At Gazza's House Last Week.

Budding scriptwriter, Chester Swanage St-Ives, today revealed that he is preparing to embark upon a Hollywood trip, in order to promote his latest screenplay, 'The Manderley Romantic Menage a Trois Of Doomed Starcrossed Victorian Lovers High On Crack. (With Horses.)'

Starring Keira Knightley, Emma Watson, and Vinnie Jones, with cameos from Katie Price, Natasha Giggs, Bono out of U2, David Bowie, Selina Scott, Barbara Windsor, Woody Allen, Simon Pegg, Charlie Sheen and a CGI rendition of Basil Rathbone, and Nigel Bruce out of the old black and white Sherlock Holmes films.

"I've struck gold with this one," Chester Swanage St-Ives told a reporter from The Dorking Review. "It's worth millions is this. I've got a contact in Hollywood who lives along a watchtower, somewhere between where he's going to and where he's been, and all points in between, at least as things are and most likely will be. I won't go into detail, but his name's John Peurach, and what he doesn't know about La-La Land isn't worth knowing. He's my point of entry. In as much as portals go, which is either an open or closed book, depending which way you look at it. It helps in this case, if you squint while you're reading it. But not for too long, as you could suffer permanent eye damage. And possibly get a headache."

Further enquiries revealed that the script, isn't in fact a script at all, but a novel, which Chester Swanage St-Ives is proposing to pare down into a workable screenplay.

Providing the price is right.

Following threats of violence to his person, his family, his cat, and his pet gerbils, Chester Swanage St-Ives allowed Skoob Entertainment News a sneak preview of what will possibly be Hollywood's next Oscar winning blockbuster franchise.

Or not.

It goes something like this:


Vinnie Jones stood by the rain-lashed window as a storm raged outside, his lantern jaw silhoutted against the lightning streaked night sky. His manly stubble upstanding, in the manner of stubble. All masculine and testosterone fueled.

Not to mention, a bit bristly.

Rumbling thunderclaps rocked the very foundations of Manderley, Vinnie's ancient, medieval, post-modernist, minimalist ancestral pile, located on the wild and windy North Norfolk moors.

A log fire roared in the hearth, its flames licking the logs lasciviously. It crackled, hissed and spat, as Vinnie read over and over again the message that had just been delivered.

"That's no way for a fire to behave," Vinnie said. "All that crackling, hissing and spitting - shameful. Sort it out Hoskins."

"Yes Melud," Vinnie's loyal retainer, Bob Hoskins said. In a gruff Cockney accent. "I dunno wot's up wiv it tonight sir. It seems to be a bit of a barsted this e'en. I reckon a good twattin' wiv der poker oughta sort it...somefink wrong Melud?"

"I'll say," Vinnie Jones said, as the storm outside rattled the windows in their frames and shook the foundations to their very foundations.

"Wot is it boss?" Bob Hoskins enquired as he paused in his twatting of the roaring log fire.

"A troublesome matter, Hoskins," Vinnie Jones said, thoughtfully. As if to prove to some higher power that thought was not a singularly alien concept to his thought processing capabilities.

"A troublesome matter Melud?" Hoskins frowned. His eyebrows not quite meeting in the middle as he did so. Unlike the brothers who used to be in Oasis. The ones known as the Monobrowed Burnage Hillbillies.

Which was a mighty relief to all concerned.

None moreso than the fire, which had only just ceased its angry crackling, hissing and spitting, after being severely twatted with the poker by Hoskins.

"Troublesome indeed, my faithful retainer," Vinnie Jones said, as his eyes glittered in the firelight. Like hot coals. Which is not probably the best example of a literary analogy. As hot coals generally glow red.

"Anthracite!" Hoskins exclaimed.

"Do wot Bob?"

"Your eyes, Melud," Hoskins grovelled. "Hanfracite would have bin a better hanalogy sah. Freshly mined hanfracite."

"Hoskins, my faithful retainer," Vinnie Jones sighed resignedly. "I fink the word you're looking for is obsidian."

"Really Melud?" Hoskins arched a quizzical eyebrow.

"Yes Hoskins. Really. If it's good enough for Stephen King, it should suffice for you. Besides," Vinnie Jones added. "He's much taller than you. He's five foot nineteen or something. If Wikipedia is to be believed."

"Yes, Melud. Hov course."

At which point there was a knock on the door, by way of the huge brass lion's head doorknocker.

"I shall go," Hoskins muttered.

"Too right you will," Vinnie Jones hissed. "It's what I pay you for. Answering doors, bringing me tea, and listening to me interminable drivel."

"Yes Melud, certainly Melud," Hoskins said, tugging on an imaginary forelock, on account of being shaven about the napper.

He returned moments later, accompanied from the hallway by two gentlemen dressed in the finest of Victorian/Edwardian/70s glam rock finery.

"Presentin' Mistah Basil Rathbone, and Doctor Nigel Havers, Melud. The world's greatest detective, and his bumbling sidekick." Hoskins announced, as a tall gaunt man wearing a deerstalker, and a portly gentleman wearing a starched bowler entered the room.

"It's Bruce, not Havers," snapped the man in the starched bowler, somewhat grumpily.

"Beggin' yer parsnip sah," said Hoskins. "High stand corrected. Mistah Nigel Rathbone, and Doctor Bruce Havers Nigel sumfink or other."

"Hmmm....not perfect, but an improvement of sorts," harrumphed Doctor Bruce Havers Nigel sumfink or other.

Haughtily. In an extremely hoity toity way.

"Not you again..." Vinnie Jones, the former Wibmeldon (sic) midfield enforcer groaned. "And in platform shoes?"

"I present myself on the arse of a dilemma!" Basil Rathbone announced. "And I come to offer a solution! For a small fee of course."

"I don't do dilemmas," Vinnie Jones snarled menacingly. "I don't 'old wiv 'avin fings stuck up me jacksie. Aht wiv it man! Afore I sets the dreaded hound of legend upon you!"

"Keira Knightley and Emma Watson have both sent you messages indicating a need for passionate fulfilment," Basil Rathbone said authoritatively. Like a dominant schoolmaster, or a site foreman on a Tesco's building project. "But wait! Torn as you are, there is a solution!"

"I'm listenin'" said Vinnie Jones through clenched teeth. His attention having been captured by a cunningly engineered contrivance. "I'm always up for a solution. Even in your case Rathbone. Just as long as it doesn't involve this seven percent malarkey. Old bean."

"Ah!" exclaimed Basil Rathbone. "You are obviously referring to the crack cocaine. Of which more later. As I fire up the crack Meerschaum. The one with the lid on the bowl. But hold! Your dilemma involves two young fillies, fair of face, yet lacking in fatty tissue, who both require a good romantic liaison..."

"That's uncanny, Rathbone!" Ejaculated Nigel Bruce Foreskin.

"If you must do that," Vinnie Jones exclaimed. "Would you mind awfully doing it on the parquet and not on the bleedin' Persian? This isn't an Erskin and Arm co-production, and I don't 'ave a Mrs Dudson handy wiv towels and boilin' water to mop up the mess!"

"Sorry about that. I was, I feel, somewhat premature there with my ejaculation," mumbled Nigel Bruce Hornsby And The Range. "But that's just the way it is. Some things'll never change, I'm afraid. It's thinking about the impending romantic liaisons that gets me going. So it does. For sure. To be sure. I don't quite know why I added those superfluous asides. I'm not even Irish!"

"Enough!" trumpeted a bullish Basil Rathbone. "Enough of this stuff and nonsense, tomfoolery and gobbeledegook! Did I just say that? Bloody hell! It's amazing what a few grand and a bit of time spent with RADA can do! Anyway, as my trusty internet cyber friend, Martin Shuttlecock might feasibly say, whilst in his cups of an evening...the solution is thus: Vinnie Jones - go forthwith to the abode of Keira Knightley, and soothe her fevered brow by way of administering a right good stonking. Being the elder of the pair, she is likely to prove rather less...physically demanding. Then go forthwith from thence to young Miss Watson, and impose upon her a proper emotional seeing to! And spare not the horse! Ride like the wind young man and fulfill your destiny! For it is written!"

"Where?" blurted Vinnie Jones. "Where is it written thus?"

"Here. I think," said Basil Wishbone Ash. "But that is but mere piffle! Go! Go now young man! And fill yer boots!"

"Right then," said Vinnie Jones. "I will."

And with that, Vinnie Jones did leg it at a rate of knots to the stables.

Giving the cast of this melodrama time to take five.

"Well," said Bob Hoskins. "That seemed to go quite well."

"Sorry about the ejaculation..." Nigel Bruce Jenner, opined. "Terribly remiss of me."

"It is of no consequence!" snapped Basil Rathbone. "We now cut to the chase and reveal in all of its melodramatic glory, the union of Vinnie Jones and Keira Knightley."

"Is that in Chapter Twelve?" Nigel Bruce Springsteen enquired.

"Read the bladdy script you computer generated muppet!" sneered Bob Hoskins the butler. "Of course it's Chapter bleeddin' Twelve! Like wot is coming up nah!"***

***'Nah' = Cockernee for 'now'

See Below.


With the howling wind blasting his majestically, sculpted by the Gods visage, and the driving rain pebble dashing his eyeballs, Vinnie Jones urged his charger ever onward through the vicious storm.

"Cam on you barsted!" Vinnie Jones entreated. "For I can't see a fahkin' fing frew this hissing pain and chunder and fright'nin' an' that. Innit! Wankah!"

As once more, the lightning tree shrank upon being stricken by an electrical climatic discharge, with a branch bursting into spontaneous combustion with flames and stuff bursting the flock out of it.

"Sod me stupid!" cursed Vinnie Jones. "That barsted was well flippin close, an that, innit. Gor struth lumme and strike a light guv'nor - there but for the grace of God in his heaven go I! Strewth, faithful charger...onwards and upwards! Whatever your name is! Let's do it! For we are the Crazy Gang!"

"That's easy for you to say, Vincent," said Dennis Wise, diminutive former Chelsea and Wibmeldon (sic) gobshite. Who was hiding behind a strategically placed privet hedge. "Just less it will ya Vinnie! I'm tryin' to ensnare an unwitting taxi driver here. So as I can give him a proper kickin' an' that!"

"Righty-ho Dennis me old mucker!" retorted Vinnie Jones, from his lofty perch, astride the snorting charger. "Viss acid rain's a bit of a pisser though innit mate!"

"Tell me abaht it me ole mucker," said Dennis Wise, as he receded behind the privet hedge. "Mum's the word mah sahn!"

The white charger, who understood not a single word of the previous exchange, resigned itself to the fact that it wasn't going to get an early night after all, and that Vinnie Jones was unlikely to release him from the rein until such time as he had conducted a romantic liaison with the sultrily sensuous specimen of English rose type femininity, Keira Knightley.

"It's a shit job," admitted the charger. "But somebody has to do it."

Which is quite an amazing revelation, considering it comes from a horse.



Keira Knightley was disturbed in her slumbers. By haunting dreams. Although nobody should necessarily read too much into that. Because, for a start, it's only ten words.

And no ten words ever really changed the course of world history.

At least, not according to Wikipedia.



(With flashing lights and shit - so if you suffer from photosensitive epilepsy, it's probably a good idea to forget all about this...)


(Don't say we didn't warn you.)


Keira Knightley stirred in her slumber, her diaphonous silken nightgown clinging to her creamy, flawless skin.

As she involuntarily shrugged her slender shoulders, and kicked a shapely thigh free of the shackles of her duckdown duvet.

Longing to breathe.

So to speak...

"Uhnnn!" she ejaculated. "Uhnnnn!" she came again.

"That's gonna be a bit of a bugger to clean up, and no mistake," said Hoskins. "Proper pisser that is."

"Oh shut up!" chided Woody Allen, who was hiding behind the toaster. "You'll give the entire game away, you klutz! We've got history in the making here!"

"Ignore us," said Basil Rathbone. "We're not really here..."

"Neither am I," said the nowhere man. "In fact - just forget that you ever clapped eyes on me. I'm just a fig biscuit of your imagination."


Keira Knightley stirred in her slumbers. Her sensuous lips twitched - softly - and her eyeballs flickered excitedly 'neath the eyelids. As flickering eyeballs are wont to do.

"By the flaming duck!" cried Vinnie Jones, as he dismounted his bucking steed. "That was a ride and a half!"

"Tell me about it...dickhead..." his sturdy talking horse charger hissed, as it went to nibble on some straw.

"You know," the grey stallion said, with creditable cognisance. "The bloke who writes this crap isn't as daft as he makes himself out to be. He can certainly twat on like there's no tomorrow, but essentially, he weaves a right load of magical old bollocks."

"Yeah...I'll second that," muttered a passing house mouse. "Mind you, he gave me a raisin and an almond, by way I presume of a bribe. I'll say anything, me, for a raisin and an almond. Goes wivvout sayin' dunnit."






Keira Knightley's bosom swelled in her perspiration sodden, diaphenous, silken, figure hugging her heavily made up eyelashes a butterfly...significantly signifying that she was never really asleep at all.

Merely gagging for it!

"Cor blimey," said Vinnie Jones as he hesitantly entered the dimly lit chamber of Keira Knightley. Shrugging off the raindrops in time lapse silhouette.

Hopefully to great effect.

"By the crikey!" Vinnie Jones whispered as he clapped his mincers on Keira Knightley's heaving bosom. In her diaphonous silken nightgown, woven by moth experts. In her kipping pit - with a shapely thigh exposed to the elements.

Not to mention the candlelight.

Flickering, it was. And that's the truth.

"Vinnie Jones...Vinnie Jones...formerly of Wibmeldon, (sic) Sheffield United, Leeds United, and Celebrity Big Brother...whitherfore art thou?" Keira Knightley murmered, as her delicate pink tongue fluttered across her sensuously sensual, pouting lips.

"Here I am my sweet," announced Vinnie Jones, his voice faltering as he became overwhelmed by the stunning beauty of his semi-slumbering Princess. "Long and hard have I braved the night in viciously inclement weather to come unto thee. Oh fair one."

Keira Knightley extended a langorous arm, as her eyes fluttered open.

"Come to me my valiant and heroic prince," she said, her voice husky from eating corn, or something similar.

"Forsooth I shall, hither and yon, and anon, and on, my sweet and fair damsel maiden," said Vinnie Jones.

"Sweep me up in thy tattooed arms, and immerse thy sensitive head twixt my heaving bosoms, my sweet Romeo. Come unto me, Keira Knightley, and ravish me with gay abandon!" breathed Keira Knightley.

"Wah-HEYYY! and forsooth!" Vinnie Jones ejaculated. All aslobber. As the proverbial hydrophobic hound of hell.

And thus it occurred that Vinnie Jones, star of Lock Stock And Two Smoking Barrels, and Keira Knightley, star of Pirates Of The Caribbean, did become inextricably entwined in the exotic and perspiration soaked throes of erotic ecstasy, as they made the beast with two backs.

At least five times.

With an orchestra playing.

Which could have proved a distraction, but didn't.


Vinnie Jones reclined, with his head against the fluffy pillow, with the classically sculpted and angelic English rose visage of Keira Knightley nuzzling the hollow of his neck, her hand languidly - nay, almost nonchalantly - caressing his manly chest.

"Didst thou bring a packet of Benson and Hedges and thine disposable electronic cigarette lighter from the Pound Shop with thee, my dear, sweet, hunky lump of throbbing testosterone, Vinnie Jones?" Purred Keira Knightley.

"Yus, my sweet and delicate lady love. If thou couldst disentangle me from thine divine and sweetly sensual grasp, I shall sally forth, and fetch them from the pocket of me breeches, which currently lie strewn about thy chamber floor. Somewhere..."

"Cushty...for I gaspeth for a fag dear sweet Vinnie one does following a prolonged bout of frenzied coupling and rutting like the wild beasts of the forest."

"Righty-ho," said Vinnie Jones.

Distractedly, for now he found himself on the scrotum end of a conundrum...

How was he to disengage himself from the sensual grasp of the achingly beautiful Keira Knightley, and sally forth into the raging storm, to hook up with Emma Watson out of the Harry Potter films?

To be continued...

"That seemed to go well," said David Bowie - star of The Man Who Fell To Earth and recording artiste of global renown - from the wings.

"Why would she mention wildebeest?" Woody Allen mused from behind the toaster.

"Elementary my dear Woody," said Basil Rathbone, adjusting his deerstalker to a slightly jaunty angle. "You misheard the lady. What she said was 'wild beasts' not 'wildebeest.' The two are completely different."

"Is that my cue?" said John Cleese, out of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers.

"I don't really care either way," Bob Hoskins announced. "I just wanna go home and get changed. Ray Winston's invited me round his drum tonight for tea and biscuits. Good lad is Ray. Loved him in Scum and Nil By Mouth."

"CUT!" interjected the ghost of Alfred Hitchcock. "It's a wrap!"


Acknowledgement: I enjoyed writing this, although not all the ideas are mine. Special thanks to Colonel Juan for suggesting this, to Erskin Quint and Armfeetandtoe, who inspired the Sherlock section, and to John Peurach, whose off the wall style both in stories and forum comments always brings a smile. And last, but by no means least, to you, dear reader, for persevering with this stream of drivel to the bitter end. Personally, I'd have given up after reading the first paragraph, so fair play to you and your admirable and patient endurance. Many thanks. Martin Shuttlecock.

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

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