The adventures of Boris Bunter


Boris Bunter, the Owl of the Reserve, was late attending an official function at the London Museum.

Boris: “Ratsticks, I’m late, I’m late, oh God no.”

“Private exhibition—Francis Bacon”

Boris: “I say.”

Boris arrived at the buffet but the table was empty, left only with crusty remnants of sandwiches.

Boris: “Unconscionable, unconscionable. They can’t do this to me. I am Lord Billy Bunter of the Reserve.”

Security guards: “Excuse me sir, but are these yours?”

The guard held out a bicycle and helmet at the Owl.

Bunter: “Of course those are mine.

Guards: “You rode your bike onto the post-modern installation exhibit and have destroyed 50,000 pounds worth of art. Please would you come with us.”

Bunter: “Beasts, let go of me at once.”

He tried to throw his voice. “Security, security you are requested in Antiquities immediately, major disturbance.”

Security guards looked at Bunter and frowned.

The fat Owl of the Reserve was in trouble for breaking a priceless artefact in a museum. The judge mulled over his fate.

Judge voiceover: “Boris William Bunter, you are a serial scoffer of snacks, sweets and other fattening victuals. You accept your gluttony as an occupational hazard, and presumably accept obesity in the same casual manner. You are therefore sentenced to fatcamp for the maximum term allowed for these offences: one week.”


Boris is led to a nice-looking cellroom and thrown in.

Boris: “By Gunther’s beard they’ll pay for this. They’ll pay for this if it’s the last thing I do.”

Voice: “Hullo dare.”

Boris: “Golly. This is a mistake. They’ve put me in with someone.”

Boris turned around. There was Eamonn Holmes lying on small single bed which strained under his weight.

Holmes: “Eym Eyman.”

Boris: “Hallo? Halooo? Let me out, I repent.”


Boris Bunter sat in an assembly room full of plump young chavs. Olga a fit gym mistress dictated at the front:

Olga: “Each person will receive one zertifikate on completion. Nein, there will be no eating. No comestibles no victuals. Nein, nein, nein!”

Boris: “Tittles and nibble jerks.”

Olga: “Yes ve vill break you. (Points to cakestand at the back of the assembly, enclosed in glass cabinet). These cakes are your temptation, yourvorstnightmares and dreams. Und now- Das gym!”

The fellows ran out into the playground followed by Bunter walking alone with a suspicious look in his eye.

Playground. Young chubby kids exercised. Some were sweating to get over a wall. One sits motionless on top of a wooden horse. Another is rolling in the sand pit, being poked by guards with sticks. Bunter is approached by a couple of young, fair-haired lads.

Chav1: “Oi you I seen you before somewhere. Wots your name?”

Boris: “Never you mind, plebeian.”

Chav1: “Oi did you hear that? He called me a plebine.”

Chav2:  “Did you call my mate a plebin? Did YOU call MY mate a plebanan?”

Boris (cringing): “O lor! Gad no.”

Chav1: “Shattt appp.”

Boris: “Yarooh!”

Chav’s start jumping up and down, holding phones close to his ear, playing ringtones really loud, pretending to smack him.

Suddenly Eamonn Holmes appears.

Holmes: “Aye Banter. Over ere. Tis me Eayman.”

Boris: “Good God man, save me.”

Holmes exposes his massive belly to the two chavs who are paralysed by the sight.

Holmes: “Noy clear oyff.”

Chavs run away.

Eamonn: “Noy look ere. Us hush an all dat. Oim brekin oyta ere Bunter an I want yay wit me.”

Boris: “What? What are you saying man?”

Holmes: “Frayday. I gat it all sussed. We make a ran for it trew da underground tunnel den.”

Boris: ““Good god man, are you out of your mind, its suicide!”

Holmes: “Just tink abayt it Bunta.”

Two minutes later Holmes and Bunter were in their cell recounting adventures of the outside, their shared loves and passions.

Boris: “Pigs’ trotters. Eels. Winkles, whelks, jellied Mars Bar. Blood pudding. Crikey, I’d give anything for a blood pudding. O God, so hungry. Not a tuck in sight.”

Holmes: “When a man gets doyn, a man’ll eat anyting. Aye no.”

Boris: “What d’you mean? Piffling emetics!”

Holmes: “Aybsolutely anythayng.”

Gestures towards toilet. There’s a big brown one lying in the bowl.

Boris: “Dear God man, but nobody could stoop to that! All I wanted to do was eat. They cut down on my scran. Said it was a recession. No more buffets, jollies or dinner engagements. When a man has an appetite like a modern day King Kong it’s wrong to deny him. I could eat my weight in chow, they knew that!”

Holmes: “Ay hayte de peoples tay. Dey called me a FAT COYNT Buynta!!! Day called me a shatty turd!” Breaks down in tears.

Holmes: “I trayed te stop em! I trayed but would dey listen? Nay dey wouldn’t. But I gat plans– dis tunnel’ll git us de boyt oyt. Look ere at the map. It gays frem under de shayer reym, trew due latrines into de draynage system.”

Boris: “Piffling persiflage. That’d take what….at least 15 minutes of crawling. And me but a little toenail on the body politic.”

Holmes: “Nay look ere Banter. Aye been en ere foyve yers so I have. Fayve yers I been ere, seen agonies. Yea I seen da devil!”

(Holmes remembered Vanessa Feltz on the toilet squeezing out a massive shit: “Ohhh, humunculous dogs egg…..parp!!”)

Holmes: “Ay need a pardner. Whadya say Buynta?”

Boris: “If we were to barbeque the frankfurters over a charcoal grill…then hide em down our pants…well it might work. But could I trust you Holmes? And the body politic. Quintus quorum quintelle?”

Holmes: “Aye. We caynt led anytin disrapt us. Be quite as mace.”

At dinner in assembly slop was being served out to a queue of prisoners from a stand. There was a mountain of cakes and treats in the background enclosed in glass display cases. Boris and Eamonn were waiting in line for food.  Looking at the cakes Boris’s tummy rumbled with agony. The fat Owl of the Reserve was hunger manifest.

Guard (serves boy): “One mug asparagus soup, two cauliflower florets and a sidedress of not-so-curly kale. Next.”

Boris is in queue with Eamonn. Looks at display cabinets enviously.

Boris (cracking up): “Cor I’m so hungry Holmes.”

Holmes: “Pall yarseylf togeder man!”

Boris (sweating): “Dear God. Apfel strudel. Jellied fondants. Iced fingers. What I’d do for an iced finger. Iced.”

Holmes: “Noy Bunta, noy.”

Boris: “I can’t take this anymore. I long for my manumission.”

Holmes: “Noy Bunta noy daynt do it.”

Boris steps out of queue in a trance.

Holmes: “Nayyy Buntaaa.”

Holmes pushes Bunter aside and makes a run for the food table. He is mown down in a volley of bullets before he can make it halfway.

Boris: “Oh God Holmes why, why?”

Holmes (Lying in a bloody pool on the ground.): “I couldn’ led you Baynta. Yer on yer oyn noy. Tell the world of our playt.”

Holmes dies.

Olga: “Let zat be a lesson to all of you! Zis is a high security campf.”

That evening.

Boris: “O God so hungry. So hungry. Must escape. Not enough energy.”

Holmes’ voice echoed in the dark: “Da pypes just big enough for us Bunta. It’ll be a tayt fit. Courage man.”

Boris: “Yes the tunnel, the tunnel. I must do this. So weak though. So weak.”

Lifts lid of toilet. Peers into the hole. Moves toilet aside and climbs inside. A voice outside the cell door.

Olga: “Bunter all present and correct?”

Boris (throws voice from toilet): “Yes Sir, just turning in now.”

Clanking as lights switched off.

Boris: “Must find way out. Perhaps that pipe. There.”

Holmes voice: “It’ll take ayl yer courage. Ayl ov it.”

Boris: “O crap I’m so hungry. Can’t do it without food.”

Holmes: “You cayn do it Bunta, you cayn! Use da foyce!”

Minutes tick by.

Boris: “By Zeus beard. Rations finished. Nothing left. Need a snack.”

Holmes: “Day it Buynta.”

10 minutes later.

Boris: “Should’ve  been out by now. No light at the end of the tunnel. How much longer. Going to die.”

20 minutes later.

Boris: “I falter. I fail.”

Holmes: “Noy Buynta, da foyce.”

Boris: “O God, yes, that’s it….By Priapuses hairy pipes. Yes, yes that’s it, unngghh..”

Next morning

Construction worker: “We’re just cutting the pipe open now. It’s blocked boss. Quite a large obstruction by the look of it.”

Open pipe.

Construction worker: “Oh God, it’s a monster.”

Boris’s brown face sticking out of the end. He’s jammed right in having expanded to the size of a blimp. His face is smeared in faeces, looking groggy.

Boris (chuntering): “By Zeus’s follically challenged…..”

Lifting a pile of crap to put into his mouth.



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