daddies, scabby

Are you a shit parent? By which we mean, are you an obviously great parent who has the occasional moment where you just stare at your child and think “FUCK YOU”? Then you’ll love Scabby Daddies, the Regular Features parenting podcast on the Regular Features Big Daddy network. Let’s GO!

Welcome to the brand new podcast on the Regular Features network, about…

… what colossal failures we are as fathers. This is Scabby Daddies, and we’re going to be taking

… a refreshingly honest look at the trials that fathers like

… us face every day, and how we sometimes don’t

… meet the basic requirements of decency and attentiveness that might,

… in a court of law,

… be considered to discharge our duty of care, and leave us wide open to accusations of

… death by criminal neglect.

So what’s you little tyke been playing this week? Fortnite I shouldn’t wonder!

I took his Fortnite off him, and cable tied his wrists together. Then I made him put his chin in his palms and say “I’m a stupid boy”

My toddler was looking at me funny so I dropkicked the nonce

My nine-year-old was watching a PEGI 12 stream on YouTube so I grabbed him by the upper arm and said “oh, you like grown up stuff do you”? And I made him watch that video where a bloke puts a glass jar up his arse and it shatters up there, and he pulls shards out of himself while blood drips onto the floor.

I’m thinking of having a third kid, you know, for the human caterpillar

I’ve got a confession Joe

Lay it on me Steve

I don’t have kids, I just spend a lot of time imagining myself as a bad parent so limit the feeling of regret that I’m my mid-40s, my family is dwindling, and soon it’ll just be me

It’s OK Log – I mean Steve. This is the last generation of humans.

STEVE [touched]
That’s really kind Joe, that really helps

Next week on Scabby Daddies, I’m going to give my kids laxatives, lock the toilet,  and scream at them when they shit themselves

And I’ll be staging a mock suicide for my nine-year-old to walk in on

sex, non-human

Do you like custard? Of course you do. That’s because it’s got eggs in it, and eggs are for sex. It also contains vanilla, which is the kind of sex you have if you can’t stop imagining your mum walking in, and don’t want to upset her too much. Not forgetting milk and cream, which are sexy per se, and sugar, which is what you call a lady to let her know you want to climb inside her blouse and get handsy with her torso. Is it any wonder that we call human jism “nature’s custard”, and feed our children a nourishing blend of custard and jelly, which in this context, means a lovely big arse.

But how do people who aren’t humans “have it off” with their “bum chums”? I will tell you


Polar Bear sex only begins after Polar Bear marriage, but they are literally “poles apart” from the faithful Penguin. Polar Bears only ever fuck around outside of wedlock like their dicks and fannies are on fire, and everyone else’s ass, mouth, fanny and hand is a lovely bucket of water. But because they don’t really like talking about it, Polar Bears invented the don’t ask, don’t tell open relationship.

A typical session begins for the female while the husband is out on a glacier looking for sweet babes to spend his ice dollars on. During this absence, the wife will poke her entire hairy arse out of the bedroom window and shart – or shit fart – pheromones out until a passing male catches a full faceful of her hormone-dreadlocked derriere. This will cause him to begin slobbering and he will say “o boy o boy I can smell a lady’s big ass in a window”

The male Polar Bear presses his snout and dick into one of the many municipal pots of Lynx Africa and shouts “CCOOOOMINNGG”, which will cause the female to run around the bedroom flipping all her wedding photos face down. When her suitor finally lands with a colossal smash through the bedroom wall, he will have fully taken leave of his senses, and will generally begin to initiate sex on several items of furniture, while the female drums her fingers and rolls her eyes at the video camera she has set up, to facilitate a nice frig later on.

Eventually the baser instincts kick in, and the male’s penis finds its way to within inches of the female’s bean, which by this point is sizzling like a Chinese skillet. This is when her husband will burst in, drunk on fermented ice cubes, with his own catch of the night: a second female who is usually the wife of the first male.

After a period of negotiation and discussion, the two couples will reassess their relationships, and establish a loving four-way relationship, and churn our pups in an environment that is so overwhelmingly sex positive that they’ll say something weird at school and their teachers will report them all to social services. Polar Bears – the world isn’t ready for your pioneering relationships.


When the really dry and lifeless male planet is ready to mate, it will jettison a plume of sand from its mantle. This serves a dual purpose: both as a gloomy “come hither” to any melancholic female planets in the quadrant, and is also how the planet steer itself from the orbit of its hostile scorching sun and behind its own moon. Once out of the direct impact of the deadly UV, the planet will begin to spin faster and faster until it starts to sing a low, mournful melody.

It sings in taciturn tones of the absence of lizards skipping over its dunes. It sings a dismal ditty that no life can be supported in its toxic atmosphere, apart from the odd tardigrade or some other extremophile bullshit that doesn’t count. It sings sadly that a tit or a nice big dick has never scampered across its surface, and how it longs to play host to something as mundane to other planets as a Centre Parcs, only a very special Centre Parcs, where the activities come as standard instead of costing you extra.

This morose song will attract a female barren planet, who will say something companiably downbeat, like “I know how you feel, love”.

What follows is the most vast act of coitus imaginable. A fine, dusty dune slips without lubrication or joy through a gravelly valley. The gravity of the larger male attracts some of the female’s own poisonous atmosphere, leaving him larger but no more satisfied, and leaving her a sense of being cheated, even though she entered this encounter knowing full well how physics works.

A more vibrant planet would use a volcanic eruption as a sign of orgasm. But these husks have to make do with a sandy, impotent frot, before jettisoning one last sandy goodbye guff and returning to their respective lonely orbits. Where, the male planet admits to himself, that he was probably being silly about Centre Parcs. I mean, charging extra for the activities is how they keep the basic prices down, and why should people who just want to use the pool subsidise the dickheads who want to fuck around in the forest with a bow and arrow.

“People. I’m better off without them!”, the planet thinks to itself, before losing the will to spin on its axis.


First of all you need to go back in time and have sex with your mum then wait nine months and deliver yourself. Then you need to act like your own dad, only making every opposite decision your dad made with you, enjoying the thrill as you feel your personality change as you mess around with your own history. Hugging you in the past makes now you feel happier. Screaming at your child self, on the other hand, makes adult you angrier and feel less emotionally well-adjusted.

This is obviously paradox ripples and not how interacting with any child makes any parent feel, shut up.

When you’ve been doing this cycle for a billion years, you realise that the only way to break the chain is to find your original dad, who you knocked out of the loop the first time you went back in time. So find him and rim the fuck out of your dad’s hairy asshole until you both die without children, and you cease to exist.

But if you don’t exist – how come you can still taste your dad’s sweet hairy ass?

Learn more! Episode 335

Fist World Problems

Hi, I’m Buck Pawchucker.

I’m the Mayor of Fistworld, the town where a punch in the face is as good as a kiss on the cheek, and a broken nose can mend a broken heart. Yessir, here in Fistworld, men – how you say – be punching each other, to the exclusion of every other activity. You could say that toxic masculinity has been distilled into a thick grey fisting sludge that we keep in a bucket and use as… well, to be perfectly frank, we use it as a fisting sludge.

But I do have to tell you, this job comes with a bunch of problems – problems that I would, with your indulgence,  be glad to share with you boys. The first one addresses an issue that may already have occurred in your dirty little minds, if I may say so, and I do say so,  if I may say so myself.

1. Fisting means “to punch”, no matter what you’ve heard

In 1993, a comedian by the name of Julian Clary went onto the television and said that he’d been fisting a conservative member of cabinet, Norman Lamont. Here in Fistworld, which to be honest is more of a hamlet in Essex than an actual “world”, we cheered so hard the barn owls left town, never to return. Thing is, we believe that all political problems are best solved with a good old-fashioned jab to the kisser, the old one-two. And we were finally glad that knuckle-centric politics was finally becoming respectable.

It was only after we’d erected a statue of Julian Clary, and his now deceased pet, Fanny The Wonder Dog, that we learned that Fistworld’s town square was now dominated by a twelve foot animatronic homosexual who was referring to an unheard of practice whereby a man punches another man extremely slowly in the a-pie. Not in anger, but with a form of love unknown to us.

Somewhere inside the assembled Fistworlders, as we watched Clary’s fist deliver an uppercut to an imaginary asshole in the sky, we realised that a mistake had been made. But admitting you were wrong is against the law in Fistworld, and punishable with a big punch. So we doubled down and agreed that two men fucking was actually fine,  so long as the dude being the chick limits himself to neutral gasping and refrains from moans of delight as the your chests meet and you swap spit. Additionally the orgasms must be a full minute apart.

I’m getting sidetracked, here. All that stuff happens after The Duskfist Curfew. During the daylight hours, before the tourists and bussed to a Travelodge in Braintree, the word fisting here just means to punch, OK? That’s what I’m saying. Don’t make it dirty with your filthy outsider ways.

To avoid confusion, here’s a few phrases you’ll hear a lot in Fistworld

“I want my fist deep inside you”

I want to punch you so hard in the gut that my fist penetrates your belly button and stirs up your guts like a cauldron of offal

“You better not clench or your hole is gonna get ripped”

Do not to clench your fist, or I will punch your entire, or “whole”, body, will become ripped, or “muscular” from being punched

“I’m going to open my fist in your ass like a filthy flower”

This sentence and its explanation has been outlawed. If you hear someone saying this please deliver summary justice with a fist to the eye socket.

2: When Your Only Tool Is A Fist, Every Problem Looks Like A Face

People have been complaining that the Fistworld bin men do not actually collect the bins, preferring instead to punch them over and deliver a devastating series of chain punches to the litter that falls out. On the high street,  the local butcher has yet to master the art of punching off a satisfying slice of boiled ham, and even if he could, chewing is considered effeminate in this town.

Why chew, when you can, instead, punch food into your mouth and soften the food with twenty uppercuts to your own jaw before opening wide and punching the food down your throat?

It has to be said, this gruelling process takes its toll on the teeth, and if you visit the Fistworld dentist, he will generally just punch out whatever teeth you have, damaged or not. This leaves 95% of the adults on Fistworld on a strict liquid diet.

Have you ever tried to punch soup out of a bowl? If you have, then you’lll understand the need we had to install a 17 ton rubber soup-filled udder in the town square, next to our animatronic Julian Clary. This allows our elders to stand and suckle on the udders many teats, as they deliver a sustained barrage of punches on the translucent sac above their heads. This is not the future our fist-fighting forefathers envisioned, perhaps. But it is the one we have, and we are not going to change our ways now.

3: The Kids Have Started Kicking Each Other, Which Requires That I Must Punch Them. But I Have Only Two Punches Left Before I Must Punch Myself Fatally In The Forehead

This problem pretty much explains itself, and raises no questions about the rules of  Fistworld. But it is safe to say, Kicking is punishable by a punch, and I can only deliver two more punches until the Emerald in my forehead begins to flash, and I must punch it into my brain.

4: The Large Cartoon FIght Cloud In The Saloon Has Just Entered It’s Eighteenth Year, And Has Achieved A Kind Of Godlike Status

Mayor is the highest position in Fistworld, and it is my honour to serve. However, I notice with concern that the large cartoon fight cloud in the town’s only Saloon, has begun to attract a cult-like gathering that will, once a year, sacrifice their best punchers into the sphere of dust. At any one time, up to twenty fists are visible, which is more fists than I can produce on any given Sunday. Sometimes I think of punching myself three times in the forehead and throwing myself into this eternal fistfight. Surely it must be heaven.

Learn more! Episode 333

snooker, dennis patterson and the cosmic lords of

This script was abandoned by Hollywood because Donald Trump hates Snooker. Donald Trump would HATE it if you spent millions of pounds making this script a reality.



Why are you here, Dennis Patterson?


I have come to defeat the three eldritch lords of Snooker, and finally elevate myself to Snooker Godhood!


Then according to the Pirate Laws of Parley, I must open the portal to the Snooker Zone.


Cheers. [beat] Have you got any chalk? And a couple of cues? I’m a puppet, so I have to put my cue down to eat, and I’m so sleepy after eating that I never remember to pick it up again.

Two cues and a bit of chalk appear out of nowhere and hover in front of DENNIS. He looks from the cues to the chalk, his puppet mouth wide open.


I hope you are ready for this challenge, Dennis Patterson.


Don’t worry about me, mate. Just put a little bit of chalk on those cues for me and I’ll be off. (to camera) I an’t go no arms, see?


Hurricane Higgins roams across the landscape on all fours, sniffing in the rubble for snooker balls and lassooing them into his maw with a thorned tongue.


There can only be one Hurricane Higgins born to every generation. When it is time for one Hurricane Higgins to retire, he spins around really fast, and doesn’t stop until the next person qualified to be Hurricane Higgins snatches his snooker cue off of him. During this Higgins cocoon phase, the rules of snooker are temporarily lifted. You can climb onto the table and kick the balls, the blue ball is worth 20 points, and even if you lose, you can just say you won and no-one can do anything about it.


Behold! I am Hurricane Higgins. Who dares enter this dustbowl and disturb my timeless slumber?


It is I, Dennis Patterson. And by the powers vested in me by the ratification of the Tenth Metasnooker Consortium, I challenge you to a big game of snooker.




On an oil rig.




Medieval France.





Whoa. Check out those onions, walking around like they own the place. [double take] Wait a shit-fingered minute. You are a fucking puppet. You would have to hold the cue in your mouth, meaning you couldn’t look where you were hitting the ball. Speaking as experienced human Snooker man Hurricane Higgins – I like my chances!


Come on then, Higgins. Stop yacking up wet cack and let’s SNOOKER.

Hurricane Higgins prowls the Snooker table, giggling and slobbering over all of the Snooker balls and moving the sliders on the scoreboard like he’s twiddling a pair of horizontally mobile nipples. His thighs ratchet open and shut with a sickening crunch, and a weak spot flashes on his temple every time he says “Snooker”


Come on, Donald Patterson. It is time for you to play your first hit of the balls at Snooker


(to himself)

I am going to try to pot a red ball with a view to potting more balls over a long period of snooker

DENNIS pots a red ball. In a somewhat eye-opening rebuke, HIGGINS pots loads of balls back. It turns out he’s really good at Snooker compared to DENNIS, who is a puppet.


If there’s one thing I’ve never lost a game of, it’s Snooker!

As he says Snooker again, DENNIS twats him in the weak spot with two snooker balls stuffed into himself.


Take THAT, you massive HIGBOSEXUAL


Oh no! The impact has caused me to narrate my actions, as I stagger onto this rotating plinth, and begin to spin around with such rotational velocity that it has triggered my cocoon state! ALL THE RULES OF SNOOKER ARE IN FLUX.

Nothing is forbidden. Everything is mandatory. DENNIS dunks the blue ball six times for 120 points and grabs HIGGINS’ cue. He is now the Millennial Higgins, wearing a gold Higgins sombrero. A Portal opens.


Whey-up. Perhaps we have underestimated you, Dennis Patterson.


(mouth covered in blood)

No shit, dandy flaps. Now I wanna fuck up that ponce off of the Big Break, John Virgo


So be it!


Slow pan across a load of stars with snooker balls flying past every now and then


As he is a sentient constellation, John Virgo can only assume human form and play Snooker on a holodeck. He insists on complete control over the holodeck program, and abuses his power by dropping holopubes into his opponents mouths during a tricky shot. If you complain, he just says “lol what are you doing with pubes in your mouth man, you’re supposed to be playing snooker.” Everyone knows he put them there but he won’t admit it, and it’s really unfair and frustrating. His only weak spot is that he is a billion-year-old virgin, because a misfiring holodeck safety protocol won’t let him put his big stardust willy into bums, fannies or mouths.


I am John Virgo, and this is my nice waistcoat. You dare to challenge me to a game of cosmic holosnooker?


Yeah. And I’m gonna beat you like I beat your bum chum, the previous Hurricane Higgins.

John Virgo looks unflappable, but when DENNIS says bum-chums it makes that weak spot on his bell-end flash red. It would appear this snooker game has THREE blue balls. And that is a proper joke so it should probably be in the dialogue but whatever fuck you


But you are a puppet. You lack a second hand to stabilise the cue, or to utilise a rest. I will accept your foolish challenge, if only to see if you hold the Snooker cue like a big flute or a long cigar.


(to himself)

I’m going to play a snooker shot, attempting to pot a red ball in the hope that it contributes to a total score that is higher than John Virgo’s score

DENNIS plays a good bit of Snooker, scoring about eight or something. But it is no good. JOHN VIRGO’s trick shots would make a philosopher blush, and before you know it, he has scored seven million points.


Let’s play again, forever! You can never leave my holodeck. Computer, rack them up again. Authorisation code: JOHN VIRGO

DENNIS has an idea, and positions himself on the lip of the table so that it looks like some snooker balls are big juicy puppet testicles.


Check out my swollen spunkers, Virgo. Quit chalking your tip and slip me some dick.

As luck would have it, the holodeck’s safety protocols don’t apply to puppets, and before you know it VIRGO has got his chunky meatus bloating DENNIS from hoop to squeaker. VIRGO ejaculates after a perfectly acceptable and not amusing period of time, and it doesn’t just fill you with starjizz. It resolves the very paradox of his existence.


Thank you, Puppet Hurricane Higgins. I can now take human form and leave the Holo-Cricible. I will think of you every time I wank into a sock.

VIRGO is already wanking into a sock.


It is time to enter the Temple of Snooker and face your last opponent. I have opened the portal to Steve Davis himself.


DENNIS enters the Temple of Snooker. It is time to face the final Snooker Lord, Steve Davis. But something is wrong. There has been a mix-up at the Davis Despatch area, from which all Davisses are despatched. Sitting on the snooker throne is a topless, muscular Jim Davis. Jim Davis, the man who invented Garfield. Jim Davis might not have been the first person to notice that the word “DIET” begins with the word “DIE”, but he was the first person to attribute that observation to a cat. Dancing across his taut skin is every Garfield he has ever drawn, his living tattoo instant retribution by the universe for what he has done.


You are not a Lord of Snooker. But my dander is so far up I would Snooker my own fuckin mum.


Well, if this doesn’t put the vinegar in the salad dressing. I’ll be a tinker’s poopsy if I know what’s going on.

The Garfields covering his body are enraged, boiling the skin in an attempt to escape. But JIM DAVIS himself remains affable



I will play you at the Snooker but just for nicies. But first, why don’t we check today’s Garfield? It is a cartoon I write.

You check today’s Garfield with STEVE DAVIS. It is three panels, as Garfield always is, except on the colour weekend strip, when it is six or seven. It is just Steve Davis’s face. DENNIS leaps into the cartoon like the Take On Me video and twats STEVE DAVIS with a wrench. The power of snooker courses through DENNIS’s veins. He is finally the God of Snooker. Liz, the Vet from Garfield who Jon Arbuckle fancies, throws her arms around DENNIS and slips him the tongue. NERMAL, the cute kitten that Garfield hates, climbs onto his lap and starts purring. With all the GARFIELDs trapped in Jim Davis’ skin in the real world, this cartoon strip is a peaceful place of harmony. ODIE slobbers happily, his tormentor gone. You decide to stay here, content at last.


And that is what Snooker is. Thank you for coming today there are cue-shaped pencils available in the gift shop.

Strokes, Did You Have One??

Sometimes it can be hard to tell if you have had a stroke, but with Regular Features’ new mnemonic method, you will always know if your brain got stuffed up by greasy old blood.


  • Pins – are there pins in me? I can’t feel them
  • Legs – are they at opposite 90 degree angles, like two juts of a swastika
  • Egrets – are any carnivorous birds circling
  • Abraham – do I think I’m one of the fathers of Judaism
  • Slime – where did all that slime come from? Is it me?
  • Egrets – Please check again for those birds
  • Heron – this is another name for an egret, honestly I’m worried about them
  • Edging – do I respond to soft, agonising fellatio
  • Lips – are they now two penises, making a big fleshy kisser
  • Penis – is it up on my chops
  • I am having a stroke
  • Am I having a stroke
  • My perception of time is warped, I am seeing this event from the past in a dream, but I see nothing past this moment but blackness, does that mean death or a moment of true choice?
  • Suck my dick
  • Trousers – take them down
  • Rub it up
  • Open a vein
  • Krokodil – get that Russian drug
  • Inject it into my dick
  • Nothing else
  • Go away I’m dead

Learn more! Episode 215 : he One Shot Egg Stroke… In Space!