KETROSPECTIVELY – the autobiography of ket kzar Willy C


The autobiography of WILL CORSTON



Published by


Chapter 1 – Introductory Words of Introduction

I always knew I was destined for greatness. I didn’t know how I was going to achieve this greatness, but I knew. Always. I always knew. See, I’m very career-driven. And I always was. I always knew I was! That’s because I’m a child of IVF. Not the IMF, you dunderheaded wank basket; that’s the international monetary fund, and I already got my P! “Made in vitro” – that’s what it says on my arm. Same arm that’s battered a million cunts! Now, when I say “cunts” I ain’t just talking about the female pussy, as it’s known in the scientific world (of which I’m a crucial part), although my vaginal desires is proper inextricably linked to both my roots in that test tube, and my aspirations to be the fucking best in the fucking world. You cunt.

You see, I believe in the principle of irredentism. I’ve spent a significant amount of time studying the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and I can tell you, my sympathies lie with the Jews or, as they’re known down certain parts of old London town – Hackney, Peckham, places of virtue – the four-by-twos. Wanna know why? Well, I’ll tell you why.  Just as their religion is that of Jewism – with its litany of honourable traditions encompassing elephant Gods, matzoh, compulsory castration and other theological cornerstones – my religion is the female pussy. Not the male pussy – no no! That’s called a penis! And I don’t go for no castration, neither; I’ll tell you that much. (More on that later.)

I subscribe to irredentism because the female pussy holds as much cultural, religious and ethnic significance for me as Palestine does for the Jewish people. Although many have tried to discredit it, in the course of my research I’ve encountered various further examples of this fine principle being put into practise, notably by Germany in the 1930s and ‘40s. In fact, bearing this historical truth in mind, I’m surprised these Germans never formed an alliance with the Jews! But, needless to say, history would be a lot different if Willy Corston was calling the shots. The fact remains that I am on this earth to do three things;

  1. Stick my beloved cock in as many women as superhumanly possible.
  2. Deal the finest ketamine in the entire universe.
  3. Build my empire until there’s a new fucking renaissance.

Anyway, I’m off to do some gardening. In a bit.


Chapter 2 – Origin of Species

So, we’ve already established that I’m a diamond geezer. Now it’s time for you to know that even I, Willy C, have flaws. See, I was born with a penis. Now, this ain’t an unusual thing – plenty of geezers got ‘em. Unlike most geezers, however, for whom their little appendage is a bit of a transient thing they ain’t all that attached to, I love my cock. It’s my best friend, my business partner, my hobby, my most consistent lover – when the time came to appoint a CEO of Corston Industries, freeing up my schedule, it was the Johnson what got the job. Believe me, some of my boys were pissed, but I soon showed them what’s what!!!! If anyone ever tried to take my cock away from me, all kinds of shit would go down. You bastards.

The most terrifying film I’ve ever seen is David Slade’s Hard Candy, a sick, amoral piece of shit that can be summed up by two vile epithets – snip and SNIP! Next time I see David Slade on the town, I’m gonna clobber him, the fucking wanker. Any fans of the alternative rock scene should be aware of Pavement’s 1995 double-album Wowee Zowee, which begins with the line “there is no castration fear”; a blatant lie and a staggering statement of ethical repugnancy. I suggest that their core singer-songwriter, Steven Malkmus, keeps a low profile in future, because I don’t take kindly to bullshitters. My various enterprises; ket dealing, prostitution (selling my own “services” – it’s a successful venture!), weapons smuggling and nautical miscellany are founded on a policy of no bullshit. Horse shit on the other hand…

Anyway, where was I? So, I was born – via caesarean – with a massive cock, which I love dearly. Ain’t much to tell about the event of my birth…except that some cunt called the Bill! So there I was, freshly emerged from me old mum, and I heard those fucking sirens. Not even the good kind, like in Greek Mythology! I was pissed.

“Shit, it’s the cops.” I said

“Must’ve been a tip-off.” The doctor told me, as if he knew too much.

I shot him. No time to lose!


Chapter 3 – My feud with Danny Dyer

Look, I don’t have no problem with the cinematic oeuvre of this bloke Malcolm Smith, AKA Zoo Magazine journalist Danny Dyer. I don’t think he’s much of a geezer, much of a wide-boy, which is problematic but doesn’t negate the artistic worth of his films – Pimp, Outlaw, Run for Your Wife – which are emblematic of the good, wholesome family values necessitated by Britain’s current state of pigsty impressionism.

Shame he’s such a wanker!

So there I was down the Groucho one night, quaffing champagne, bit of sniff sniff – get me? Few pints, few fights, getting a bit out of hand. Anyway, this geezer came up to me, right, and what he said was;

“Cor blimey, guvna. Is you making fun of me or what?”

“You fucking what?” I said.

“I’ll put something across your fahcking cannister, mate!”

I bopped him on the snozz and told him to fuck off! My cannister is mine and mine only, and don’t you forget it!!! I still read Zoo, though. It’s proper mint. I’m trying to think; why was it that Danny stopped writing relationship advice in there?

Oh yeah, it’s because he told lads they should slice their birds’ faces up if the dozy mares get out of line! Fuckers kicked up a right stink about that, they did. It’s political correctness gone mad.

To be continued…


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