"Not sure what to do..." mumbled the Captain as Cathy climbed onto his lap and straddled him. She caressed Christine's breasts as she exchanged a long, passionate kiss with the cook.
"I say! Offside!"
"Don't worry, Sir," said Christine, "it doesn't mean we can't handle a square rigger."
"Ah...right-you-are. Strange creatures, women," he gasped as Cathy drew herself higher onto his lap and opening her legs, guided him between them with a squeal of delight.
"Look, um—shouldn't we be using one of those French thingies I keep finding in the scuppers, Number two?"
"I like my men to sail with bare poles and open sea cocks, Jack."
"Right-you-are, Number two. Never could stand the smell of rubber."
"That's it, my darling, slip it inside me. Yes, God yes..."
Captain St John shuddered as she flung her arms around his neck and crushed her lips against his.
"Oh Jack," she murmured. "I'm making water, bare away."

"Funny y' should say that, said St John. "I—seem to be listing a bit...in fact—"
The captain lost his balance and the three of them tumbled off the sofa and onto the carpet in a tangled heap. "Damn! That last manoeuvre capsized me, Mountjoy."
"If you'd just let Chris get abaft of you while you go topside, I think you'll find it'll be easier," suggested Cathy.
"Right you are!" boomed St John, mounting his 2nd Lieutenant with more enthusiasm than finesse. "Full ahead Mountjoy!"
"The hawser has missed the cleat again," complained Cathy.
"Sorry, navigation error. Belay that, Mountjoy! I think I'm getting the hang of it now."
"The foc'sle is a little more for'ard," prompted Cathy.
"Right you are Number two, coming about!
"I think that's a bit too near the chain locker. Try a broader reach—Oh yes! Oh God yes!"
"Good heavens!" exclaimed St John as he lunged forward again. "That's a deep anchorage you've got there, McVitie. Never knew a hawsehole could be so tight."
"Try to—m-maintain an even keel, m-my love, or you'll sheer off to windward again."
"How's that?" he asked, thrusting deeper between Cathy's widespread thighs.
"Oh God yes—yes..."
"I say, you'll choke me luff if y' keep doing that, Mountjoy!"
"Don't you like it, Sir?"
"So long as that's only y' tongue in me shaft tunnel. Name's not Mainwaring, y' know."

The cabin shook as Cathy McVitie cried out and thrust her hips violently upwards.
"Have we hit something, Number two?"
"Only my rudder post," gasped Cathy. "Don't stop, Jack."
"I meant that bump just now."
"Probably another Scottish fishing smack searching for Russian subs," murmured Christine, as she ground her crotch against the Captain's hip. "I wouldn't worry about it, Jack."
"Right you are," said St John. "Opening sea cocks, Number two!"
"Oh...Jack," gasped Cathy, as her slim thighs tightened around him. "Fill my bilge!"

Captain Jack St John lay on his beam ends, or more precisely, between the thighs of Christine Mountjoy, whose galley he had filled as copiously as 2nd Lieutenant Cathy McVitie's bilge, and smoked contentedly.
"Gosh," sighed Cathy McVitie, as she trailed her slim fingers across his manly chest, "did you know how gorgeous your square jaw and chiselled features look from this angle? The way the sweeping beam of the South Islay lighthouse glitters in the grey hairs which have invaded your beard in recent years is really quite magical..."
Captain St John exhaled a thin tendril of blue smoke from his parted lips and chuckled softly to himself. God, how he loved the Navy.

Back in Whitehall, Marjoribanks and Secretary of State, John Reid, hovered anxiously over a red telephone like two schoolboys caught scoffing tuck after Lights Out. Beauchamp tossed back her long, dark hair and replaced the receiver with a muttered oath. "I say Sir, that was GCHQ, the Americans are on to us. We have to lose the Sub.”
Reid's eyebrows shot up in surprise as all connection with reality seemed to evaporate.
“Bloody hell, Beauchamp, you're talking worse drivel than Marjoribanks. We have spent the last 24 hours chasing our arses because the bloody thing is lost. Now you’re telling me we have to lose something we've just found. I assume we've found it, have we?"
“We haven’t found it,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Well how can we loose it then, woman? You are becoming completely incomprehensible, it's not that woman’s cycle thing is it?”
“I hope you don’t mean menstrual sir?”
“No, Raleigh, saw you on it this morning. Too much exercise can easily confuse your intellectuals if you’re not used to it.”

He stood up and walked across the office. “I want you to explain this submarine thing to me once more. Get Marjoribanks in here too; he might be able add something.” Beauchamp rolled her eyes theatrically. They looked at each other briefly. “Well—get him in here anyway.”
She picked up the ’phone. “Hello, switchboard? Minister’s office here. Can you page Marjoribanks and get him up here pronto.” She put the receiver down with a bang. It rang almost immediately. She grabbed it. “Minister’s office. Yes…yes…I’ll get him for you.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and stifled a giggle. “It's for you, Sir, something about the Pizza express.”

“Give it here, woman,” snapped Reid as he grabbed the phone and began shouting. “Now just you listen to me, Wayne or Jason or whatever your oafish name is...I have never known such a slow-arsed, incompetent set of total wasters as you and your team of half-witted delivery boys. Good God—I could have had my secretary cook one for me in under an hour, and she’s a worse bloody feminist than Cherie Blair, so that includes the time it would take her to argue with the instructions on the packet. What’s that? Who? Ah…Tony, how are you Prime Minister? I thought it was…er…um...Yes, I think it would be a splendid idea to take the sleeper express down to the Pisa Summit next month…absolutely, looking forward to it. Cherie?…did I? Are you sure? No, it can’t have been me, Tony—I was here talking to you on the ‘phone. Yes, crossed line I expect… What’s that? Submarine? Don’t worry, Prime Minister—I have my best man on it...That fool Marjoribanks…? No, no, of course not. Leave it with me. Bye, Sir.” He put the receiver down slowly. “Beauchamp, you did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Beauchamp's eyes widened briefly in feigned surprise and then closed as she continued to file diligently at her immaculately manicured finger nails. The door burst open and Marjoribanks rushed in. “Great news Sir, we’ve—”
“—Sit down and shut up, Reid interrupted peremptorily. "Beauchamp has something to say to us. Off you go Tamara…”

Beauchamp crossed her long, tanned legs with studied languor, making no attempt to pull down the short, grey skirt which rode up her thighs. Reid swallowed noisily as he caught a glimpse of her black suspenders and a shocking pink, thong that bulged invitingly above them. She turned towards them and began. “The submarine we lost—shut up Marjoribanks, we don’t want to hear it—was an extremely advanced and very secret surveillance device. We had been using it to monitor an American submarine in British waters. The Americans were spying on a Russian and the Russians were spying on us. With me so far?”
The two men nodded. Tamara continued. “Now—we lost contact with the submarine but its programming took over and it continued to monitor the Americans, recording the data for recovery later. Everything was fine until a frigate, HMS Babylon, got wind of the missing submarine. It seems an old school chum...”(she looked pointedly at Marjoribanks)“...of a certain Captain Jack St John thought he could score points by finding the bloody thing.”
Reid looked puzzled. “But weren’t we looking for it?”
Tamara uncrossed her legs and took a deep breath. “No, because we knew where it was. Four hours after we lost contact, the submarine was found by a Scottish fisherman. He tried to sell it back to us, minus the tapes.”
Marjoribanks scratched his head. “Why didn’t we pay up?’
Tamara sighed. “Didn’t they teach you anything at that posh school apart from how to take a hot crumpet from behind without blubbing? We didn’t buy the submarine because the fisherman works for the Russians.”
“But…” said Reid and Marjoribanks in unison.

Beauchamp leaned back in her chair and groaned audibly. “If the Russians knew we were spying on the Americans they would know we know what the Americans know. Now, if we know what the Americans know, we know what the Russians know. And the Russians are spying on us. So we don’t want them to know. Got it now?”
The two men looked at her blankly.
“Look—it’s the first law of espionage,” she continued, with increasing desperation. “Never let the enemy know what you know, or what you don’t know, you know?”
Reid picked up the model battleship from his desk as Marjoribanks lunged for the duck from the filing cabinet.
“Whoosh, kerbang!” said the Secretary of State for Defence.
“Quack, quack,” said the Civil Servant.

"Idiots," sighed Tamara as she swept up her bag and walked out of the building. In the street she pulled out a mobile ‘phone. “Yury? Right, I have the sub and the tapes, £250,000. Tonight? No, sorry, I'm washing my hair. Tomorrow at eight and strawberries this time, OK? What? Because I don't want my knickers smelling of cheap, bloody caviar again, OK? No, Swiss Francs. Look, I can get you a couple of aircraft carriers on a buy-one-get-one-free offer…air miles? Well—OK, but you'll have to take three gross of odd socks and a crate of Female naval officers uniforms as well. Let's call it a round half million. Yes, Angus will handle the delivery side, yes…yes…half up front as usual. What? Very funny, Yury. Only if you bring a strapon...” she jumped and switched off the mobile as a hand tapped her on the shoulder.
"—Excuse me, love..."
"Yes?" she snapped, turning round to confront a Hoodie-wearing teenager brandishing a cardboard box in her face.
"Got a delivery 'ere for a Margery Banks, love."

Tamara dropped her mobile in her bag and glared at him as if he was something she'd stepped in.
"I'm not your 'love,' you horrid little oik."
"Sorry, lo—er, miss. Got a delivery 'ere for a Margery Banks."
"So you said."
"Does she work 'ere?"
"How the hell should I know? Do I look like a receptionist?"
The boy stepped back a pace and shuffled uncomfortably under her disdainful gaze.

"Nah...but, y' got an MOD security badge pinned to y' jacket and this pizza's for some bird called 'Margery Banks' in the MOD, innit?"
"Never heard of her."
"Y'wot?"
"I said I've never heard of anyone by that name. Now please bugger off."
"Wot shall I do with this pizza then?"
"Lose it."
"Y'wot?"
"Lose it," repeated Tamara impatiently. "Make it disappear."
"Y'wot?"
"MAKE-IT-GO-AWAY!" shouted Tamara.
The pizza delivery boy's jaw dropped.
"Won't they miss it?"
"I shouldn't think so. They're always losing things."

"I can't do that, miss. The boss 'd 'ave a fit."
"Oh—give me the bloody thing," snapped Tamara, snatching the box from him and hurling it over a wall. "There, it's lost now, isn't it? Now clear off before I have you arrested as a terrorist."

THE END

Funny Stories is packed full of some of the most original and hilarious short stories you'll find anywhere on the internet.

From scathingly witty parodies of the literature of the last century like The Evils of Coffee and How to detect Self Abuse in Young Girls, through stories about Wrapping presents with a Cat, Performance Art and the Perils of Public Toilets, to advice on how not to save your marriage and the dangers of Threesomes, Funny Stories contains some of the very best writing Utterpants has to offer.

With such a wide range of outstanding material, it is almost impossible to single out anything that, er—stands out, but our adult version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, as well as Jennifer Gardner's many stories, are all firm favourites with our readers.

Can there be a funnier title than If my Pussy smells like Tuna, why doesn't my Cat eat me out? We don't think so, nor have we read a better satire on the differences between men and women than The Penis Paragraphs - jointly written by Don Pitts and Jennifer Gardner.

You'll find all these stories and more listed in the section contents page (newest first).

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