Tally-ho old bean and welcome to another ripping yarn from your favourite tag team in the world, the wonderfully mustachioed and bearded noble gents known collectively as the Moustache Ride, Master’s Thomas ‘Tommy’ Wasley and Jonathan ‘Johnny’ Taylor!
And my word, hasn’t it been a frightfully long time since one has had the illustrious honour of serving as spokesman for those wonderful chaps? It is almost as if my employers are too lazy to--
Oi, gormless… cut that art or you’ll feel the flat’a me hand, ya listenin’?
Jolly good sir, only attempting a small fourth wall joke, wasn’t intended to disparage. One likes his little japes. Now where was I? Ah yes, welcome to another ripping yarn, and what a time to return, as our intrepid heroes find themselves on the cusp of fisticuffs with not one but two teams looking to achieve greatness within their company!
Fisticuffs? The fuck ya babblin’ about nah?!
Why you’re calling of course! The noble art of fisticuffs, the noble art of fighting. Your job old boy!
Ya know what, just tell ‘em that they might wanna show some caution ‘fore goin’ on an’ we’ll leave it at that, eh? Am gettin’ too bloody confused by all this nah
Righty-o! In which case, my good chums… as Master Wasley has rightfully articulated, perhaps it would be jolly wise to practice caution when proceeding onwards in your quest for entertainment! Some may say - though I, Lord Nicholas de Warren-Somerby, thankfully do not consider myself among such number - that what follows is somewhat leaning towards the vulgar. Perhaps even borderline tasteless. But to that I say poo and piffle! So for those of you with the more adventurous mind, I bid you enjoy todays ripping yarn!
Rippin’ bloody yarns… mate, it’s a story about me havin’ the shits! Wait, no, dunt type that bit ya daft cunt! Oh fer fuck sake…
The splattering sounded once again from the other side of the door to the cramped toilet of the motorhome owned and lived in by Moustache Ride members, Johnny Taylor and Tommy Wasley; something was definitely amiss from the other side of the door, if the sounds were anything to go by, not just the apparent reenactment of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius on the other side of the door but the straining and prayers too. Yes, whichever unlucky son of a biscuit happened to be locked in the tiny toilet area of the RV was actually praying… or words to that effect anyway. 
The external door to the RV was suddenly wrenched open and Johnny Taylor stepped into the motorhome, speaking as soon as he entered. “Will you get a bloody move on, we-eww, fucking hell,” the poor bastard said, pinching his nose forcibly between finger and thumb at the smell. “Jesus christ, can’t you open a fucking window?!” he asked, backing all the way to the door of the motorhome, trying to get fresh air.
“It ant got a fuckin’ winda ya daft twat, it’s a glorified caravan!” a pained voice said from the other side of the toilet door, breaking off to strain again. Johnny winced at the sounds that followed.
“I fucking told ya not to order a phal ya stupid bastard,” he said, his eyes practically watering as he grimaced at the combination of putrid smell and disturbing sounds. “Who in their right mind wants food so bloody hot that it burns going in and coming out, anyway?! Seriously, you northerners are fucking dumb…” he went on, before retching a little.
“Tha’s just pissy ‘cause… ‘cause,” Tommy started form beyond the door before having to break off for obvious reason before finally finding his voice again. “Just pissy ‘cause ya can’t ‘andle owt ‘otter’n a korma,” he finished, though in truth he was wishing that he’d only had a korma too. He’d have avoided pain, discomfort and an awful burning sensation if he had.
“Least I ain’t got the world falling outa me arse as a result,” Johnny said, feeling like he’d scored cheap points there. He actually grinned at his own comment before gipping again.
“The fuck are you two tossers playing at?” Another voice asked and Tommy Cook appeared in the doorway of the motorhome, stepping in before coming up dead short, like he’d walked into a brick wall that was invisible. “Fuck my boots, the hell you been eating your dirty bastard?!”
“Fuck off ya twats!” Wasley yelled from inside the toilet and the other Tommy and Johnny both smirked to each other before laughing at their friend again.
Stepping back out of the motorhome, Johnny and Tommy two took in several deep breaths. It wasn’t Toronto outside of the trailer, or should that be the motorhome wasn’t in Toronto, but a brilliantly sunny beech, which just so happened to be in California. Santa Monica to be precise... the world-known Santa Monica pier and it’s funfair rides in the background kind of a giveaway for that.The motorhome was parked almost on the beach, in a parking lot right next to the sand and the two guys took deep breaths of the sea air which was more than just refreshing compared to the noxious air inside of the motorhome. The RV was in Santa Monica because Invasion:LA was only a couple of days previous and with almost a month before the next show, they decided to invite Tommy two out to spend some time with them. “Fucking hell, if he’s like that regularly I dunno how you live with him,” Tommy said to Johnny, shaking his head as he turned his back on the RV. He could still hear the sounds of hell coming from inside. “Is it really worth it, living in a piece of shit campervan just to save a few quid?”
“Fucked if I know. I were perfectly happy in that motel,” Johnny said, shrugging. “Days like this though, I definitely wish we weren’t living in such close quarters; typical northern prick, gotta go for the hottest thing on the menu. No offence,” he finished, looking shiftifly at Tommy.
“Hey, fuck off yous, am from the Midlands, not up north!” the Brummie said, scowling. “That just means we hate you southern fairies and them northern wankers,” he added before smirking as Johnny flipped him off. “Could be worse though... a mean, one of ya could be Welsh,” he said again, smirking further.
“I’d rather not be a sheep shagger thanks,” Johnny said, grinning as the sound of the motorhome’s toilet flushing came from the still-open door of the RV, the septic tank clanking and banging, sounding like the thing was going to fall apart before they heard the lock click and groaning coming from inside the motorhome. “Oh, here we go...” Johnny said and both men turned to look at the doorway of the RV to see Wasley appear in the doorway, somewhat horrifically dressed in tight swimming trunks that didn’t exactly leave anything to the imagination and also gave him a considerable muffin top to boot. “Oh what the fuck, mate?!”
“What?” Wasley asked as he scratched his belly, stepping out of the van and onto the sand. Told you it was parked right by the beach. “Ya never seen a bloke on speedo’s before?” he asked, going from scratching his belly to pulling a couple of inches of the white material out of his butt crack.
“Never seen quite so much of a bloke in speedo’s is probably more accurate,” the Tommy from Birmingham said. So much shittier than a Tommy from Doncaster, I think we can all agree. “But cut the shit talk, pun intended, we’ve got a game to play!”
On cue, a few jeers came from several feet away, by a volleyball net. They were clearly waiting for the three English guys to get a move on. “That’s who we’re playin’ then?” Wasley asked, looking a little disappointed. “Ya couldn’t get three fit birds in bikini’s from Ante Up to come for a game instead?” he added, turning back to the other Tommy, a frown hiding behind his beard.
“Beggers can’t be choosers, I guess?” Johnny said, shrugging before removing his vest and tossing it over to Wasley. “Stick that in the camper before ya lock up. Might as well give any ladies walking by a decent show...”
“Fucking posers, both of ya,” brummie Tommy said, shaking his head. Wasley ignored him and tossed Johnny’s vest into the motorhome before locking it up and tossing the keys over to Johnny. He had pockets in his shorts. Wasley’s own shorts didn’t have room for body parts, let alone objects to be stored. And now...
...
IT’S MONTAGE TIME!
Let’s set the scene. “Playing With The Boys” by Kenny Loggins should definitely be playing over the top of what we’re watching as we cut to the volley ball court. For whatever reason, all three of our heroes are now shirtless and yes, they’re also lathered in baby oil. Wasley in particular is practically dripping, though that could just be sweat. Fat people and sun don’t make for good bedfellows. And now the game is underway; we see a ball spinning while balanced on the end of a finger, then Wasley checking his watch before clapping his hands together. Then we see Cook throwing the ball up and jumping to serve. We see one of the students hitting the ball up in the air. Then another hitting it over the net. Then Wasley hitting it to Johnny who volleys it. We see one of the students jumping to the ball but missing. Then Wasley and Johnny high fiving. We then see a student serving. Then Cook jumping to hit it back. Then we see a nice long shot of the six players, volleying back and forth, then an Ante Up student landing in the sand and Wasley, Johnny and Tommy all bump fists. Then... it happens. As the chorus of the song blasts out in all its homoerotic double-entendre’d glory, we see Wasley running from the back of the court and diving in slow motion, his fat jiggling as he dives to fist a ball up into the air and as he lands the music stops abruptly as the sound of the worst fart you can evert imagine comes from between his cheeks and a small brown stain begins to appear on the back of his shorts and Wasley’s eyes widen in horror as everyone stops to stare at him.
“Fuck me, did you just...” the second Tommy said, unable to go on as he starts to laugh.
Johnny was already doubled over in laughter as Wasley quickly jumped to his feet, his butt cheeks clenched together as he waddled over to Johnny. “Quick, gimme the fuckin’ keys,” he said, holding his hand out and wiggling his fingers as Johnny continued to laugh hysterically. “Am not jokin’ knobhead, GIMME THE FUCKIN’ KEYS!” he screams and Johnny, still doubled over, fishes into his pocket and pulls the keys out, dropping them into Wasley’s outstretched hand and the fat yorkshireman waddled as quickly as he could towards the motorhome a few yards away, the brown stain definitely bigger than it was at first.
Tommy and Johnny were doubled up laughing as they watch him scramble to unlock the door; Wasley dropped the keys at least once as he desperately tried to gain access. “Well... that were an explosive end to things,” Tommy said, holding his sides with laughter as Wasley finally made it inside the RV. “Guess the games over lads,” he added to the students who were unsure whether they should laugh, though they struggling to keep smirks off their faces. It may not be a cool exit on a motorcycle in order to have sex with Kelly McGillis but it was an equally quick exit as the star of that particular eighties film – also named Tom – and nobody could say it wasn’t eventful...
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“So is this what tag wrestlin’s come to, eh? A couple’a fuckin’ YouTube wankers, a former prozzy an’ a deaf bird, psychopath’s holdin’ the gold... an’ then there’s us, me an’ Johnny Taylor, the Moustache Ride, lost in the bloody shuffle...
...a mean, am not bein’ funny or owt, but does Vanilla Skyy an’ Danny Darko not realise that they’ve got like, the premiere tag team from England on their books right now?!
Am just glad that Emerge lets us lot run our own independent merch stores, ‘cause if the sales we’ve been gettin’ a’ve bin any indication, we should be main eventin’ most weeks! But nah, that ain’t how it works is it... what’s wrong, are my tits not as marketable as that crazy bint Mika’s or Pretty little Pey Pey? No offence Pey, that’s a crackin’ bit’a crumpet, but tell me am not makin’ a good point lads an’ lasses... my arse clearly don’t bring as many blokes to the yard as Kandis’... even if mine might gi’ ‘ers a run for ‘er money...
But anyroad... sad as I am about the fact that we’re not main eventin’ this show an’ that we’ve gotta go up against a couple’a little twats from YouTubes an’ a team am already mad wi’ for not followin’ through on their promises... fear not, Moustache Ride are ‘ere an’ we’re gonna mek things fun for ya!
An’ speakin’ of big mouthed slappers... what gives wi’ that shit, eh love? Aye, am talkin’ to you Siri... Sari... fuck it, am callin’ ya Sarah! What gives wi’ that promise of sittin’ on me face that ya never followed through wi’?! How can ya expect to be taken seriously, if ya promise stuff an’ never follow through, eh? ...not that kinda followin’ through though, ‘cause a) that ain’t my cuppa tea an’ b) is a bit’a a sore subject for me at minute, but al say no more on that. Sad thing is though love, it’d ‘ave bin the ride’a ya life, but that ships sailed now toots... sorry...
An’ these two whipper-snappers, these t’internet famous little cockwombles the Moderm Moron’s or whatever they’re called... the fuck you two numpty’s doin’ ‘ere, eh? Ya lookin’ to go viral? We’ll ‘elp wi’ that... fail videos are still popular on YouTube af’er all, an’ ya both destined for one this comin’ Monday. No offence lads, ya just in the way an’ that ain’t good for either’a ya this week.
A guess a should be happy that tag wrestlin’s growin’ in Emerge though... ‘cause if nowt else it gis us extra motivation to wanna slap some twats around a bit an’ earn another crack at them belts...
An’ this time? Well, am gonna say it... it waint be as easy for Serotonin ‘cause a think it’s about time me an’ are mucka Johnny got our hands on them belts! An’ a think you lot at home are gonna enjoy the ride when we are champs. Everyone enjoys the Moustache Ride. It’s always enjoyable! Always...”
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