Local residents in New Brighton have been warned to stay away from popular tourist attraction, Marine Lake, after mutant crabs were reported attacking Albanian workers enjoying a day out. Top government scientists have been drafted into the area to investigate sightings of huge crustaceans on the peninsula.

Dr. Greg Aftermath, professor of Toxiclakeology at Liverpool Polytechnic burst into the lab in a hurry. His team, professionals to a man and woman, herded back to give the great man room to speak.

“Men!” he yelled. “And women! The local yokels are driving me mad with their incessant cries of ‘Crab!’ Anything to report?”

A small nervous fellow with a clipboard pondered and went: “Four more sightings of giant crab in and around New Brighton, professor,” he mewed. “The local fishermen are concerned it may affect Seacombe’s delicate eco-system.”

Another scientist stepped forward, her provocative white lab coat parting to reveal the luscious thrust of her pouting young knitwear. “Sir,” she breathed naughtily. “A team was despatched to isolate a portion of the lake for analysis but we were unable to get near enough due to the high rate of airborne pollution coming from the site.” She swiftly uncrossed the silky expanse of her thighs and exhaled. “You’ll have to send in a probe.”

Dr. Aftermath grunted and then swung his chair around to stare out of the window. “Well, General?”

General Forshking crossed to the room to stand behind the professor. “It doesn’t look good, doctor,” he barked. “We’ve tried bazookas, napalm, the lot! Everything we throw at them just seems to make them stronger! It’s like a nightmare. Only we’re awake…wide awake.”

Someone rapped loudly on the laboratory door. The team parted to make way for Dr. Aftermath’s voluptuous redheaded secretary. “Sir,” she heaved, awesomely. “There’s seaman…. seaman…”

“Well, spit it out, girl!”

“…a seaman outside to sea you!”

“Well, what in Tar Nation does he want to see me for?”

With an audible rush of wind, the door flew open to reveal a tall dark man, with the knitted brow and crossed eyes of a warrior.

“Shitharg!” exclaimed the professor, first. “We didn’t realise it had become so serious!”

A visible shudder surfed the room. Captain Steve Shitharg pursed his lips and looked at the weapon in his hand.

“How many rounds do I have left in my gun, shithead?” He pointed at Dr. Aftermath.

“Wh-what on earth do you mean, captain?” yelled the prof.

Shitharg ground the gun into his forehead. “How many?”

“Er, ten?”

Steve Shitharg stepped back and his weapon sprayed a hundred slugs of lead into every other person in the room – twice.

Captain Steve Shitharg swivelled slowly, taking in the smell of cordite and the sight of a dozen twitching corpses ripped apart in their ghastly redness.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered softly. “Dead wrong.”


The door security stiffened as the long white limo cruised elegantly to a halt outside Mauve, Liverpool’s top nightspot. The line of clubbers on the pavement surged forward as the limo’s door opened to reveal a woman’s long, shapely orange legs gaping slightly as she disembarked, followed by her male companion.

Despite the woman’s obvious attractions, it was her companion that held the crowd’s attention. For it was none other than sea-faring martial arts legend, Captain Steven Shitharg, here at another after-awards ceremony bash thrown in his honour.

“Ah, Captain Shitharg,” called Bobby Davro from the bar. “Congratulations on saving the Wirral from all those giant crabs. It’s a shame that so many innocent people had to die and all those policemen, too.”

Shitharg turned and slowly squinted his eyes until the corners of his mouth reached his ears. A deep rumble built in his chest. Davro turned white, his legs turned to flared jelly.

“I told them at the enquiry and now I’ll tell you all!” Shitharg growled.

The music ceased and all heads turned his way.

“It was a case of contaminated Red Bat. A group of girls from Prenton got smashed on it in Reflections and pissed it all out in the lake afterwards. That’s how the crabs got so huge.”

“But why didn’t the government’s crack science team spot the contamination, Steve?” said Bobby.

“Because they were covering up an important fact. Red Bat is actually Marine Lake water plus a few colourings. The Albanians, top toxicologists in their own country, knew this and reported it to the authorities that, in turn, phoned Red Bat and let them know someone was onto them. Via the lodge, they managed to get the Government to send out a bunch of stooges to act as scientists to keep the scandal under wraps. Their big mistake was killing the Albanians and blaming it on the crabs. You see, Marine Lake crabs only eat swans.”

With a hard smirk, Shitharg grabbed his bird and swung away into the VIP area.

“You’re a marvel,” screamed the bird from Jemini. “A fucken marvel!”


Tourists, many of them elderly, were in for a treat today as the world famous Tall ships glided gracefully up the River Mersey.

The ships, which are world-renowned for their height, were sailing into the Capital of Culture as part of the city’s River Festival when a dozen speeding motorboats tore through the surf towards them. Alarmed tourists fled as groups of masked men, armed with the latest high-tech weaponry, swarmed up the gangplanks of the ships, preventing them from docking. Short bursts of automatic gunfire were heard as the men herded the crew beneath decks and took control of the vessels.

Then, just as the ships were about to be plundered, the plaintive wail of a ship’s horn sounded from across the river. The men paused, turning to each other with questioning frowns, when suddenly the ancient ship was crushed by the massive impact of the Stennalink Norse ferry as it plowed into its stern. Dozens of terrorists were hurled into the sea and dozens more were sucked down into the icy depths as the precious ships went under.

“Avast, motherfuckers!” roared Captain Shitharg, his grip fast upon the main brace. “The Mersey’s mine and I’ll kill to keep it!” And with that he leapt upon the leader of the terrorists and ran him through.

His men, a desperate and motley crew, starved of rations and earning a paltry £4.30 an hour, leapt at the chance of plunder and rent the ships apart in their frenzied quest for loot. Seconds later, small fires erupted on the remainder of the fleet, scuttled beyond even the most generous European funding.

“ Well done, Captain Shitharg,” beamed Frank Field MP later in the bar of the Ringo Lounge. “You’ve saved the day once more. How can the city of people of Merseyside ever thank you?”

Shitharg’s massive brow knotted together with a cre


First Bus, Wirral’s newest transport executive, is pushing forward a revolutionary new way to combat anti-social behaviour and bus crime in the New Ferry region.

This month sees the first in a series of new initiatives to stem the increasing tide of attacks, graffiti and lawlessness on the transport company’s vehicles by suspending a number of routes between Bromborough, New Ferry and Heswall. Residents are jubilant about the results.

Mrs. Angina Hertz, 78, a retired accordionist from New Ferry, welcomes the changes. “Crime has been cut by 100%,” yelled the pensioner from between the barred windows of her ground floor maisonette in Upper Thyroid Close. “Despite the chaos it causes for elderly folk on the peninsula, I feel it will be necessary to make us feel safer.”

The cancellation of the 117, 125, 133, 121, 118, 119, 342, 745, 998, and 2 routes will enable the company to put into effect other safety measures, such as bullet-proof bus shelters on the 117, 125, 133, 121, 118, 119, 342, 745, 998, and 2 buses.