The usual terms apply:
1. There will be violence and sex. Anyone with a weak heart should leave now.
2. This is fantasy. Any issues, please let me know.
3. No resemblance to any person is intended or should be implied.
4. Feedback please!TAG TEAM BREAKFAST BITCHES BEATDOWNWe love the sound of a good beating in the morning…
This isn't like the fight scene between the news crews in “Anchorman; The Legend of Ron Burgundy.” No, it's not going to be like that at all…
For the BBC:
Steph McGovern - 33, 5’4”/1.65m, 56kg 32C (champion Irish dancer, swears like a docker)
Sally Nugent - 44, 5’9”/1.75m, 54kg, 32C (obsessed by cock)
Carol Kirkwood - 53, 5’9”/1.75m, ??kg, 36E (divorced her first husband who couldn't satisfy her)
vs.For ITV:
Kate Garraway - 48, 5’3”/1.60m, 70kg, 36C (fucked her first TV boss for a promotion)
Charlotte Hawkins - 41, 5’8”/1.70m, ?? (Vicar’s daughter, expelled from school for fighting)
Susanna Reid - 45, 5’4”/1.63m, 67kg, 34C (divorced by her husband after her foursome with three “Strictly Come Dancing” cast and crew. It was “Strictly Cum Again and Again and Again” for Susanna.)
Part 1It's very late in the evening, long after the National Television Awards ceremony has closed. We’re in the bar of a very upscale Knightsbridge hotel. The atmosphere is buzzing, mainly because ITV has swept the NTA show, winning in almost all of the categories which the pundits, the tabloids and the Entertainment Editors on cheap daytime TV shows think are important. Oh, and they're also the awards which the presenters and other on-screen talent think are important too.
Breakfast news teams tend to be tight-knit,, high energy and very focused on success against their competition. In the UK, the market has calmed down a lot since Channel 4 canned The Big Breakfast. (A buff, no – a statuesque, utterly MILF-y blonde, blue-eyed Sharon Davies in a very well-cut swimming costume on a poolside so chilly she’d have your eyes out, both of them, at 06:30? Paula Yates, the tiny unstoppable punk princess, the deeply damaged fuck-machine undressing a leather-clad Michael Hutchence with her eyes as she interviews/propositions him and his prodigious cock on a huge bed at 08:00? I digress.) Now that there are only really two national breakfast news teams broadcasting daily in the UK the market may be calmer, but the competition is much more fierce. And the front-line special forces in this glossy, sofa-based, celebrity-fuelled war are the women. (For obvious reasons, Eamonn “the Sofa” Holmes doesn’t qualify. In any way.)
Oh, the women the women. Front and centre in the bitter campaigns for ratings. Toned and tanned and primped and prepped, quick wit and quicker minds are encapsulated in bodies which can take the punishing regime of stupid o’clock starts and late nights schmoozing and boozing the bosses and the agents who can project their careers onto the next level of exposure, adulation and cash. The grey-suited, pale-tied, slow-eyed, slack-jawed, later-than-middle-aged men who almost always are seated next to these proud Valkyries of the screen more-or-less blend into the neutral studio backdrops when the real talent is on show.
Meanwhile, back in SW1X (that's the zip code for Knightsbridge, London by the way...)
Holding court at the bar are Phillip ‘wine-man’ Scofield and the voluptuous Holly Willough-booby who have just won best daytime chat show - again. The self-styled silver fox is warming up as he eases into his third bottle of unbelievably expensive Yqem. And Holly is in her element, soaking up the adulation, proudly indulging her curvaceous, top-heavy body in a diaphanous pale dress-cum-jumpsuit as young men surround her. As Sir Sean would say, it’s a nice little something that she’s almost wearing. For a young-ish Mum of three she's in v-e-r-y rude health. And the young bucks assembled around her know it - she's positively radiating lush, fecund womanliness.
The next-loudest assembly, crowding the bar next to Phil and Holly, are the Good Morning Britain team. After several years of fighting tooth and nail they have finally won ‘their’ NTA and by God they're going to celebrate it…
Charlotte is entertaining a small circle of older men. Her eyes are sparkling and she's laughing hard, her blonde hair thrown back time and again. Actually, not all of the group are older men. Hanging back, perhaps half a step, are tall dark-haired twins. Their DJs are pulled tight against their large athletic frames. They have easy smiles and quick eyes. No doubt in part because they know that they’re on duty tonight. Nominally they provide security for Rachel. In reality they are employed to keep Rachel’s fiery temperament in check by fucking her senseless whenever she demands it (which is often.) Oh, and they also help her workout in other ways, mainly kick-boxing and Krav Maga.
Kate’s busy winding-up the politically-minded acolytes, who consider themselves more intellectual, with her deep well of tales of the shortcomings and the curious sexual needs of Westminster politicians. The guys laugh politely at every anecdote. Yeah, and they're not considering in any way whatsoever her proud, swollen nipples which are pressing hard on her silk dress. That's why their gaze is uniformly directed at Kate's famously generous upholstery. Kate is blessed with a chest which never fails to make all of the headlines when she chooses to unleash it, something which she's been doing more regularly as she has, eh, matured. A couple of the guys also notice her toned biceps and defined traps, but not for long. The magnetic attraction of her formidable tits cannot be ignored as they dip and bob, almost as if under their own power, when she laughs at each of her own pithy political stories. The local tabloids have been papping her paps lately as she's been practising her karate moves in a local park…
And then there's Susanna. The gang boss, no doubt because she’s shorter, stockier, a tougher Scouse woman, better sorted, more toned, with brighter teeth against her more tanned face and with a much better plan for taking control of any situation than the rest of her team. Her eyes are sparkling, despite the time of night. Her teeth are gleaming. Her petite frame is in top condition, the product of her more-than-daily PT sessions with one of London’s most famous personal trainers, Nicole. Susanna’s not nearly as long and lean as her co-stars, but she more than makes up for that with her force of personality. And a great bra which lifts and projects her creamy breasts, concocting a cleavage which catches everyone’s eye. Susanna’s standing with her back to the bar. Legs apart, the shiny material of her couture evening gown stretched against her toned thighs, she’s holding court, making sure that every single one of the soft, doughy, bespectacled senior TV execs who are surrounding her know that she’s the leader, the boss, the one who deserves the credit for the success of “her” show. One of the execs involuntarily mops his brow as Susanna graphically demonstrates with a clench and then a twist of her fist how she deals with any men who are foolish enough to get in her way.
The Good Morning Britain “GMB” team are in full effect. They each have different strengths, but when those strengths are combined then the team is tremendous. Tonight, basking in the considerable glow of their popular success, they are in their absolute element. Surrounded by fawning colleagues and peers, encouraged by the adulation of the NTA audience, and fired up by the drink and plenty other stimulants - which they're consuming with enthusiastic abandon at the bar, in the ladies bathrooms and in quiet corners of the hotel.
There are maybe 120 folks in the bar and it’s buzzing with post-awards chatter, banter and laughter. The mood is definitely high.
There's a noise above the buzz of the folks in the bar. There's a definite rumbling, cackling, pressure of noise which suddenly erupts into the bar. Every single person turns around and looks at the entrance to see what the hell is going on.
The double-doors dividing the rest of this rather ritzy hotel from the bar, which is bouncing with revellers, burst open with a bang. Backwards into the bar walk several burly men. Their dinner jackets are well-cut and the darkest blue fabric ripples against their bulging muscles. They're walking backwards because their attention is focused completely on the trio who are at the centre of an adoring coterie of perhaps 20 gorgeous young hangers-on. The big guys continue their backwards progression as the main event glide, gorgeously but also purposefully, into the bar.
There’s a tremendous noise around this new group. There’s adulation and chatter and banter, shrieks of laughter and a force of nature to the group. They clearly operate as a pack. Eyes around the bar swivel and sharpen. Faces turn towards the noise and jaws tighten. Expressions harden and set. And, to those who notice this sort of detail, standing positions tighten beneath formal floor-length silk dresses, with stances switched and shoulders swivelled.
The group swirls as it moves towards the bar and the driving forces within it emerge into the (subdued) light. At the front, leading the charge to the bar as you would expect, is the youngest member of the team. Steph is heavy on the fake tan, heavy on the kohl around the eyes, heavy on the short, dyed, slicked-back hair and very heavy on the attitude, leading as always with her chin. She knows that she’s the youngest, the brightest and she thinks, in her own mind, that as a mackem she’s the hardest. She’s certainly the youngest, the shiniest and by far the bounciest of the team tonight, tottering as she does on very high heels.
Following sexy Steph into the bar are the two older, more experienced, heavy-hitters of the BBC team, striding side-by-side in time with each other. The blonde and brunette double act of Carol and Sally complement each other perfectly. Sally is the taller, more ripped - her long and lean frame accentuated by a ridiculously tight sheath dress in inky blue. Her one exposed shoulder ripples with toned muscle and her glossy dark hair bounces off both of those gorgeous shoulders. By her side is a very tall guy, perhaps ten years younger than Sally. His remarkable height is accentuated by a slight ungainliness, and his particularly long hands and very very big feet. Her perfect makeup accentuates her dark eyes and her rosebud lips, which are ruby red this evening. Sally’s keeping close to the gangly-guy, but at the same time her eyes are scanning the room as she walks, spotting targets and opportunities, her eyes narrowing as she spots particular targets and very particular opportunities, especially for the outrageous sex parties which she enjoys so much.
Beside her, walking with all of the confidence and cool professionalism for which she’s become famous is the matriarch. The real boss. The capo di tutti. Carol’s blonde tresses have been teased and treated and picked up onto the top of her head. At her other extremity, the Louboutins have increased her stature by a good three inches. In between the extremities, Carol’s ridiculous curves are the envy of every woman in the bar, and the object of lust of every single man. If you look around the bar you can see every single straight guy shift a little uncomfortably and rearrange themselves as their cocks involuntarily stiffen when they realise that they - and their now-tumescent cocks - are in the presence of Carol K. Carol’s not helping their situation much. She’s underlining her incredible attributes with a deep, plunging neckline which cups her astonishingly generous tits – and that neckline is fighting for attention with her tiny, cinched waist.
As the group stride closer to the bar Steph’s eyes catch sight of something and her stride and direction are adjusted accordingly. As the BBC group closes on the bar she strides up to the tallest, beefiest guy standing next to Charlotte Hawkins. She stands in front of him, legs apart, the light making her tanned-legs shine. She looks up at his bland, uncomprehending face, albeit a face with a remarkably well-developed jaw;
“Ya’all reet, pet?” Steph over-exaggerates her accent for effect in the bar amongst folks who are mainly from the south of the country - or from further afield. “Ya looks like ye’d gies a reet good workout! Ya up fur that, pet?” He’s taken aback at the directness of the approach and struggles to say anything for a moment. His jaw hangs slightly ajar as his, admittedly not the brightest, brain tries to form some sort of a comeback to this direct challenge. Eventually his mouth forms into a smile and he half-laughs, nervously looking at Rachel who’s eyes have narrowed while her jaw has stiffened. Charlotte steps forward towards Steph; “Don't touch what you could never afford, got it?” She steps forward again, closer to Steph; “Now leave the grown-ups alone before you get hurt. Go and play with those two desiccated old witches you call team-mates.”
Steph's eyes widen and flare. The young engineer of the year doesn't take kindly at being told what to do – by anybody. Steph steps forward, closing the gap with Charlotte. Even with the outrageous heels which the young business reporter is wearing, Charlotte still has a two inch height advantage over her – but that would never deter Steph. She pokes Charlotte in the bare shoulder with her finger and says, dropping the northern accent and through teeth which are slightly gritted; “I’ll party with whoever I bloody well want to. So shut it, you stuck-up old tart. Or you'll regret it in the morning.”
The group of men surrounding the women has detected the change in the tone of the conversation and has fallen silent. Charlotte is well-aware that she is now the centre of attention and that she has to assert her alpha status immediately. She grabs Steph's finger which has been poking Charlotte in the shoulder and twists it sharply to the left. Steph’s body jerks to the right and she bends her arm to try top take the pressure off her finger. As she bends to the right Charlotte raises herself onto the balls of her feet, raises her left arm, her hand high above her head, and then slaps the open palm of her hand down onto Steph's left cheek. Charlotte’s move is almost like a tennis serve – and carries the same amount of force. The loud crack of her palm making contact with Steph’s face carries across the bar and those who recognise it stop and turn around.
Steph's bent-over, her knees slightly crooked, her finger still in Charlotte’s hand. She doesn’t cry out or make any sound at all. Slowly she straightens her back and stands upright, facing Charlotte. She stares at Charlotte, eyes now completely ablaze; “if that’s your best shot, love, then we’d better call you an ambulance now, because that's the only way that you’re going home tonight.” And she laughs in Charlotte’s face; “Come on. I felt nowt, me, absolutely nowt. See if you can do any better?” She points at her own chin with her hand. “Come on pet - I'll give you one more free shot. Then it’ll be my turn.”
Charlotte doesn’t hesitate for a second. She twists Steph's finger again, in the same direction as before. As Steph twists to the right Charlotte lifts her arm again, her hand above her head and strikes down with the same lightning blow as before. Only this time she’s balled her hand into a tight fist. No-one has noticed – until the blow hits Steph. Her head – quickly followed by her body – spins round from the force of the punch. Her tanned legs can't support her body as her head swims, seeing stars of all sorts. She drops to her knees and her head sags. Then she shakes it, to begin to clear it. Her head down, she notices a large bright red drop of blood fall from her lower lip and splash onto the floor. She wipes her lip gingerly with the back of her hand. She can feel the pain on her face. She can also feel the rage growing inside her.
Charlotte’s standing back, watching. Her two dark-haired attendants show no sign of surprise at what’s happened. One pats Charlotte on the shoulder, smiling. The other looks at Stephs’s back and shouts, revealing a South African accent; “Hey, little blondie. You know she put me in the hospital with that right fist, yeah? You shouldn't mess with the big girls, you know?” He turns to Charlotte and begins to congratulate her, a broad smile on his face.
While his back is towards Steph she’s regained her composure. She's got back to her feet, albeit slightly shakily. She's touched her torn lip again, carefully. She's kicked off her shoes, carelessly. “Those’re yer two free shots, sister. I’m still standing – and so now it's my turn.” Steph – who has played plenty of rugby league at home in the back garden with her brothers and their mates – charges at Charlotte. Steph drops her shoulder as she charges and tackles Charlotte. Steph's shoulder lands perfectly in Charlotte’s midriff and her willowy frame completely folds up as Steph propels her - with some force - backwards onto the floor.
Charlotte’s winded by the force of the blow into her body and so doesn't react immediately when she hits the ground. This gives Steph the chance that she needs and she is quickly on top of Charlotte, pinning down Charlotte’s arms in a classic schoolgirl pin. Charlotte's unprotected face twists as she tries to get out from under Steph, but to no avail. In a flash Steph has raised her own hand and has slapped down hard onto Charlotte's left cheek. Immediately Steph raises her other hand and repeats the move on the other side of Charlotte’s face. Steph’s got Charlotte onto the ground and it’s clear that she’s about to start pounding on Charlotte’s face. Steph raises her right hand again, but by now the dark-haired twins have realised that they will have to step in and stop what's happening. They split, one on each side of Steph and grab her by shoulders, quickly and easily lifting her clear of Charlotte. Steph struggles and shouts, but the guys have her by the arms and she can't break free. They nod to each other and as they put Steph's feet down onto the floor she finds her arms bent behind herself and one of the twins pins them there, her arms locked in place in a full nelson by his much bigger body. Steph wriggles and struggles but is pinned tight. The other twin has gone to assist Charlotte and, offering her his hand, has helped her to her feet. He says something quietly in Charlotte’s ear and they both look over at Steph, turn and walk towards her. Charlotte touches her red cheeks then steps towards Steph. Without hesitating she pulls back her right arm and slams her fist into Steph’s guts. Held firmly in place Steph can't do anything but try to tense her abs as she sees the second blow steaming into her. Her head goes down, so Charlotte opens her fist and slaps Steph in the face again, this time with an upward motion.
On the other side of the bar, while Kate and Susanna haven't been paying any attention to events, Sally and Carol have. They are well-used to Steph’s ability to start a fist fight in an empty room so they haven’t felt the need to intervene, preferring to enjoy the fine vintage champagne and the attention of their fawning attendants. But when Sally notices the dark haired twins lifting Steph off Charlotte’s body she nudges Carol, who turns to watch. Carol nods back to Sally and they both finish their glasses of champagne in one mouthful. Together they turn on their heels and head for Steph, Charlotte and the twins. Without making a great deal of fuss Sally and Carol stride purposefully across the bar. As they approach the beating which Steph is now taking Sally slows for a second and deftly lifts a full bottle of vintage champagne out of an ice bucket that’s in the middle of a table. Without breaking her stride she walks up behind the twin who is standing next to Charlotte and smacks him on the side of the head with the bottle. It explodes into a bright shower of glass and bubbles and the twin goes down hard, completely unconscious at the unexpected blow. The moment after the bottle strikes the twin, Carol shoulder barges Charlotte to one side and she staggers, eventually grabbing the side of the bar to steady herself. Carol follows her, grabs her by the hair and smacks Charlotte's forehead hard off the rail at the front of the bar. Charlotte’s down again, but still not out.
As Carol attends to Charlotte, Sally walks towards Steph and the twin. The twin is in two minds about what to do, but doggedly he holds onto Steph in the full nelson hold. “Down below, Steph!” shouts Sally as she approaches them. Steph’s confused for a split second then begins to smile. She tenses her toned arms and pulls on them hard enough to lift her feet off the ground. The twin grunts at the shift in her weight but is unmoved. Steph lifts her feet and spreads her legs wide, just in time as Sally delivers a crunching kick into the twin’s groin, between Steph’s legs. Sally must have been watching the kickers practising at Twickenham because this twin’s balls must now be in another postal code with the brutal force of her kick.
The twin howls at the searing pain caused by the blow in his groin and his knees fold immediately. Steph’s not letting go, though. She's a fan of the WWE – so as the twin falls forwards onto his knees she holds onto his neck. As her bum hits the floor the twin’s head hits her shoulders and he’s stunned. Rather pleased with herself, Steph smiles as Sally helps her back to her feet. The group of guys who have been surrounding Charlotte recognise that Carol and Sally are not to be messed with - and begin to turn and step away.
The moment that the sound of the champagne bottle smashing off the side of the twin’s head is heard, Susanna and Kate react instinctively. They lower their own champagne glasses, put their expensive handbags down on the table next to them and start to walk towards the commotion, both with their fists balled-up tight. Susanna strides purposefully while Kate's chest sways in time with her hips as she crosses the floor. They watch Sally and Steph floor the remaining twin and Carol smack Charlotte’s head off the bar-rail. The fight is on!
Coming in Part 2...
