Cat's M/M Fiction

Golditop and the Three Brats 

 Seeing as it’s the festive season and here in the UK that means family Pantomime season, here’s a small skit loosely based (and we’re talking loser than a tart’s knicker elastic here) on the classic fairy tale of Goldilocks and the three bears which is often performed as a Panto. Panto's are great fun, they're loud and ott and often full of lots of rude innuendo that goes over the top of the kids heads  with the sole purpose of entertaining the adults accompanying them.

This skit will suit fans of the Top/brat genre

 Act one:

Once upon a bleak midwinter, in a humble three bedroomed house in deepest Yorkshire, there lived three grown up brats, Peter, Malcolm and Robin. Their mother, a loving, but inadequate parent with absolutely no control over them, was falling into despair, as well as falling over drunk every five minutes on account of comforting herself too liberally with the fortified wine. One snowy Christmas Eve she got up early, well, before noon anyway, and as it was a cold day decided to make her brats some porridge for breakfast, proudly setting the steaming bowls before them as they sat at the table in the kitchen.

“This porridge is too HOT,” bellowed Peter, flinging the spoon across the kitchen, “I’ve burned my bloody mouth on it you daft woman!”

“This porridge is not too HOT, you wishy-washy moron,” yelled Malcolm, glaring crossly at Peter, “it’s too COLD, and it’s like eating cement,” and he also flung his spoon across the kitchen.

Unlike his naughty brethren, Robin the youngest brat, didn’t throw his spoon across the kitchen...he threw the entire bowl of porridge instead, yelling, “I’m not eating this, crap, it has too many calories, you know I’m on a bloody strict diet, get me a ryvita, that’ll be just RIGHT!” 

“OH YES IT IS TOO HOT!” shouted Peter as he tipped his porridge into Malcolm’s lap.

“OH NO IT ISN’T, IT’S TOO COLD.” hollered Malcolm as he tipped his porridge over Peter’s head.

“I WANT RYVITA.” Robin stormed off to the bathroom to induce vomiting, fearful lest the smell of porridge had caused him to gain weight.

It was more than their mother could stand. Packing her bags, she decided that it was time to leave and live happily ever after with her girlfriend, Little Red Riding Hood, in Fairy Tale Land. Chucking some magic beans out of the window, she climbed up the resulting beanstalk, pausing only to say aloud. “Oh, how I wish that someone could be found to sort out my brats and bring order to their lives.”

It just so happened that leaning casually against the foot of the beanstalk, or should that be the root, was an off duty, but kindly, fairy godfather.  “No sooner said than done, me old love, never let it be said that I let a wish go un-granted.”

Taking his ciggy out of his mouth, Sid flicked it onto the floor and ground it out beneath the heel of his sparkling ruby slipper. He then whipped up his frilly skirts and brought forth a very large wand, which he waved vigorously, causing three passing old ladies to have strokes, well, two of them did, the other one couldn’t quite reach, much to her chagrin!

There was a loud pop followed by a puff of green smoke, from its midst emerged a tall, handsome man with golden blonde hair and a large briefcase. Gazing up at the imposing figure, Sid found himself almost wishing he were gay instead of just a straight ordinary transvestite.

“Never fear my good woman, er man, er whatever,” the handsome stranger laid a kind hand on Sid’s shoulder, “I will bring order from chaos.” Clicking his fingers, he disappeared into thin air, seeing as there was no fat air available.

Sid sighed and tucked his big wand safely back inside his knickers.


Meanwhile, inside the house, Peter flung himself sulkily into an armchair, then flung himself back out of it exclaiming, “this chair is too fucking BIG!”

“Don’t be such a wally,” snarled Malcolm, “how can a chair be too BIG!” He hurled himself onto another chair, then leapt up yelling, “this one’s too HARD, what have you done to it?”

They began to throw punches at each other, but they hurt too much so they threw cushions instead. Peter tripped over one and fell backwards, grabbing at his brother as he did so; they both fell heavily onto an armchair, which promptly broke into pieces.

As his brothers fought over whose fault it was that the chair got broken, Robin set off for the gym. Despite having a violent headache, he spent several hours on the treadmill, after which he was dizzy, sick and had a nosebleed. A nourishing glass of water soon set him right and he followed up with a weights work out, finishing with a gentle two-hour stint on the power cycle. As he lay on the ground waiting for the paramedics to restart his heart, and replace his knee joints, he wondered if his brothers had resolved the chair issue. He was getting tired of living in a mad house. Sometimes he thought he was the only sensible member of the family.

His bro’s having wrecked all the chairs in the house, had moved up to the bedrooms and were looking for another issue to grouse about.

“This bed is too LUMPY!” Peter shot off it and indulged in a fit of stamping.

“And this one is too sodding SOFT!” Malcolm pummelled his pillow.

They both fell silent for a moment, then Malcolm said slyly,  “Now mum has gone off to live with the big bad wolfess, she won’t need her bed, I bet her bed is just RIGHT.”

“YEAH,” smirked Peter, “and I’m the eldest, so paws off bro, it’s mine.”

“OH NO IT ISN’T!” yelled Malcolm, swiftly poking Peter in the eye with his finger.

“OH YES IT IS!” Peter swiftly poked Malcolm back, only with two fingers.

They both got a fright as a stern voice suddenly interrupted their intellectual debate, booming, “cease this pantomime at ONCE!”

They clutched each other. Where was the voice coming from?

“HE’S BEHIND YOU!” Bawled the audience especially brought in just to feed the line.

The two brats whirled around and stared in fright and confusion at the tall, handsome figure that seemed to have appeared out of thin air, there still being no sign of fat air. In a rare moment of sibling solidarity they chorused in unison: “who the fuck are you, and how did you get in?”

“How is irrelevant, I’m here and that’s all that need concern you. As for who, my name is Golditop, but you may call me Sir.” Golditop placed his briefcase on the bed and unlocked it.

The two brats paled when they saw what manner of implements it contained, a fine array of hairbrushes and paddles, plus a very whippy looking cane. They tried to scarper sharpish, but Golditop was having none of it. With a stereotypical demonic pantomime laugh, and a magical click of his fingers he sent the door crashing shut and locked it. He then smiled gently at them. “Well my fine young brats, it’s time to discuss manners, appropriate behaviour and consequences.”

The curtain falls on the chilling sound of brats in grief and strife. All rush to buy ice cream and fizzy drinks from the ushers.

Act Two:


“Thanks for the lift, though I still say I could have walked home, it’s only ten miles,” Robin waved to the ambulance men as they drove off, then, leaning heavily on his crutches he staggered through the thick falling snow into the house. What he saw amazed him, his two brothers were busily tidying and polishing, the house looked spick and span, and moreover they were being nice and polite to each other. Robin wondered why their eyes looked a bit red and puffy, and why they seemed to be moving very gingerly and rubbing their bottoms from time to time. He was about to ask when a voice spoke.

“Ah, good evening, you must be the baby brat of the family, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Poor Robin started with fright, he asked tremulously. “Where’s that voice coming from? I can see no one?”

“HE’S BEHIND YOU!” Roared rent-a-mob.

Golditop rose from the armchair by the fire. Robin stared and asked. “Who are you?”

“HE’S CALLED GOLDITOP,” chorused the makeshift audience carried away on a sudden wave of participation excitement, “BUT YOU CAN CALL HIM SIR.”

“OY!” Peter and Malcolm glared at them, “that was our line!”



“OH...that’s enough of all that.”

Golditop wasted no time, gently ushering Robin upstairs to the bedroom. “We need to discuss your propensity for irresponsible, self harmful, and dangerous behaviour.”

Downstairs, Peter and Malcolm winced in sympathy as the sounds of a very thorough bare bottomed spanking, followed by a paddling rang throughout the house.




Golditop spent all of Christmas with the Three Brats, significantly improving their behaviour and even getting Robin to ask for seconds at dinner!

In fact, Golditop discovered that the three brats were actually very sweet boys who just needed a little corrective discipline and support. Come the New Year he moved in permanently and they all lived happily ever after in discipline ménage harmony.  :)


The End. (Huge sigh of relief)


Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011