Festival toilets are grim, everyone knows that and it’s boring listening to people go on and on about them each summer - but oddly, the one I used on the weekend was immaculate. Admittedly, I was quite high for the entire festival, but still, it seemed pretty special compared to some of the shit tanks I’ve dumped in over the years.
Anyways, by the time Saturday arrived I could no longer ignore the fact that I had been holding in a giant turd in my bursting colon for at least twenty hours and I was anxious that I was over cooking it (with recollections that they can dry out inside you and you have to pick them out with chop sticks and olive oil).
So I got inside the toilet and tried to hover my bum and genitals over the plastic “Poo Flap”. The thing is, the log I’d been cooking up was clearly a nightmarish behemoth and I really needed to sit down to get it out effectively - but in doing so it would mean my genitals would have to touch the Poo Flap as the bowl of the toilet was so shallow. That clearly just couldn’t happen in any way. Seriously. I've put my dick in some gross places before, but there was no way it was touching the Poo Flap.
To overcome this I ingeniously sat down on the seat whilst cupping my cock and balls in one hand, and held them above my thighs. Problem solved. I actually ended up quite enjoying the turd in the end, and I sat thinking about all the good fun things I would do with my day, but at the very last contraction to evacuate the turd, my body betrayed me entirely. I just didn’t anticipate the involuntary jet of piss that would erupt from my penis, hitting my face, covering my shirt and, eventually, dousing my already smelly balls in hot slash.
They should give a name to this unfortunate reflex, because it’s fucking embarrassing dangerous.
It's been a strange few weeks for the Zezaurian Cycling Dept. and things have been getting pretty painful out on the busy roads of London's Famous London. I'm struggling to keep up with the number of accidents people keep getting themselves into, but let's take look at some of my favourites ever since we said we'd do that silly race around Battersea Park.
1. "Invisible Stack"
Is there anything in life better than seeing Tim Howard hit an "invisible obstacle" in the middle of a busy road and camply flying over his handlebars, crashing face first into the tarmac like a rubbish twat? I've been playing that one on repeat in my head for weeks.
Total distance covered: 2.3 metres Total time: 0.7 seconds Shame level: getting caught out with an erection in maths class Pain level: advanced vaginal thrush
2. "Stationary Stack"
Oh, the sweet, sweet shame of stacking it so comprehensively on your bicycle whilst going a whopping 2 miles-per-hour on one of the busiest streets in London. My dear friend, Tom, what the fuck happened? I think the bit that made us wee ourselves with laughter the most was the fact that you had foolishly hung a 4kg bike lock around your neck, ensuring a swift uppercut to your beautiful nose moments before you slumped to the ground. Thank you so much for this gift to us.
Total distance covered: 0.5 metres Total time: (including the street of people laughing at you) 4 days, 17 hours Shame level: soiling your pants in maths class Pain level: the same as getting dumped by this.
3. "Riding to Brighton"
Drib Drab and Mr Morose did it last year, so why couldn't they do it this year?
Mr Morose: "C'mon ya handsome devil, let'sh ride to Brighton."
Drib Drab: "I dunno, man. It's, like, 5am and I'm pretty wasted."
Mr Morose: "Sho? What are you? A cock or a fanny?"
Drib Drab: "...I'm a massive, massive cock."
Ten minutes later Mr Morose was lying in the middle of the road mumbling about the bleeping sounds in his head (a pedestrian crossing). Ten minutes after that he was lying in the middle of the road again holding his ball-bag and asking why anyone in their right mind would stick a fucking illuminous bollard in the middle of an intersection. Brighton remained a long, long way away.
Total distance covered: 3.1km Total time: 34 minutes Shame level: soiling your pants and getting an erection about it in maths class Pain level: listening to Mr Morose talk about his hobbies
4. "Balls out"
Special Brew and Ouzo are a pleasant mix, right? So much so, they make boys strip to their cock and balls and ride down what is perhaps the most densely packed road in London on a Saturday night and head home wondering how they're going to retrieve their penises from inside their stomachs. They should call this homoerotic game "Shrimp Saddle".
I think some of the naked riders were imagining that all the girls would whoop and throw their knickers at them, but all that really happened was that people shouted "fucking queer homo gays" and spat on their backs. Nice work revellers!
Total distance covered: 1km Total time: 12 awful minutes Shame level: telling people that you thought Terminator Salvation was a "pretty good" film Pain level: sitting through all 115 minutes of Terminator Salvation
UPDATE: We've moved this to 11 July, Battersea Park – first race 1pm.
Three fast-as-you-can laps dodging orange-faced rich people walking their cats on velvet leashes. I can’t think of anything more fun than that. If your bike has gears, then you must pick one and stick with it as there are lots of fixed gear poser types competing, so we're insisting on one gear for everyone.
6 riders per race, 4 stages. Frolicking by the river afterwards and Northern Soul from 10pm-4am.
The winner gets a Zezaurian Headband - the hip new look for the summer.
***Updated because two of the people in these pictures are hot-shot lawyers and pulled a bed-wetting strop about it***
I Just spent four very long days exhausting myself with some nice rich people in what was, I think, the Land of Narnia. It was more fun than I've had in the last four years combined, despite being told that Narnia is shit-hole because it's full of Christians and paedophiles.
On one day I jumped off the top of a waterfall so high that all the skin was ripped off my shins from hitting the water so hard. I was also shot in the face, left kidney, buttocks, hands and shoulder by a real-life marine, fresh from Afghanistan, in a game of underpants-only paintball. Joy.
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I found this on the kitchen table of my cottage one morning. It was the only black person I saw in the country side. Her name was Sammy.
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This man came into my room every night and took the covers from me. He also made me answer questions such as: "Who would you rather skin alive and eat, your mum or your dad? If you say your dad, you're a gay."
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This is me wishing that I'd laid off all the free stuff they gave out.
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I know this looks kinda racist, but that was just a slug that I found and everyone was saying, "do something hilarious with it". The little fucker excreted this horrible jelly that took over an hour to fully remove. (Side note: slugs don't smell of anything.)
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My friend Tom took this picture. Seriously, how fucking shit can you make an image? Ooh, ooh, look, it's like we're in a saloon bar in the wild west. What a fucking drip. The worst part is, when he reads this he'll get all moody because he'll actually think it's a "good picture". When I took this off the camera it was one of eleven shots of the same thing - this being the only one in focus. Some days I hate Tom.
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This is Tom. Ladies, he's single and has these big square man-boob things because he works out the whole time and drinks four litres of milk a day. He's got the personality of cancer though.
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It's hard to tell from just looking at this picture, but that speaker was playing Hiretsukan at full-fucking-whack and it was such a great moment I thought I should capture it on film and post it on the Internet.
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This guy was called Henry. He was so chilled out and confident about his life that he slept like that all afternoon and all evening whilst everyone else got fucked up. I kept laughing saying that we should draw on his face and burn his pubes off, but everyone else just shrugged their shoulders and said that Tupac wouldn't do that, so maybe we shouldn't either.
When life gets you down, or you stare at your Facebook page and wonder, "why am I such a drip?" it’s usually best to think "what would Tupac do?" and take some time out to think about something that’s actually interesting for once. Sending barely intelligible messages to other drips is not interesting, no matter how you dress it up. But thinking about the super-massive black hole at the centre of our galaxy sure is.
I know, I know; you thought it would be you at the centre of the galaxy, but no, it’s actually "something" (most likely a black hole) 4.5 million times the mass of the sun. If, like me, you live in England you've probably never seen the sun, but I've been assured that the fucker is huge. Like, so huge it’s making my brain ache just thinking about it. So I can’t really compute something being 4.5 million times its mass.
Still, this black hole is also 300,000 light years away, which is a distance so vast it’s making my brain and my nipples ache. But at that distance, this HUGE monster of space-and-time-bending-madness is the size of a football on the moon. A FOOTBALL ON THE MOON. Please tell me you find this more interesting that writing "LOL" under pictures of last Saturday’s drunken mess?
What’s that? You do!?
Then why-oh-why am I the only fucker in the Zezaurian Astronomy Dept.?
Don't say it's because hanging out with me in a field looking at the sky is lame. It's not. It's amazing. Trust me, the first time I ever saw Saturn's rings through a telescope I could not sleep for days. Heck, it's even better than The X-Files comic series - and the The X-Files comic series is pretty cool.
So, in an attempt to lure in at least one new assistant member I would like to present to you my top ten facts about the universe as an act of persuasion.
In order of amazingness...
10. A supernova explosion produces more energy in its first ten seconds than the Sun will in its entire lifetime. Seriously, that is just astonishing. Are you not astonished? Really? Then how this little fact:
9. Uranus smells really bad today.
8. How many moons do you think Jupiter has? Guess first, then highlight to answer: Duh. It’s 63, you dope.
7. The universe is so vast in relation to the matter it contains that it can be compared in the following way: A building 20 miles long, 20 miles wide and 20 miles high that contains just one, tiny-weenie grain of sand. And there’s you looking at this stupid website when you could be out hugging nature.
6. Our galaxy has approximately 100 thousand million stars alone. Outside that, there are millions upon millions of other galaxies. Zezaurian astronomers (me) would guess that there are 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 stars in the entire universe. Holysmokes! That’s just too much to take in. Go and smoke a massive blunt and think about that. Then draw me a picture of your confusion.
5. A pulsar is a small star made up of neutrons so densely packed together that if one the size of a ten pence coin landed on earth, it would weigh approximately 100 million tons. Which is about the same as yo mama weighs.
4. The star Betelgeuse (it's in that video up top), is a total mutha humper of a gas-ball. With a diameter of around 700 million miles, if you put that sonofabitch in the centre of our solar system it would extend beyond the orbit of Jupiter. Does your tiny human brain have any idea how fucking massive that is? Its bigger than Lady Gaga. That's how big.
3. The Milky Way has a radius of about 50,000 light years - but there is a giant supercluster of galaxies in the direction of the constellations Perseus and Pegasus that is over a thousand million light-years long. Woooo-ie. That's special.
2. Uranus smells worse than it did one minute ago. Get some fresh wipes in there, stinky.
And my all time favourite...
1. Most of the elements found in the human body originated in stars; we are literally made of stardust. This never fails to blow me away. Then I look at people like this and realise that it's not all that romantic at all.
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I will be star watching on Sunday evening using my Newtonian Refracting Telescope. If I find life on another planet, I’ll let you know. If you find life on this planet, let me know.
When I was born the umbilical cord was wrapped twice around my tiny little baby throat as the other end was being ripped away from my traumatised belly button. This meant that as I was violently ejected from my mother’s vagina I was being strangled and my eyeballs were popping out of my bewildered face.
To ensure I could survive to tell the tale (on the internet) all these 29 years later, the doctor had to push me back inside my (poor, poor) mother - followed by his big doctor - which he used to unravel the cord from my neck before ripping me back out into the blinding light of planet earth. It was a pretty shitty start to things, but ho-hum.
Of course, I can’t remember any of this happening because I was only 32 seconds old and unconscious. But I was told all about it after it became deeply apparent that I had an overwhelming phobia of having my throat or belly button touched, looked at, debated or in anyway referenced or referred to.
It’s been a real shitter all my life. The first thing that happened to me in this world has had such an effect on my mental health that I can’t even read a book without turning the centre crease to one side because I can’t have it lined up to my Adam's Apple. It's a bona fide disability.
Once, this girl stuck her tongue in my belly button during sex and my knee involuntarily cracked her so hard in the stomach she actually vomited over me (true).
Anyways, I also find it quite hard to enjoy a live music show when there’s very little space to watch the band and people are shifting around, spilling pints of beer from cups so flimsy they might as well be condoms. All those gross bodies shuffling around trying to find their dopey friends. Urgh.
But not one to make a fuss, as Tiersen faffed about on stage last week I kindly moved to one side to let this woman get past so she could join her friends just in front of me. But she never went and stood with them. No. The dope went and stood in the space I had temporally opened up to let her through, blocking my chance of moving back by wearing this ridiculously oversized leather backpack. This meant I was standing at a 30 degree angle on one foot, wincing, trying not to spill my own saggy johnny full of beer.
After I eventually managed to squeeze back in behind her, something truly terrible happened: I felt this horrendous sensation in my belly button. A toggle on the women’s backpack jabbed right in there – but because the venue was so packed I couldn't free myself and it stayed in there and twisted about as she jiggled around like a horny toad.
With the toggle jabbing ONLY in my bellybutton, and unable to escape, despite calling for help, I started to feel really dizzy. It just wouldn't stop, like the backpack was actually attached to me via a bastard umbilical cord of its own. Jab jab jab. It was the puggle not even my school bullies had managed to give me.
Would it now seem dramatic to say this was the worst moment of my entire life?
I don't care. It was.
After I had feinted the bouncers ploughed through the crowd like a bunch of champs and gave me a fireman’s lift out of there. They even helped me clean my underpants, which was pretty friendly of them.
But just like I've been doing everyday since my ridiculous birth, I'm going to keep on truckin' and try and make it to next week.
(And fuck knows what Tiersen's set was like, but I heard all the Amelie fans were disappointed that he only plays shitty post-rock these days. Bad luck.)
Last weekend a few of us thought it would be a good idea to surrender our bodies to the power of gravity and hurl ourselves from a great height with only an elastic string between us and a bone smashing, blood-soaked death at the bottom of a lake. And as if this weren't enough excitement for one day, us brave Zezaurians ventured into the wild immediately after the nerve rattling leap for a survival expedition in the notoriously dangerous and terrifying 'Scratchface Wood'.
Drib Drab and I awoke at stupid o' clock filled with fear and doubt at the prospect ahead of us. Personally, I wake up full of fear and doubt most days, so this was nothing new. I tried to invent elaborate excuses to bow out but Drib Drab explained to me that to overcome my reservations about hurtling myself through the air with great rapidity that I had to “feel the fear” and “be the fear”. He illustrated this statement with a weird clawing gesture with his hands that made me think he was suffering a stroke. After much feeling the fear and being the fear we embarked on our folly.
Accompanying us for the jump were fellow Zezaurians Terry Le Hate and Baby Monkey Skull, who put us to shame with their calm composure. After the writing of wills we went ahead and did our bungee business. It was pretty fun. We descended from the sky like graceful swooping eagles (all except for Drib Drab who had to be kicked off the ledge and looked like he was suffering some kind of mid-air seizure on the way down). 'Be the fear' indeed.
We proceeded to rendezvous with Woggle and Mr. Divorce, picked up some supplies, and headed to the aforementioned Scratchface Wood to continue our action packed day.
After a lengthy hike, we set up camp and Drib Drab and I gave the others a lesson on how to build a woodland shelter. Settling down for a rest, we surveyed our handiwork with pride and satisfaction. Terry produced a package containing this weird green stuff that he rolled in paper and set fire to. Everyone readily inhaled the fumes and began to behave quite strangely. I don't know what that was all about though.
While Terry was having a philosophical debate with an oak tree, Mr. Divorce suggested that we play a game called 'Sardines' and we ran off into the forest like a pack of loonies. I think the reason for this might have been that weird green stuff I told you about.
The night wore on, we cooked over the open fire, ate, drank, consumed more of that green stuff, talked nonsense, and decided that the world was a pretty good place to inhabit after all. We fell asleep with the dirt and the bugs and the sinister thought of the hangover rhino sharpening his scythe in readiness for a busy day ahead.
I invented the Zezaurian Society. NO, I INVENTED THE ZEZAURIAN SOCIETY.
Hey tumours, it’s bad enough rosy-cheeked rich people got their grubby little hands on my favourite jacket, but I’m going to fucking explode if any more of you vacant, poser art students puts your stinky ink-stained fingers on the Barbour.
Zezaurians have been wearing these things since before the time of dragons. They belong to us, not you and your stupid electro-pop poser band mates. Next chump I see wearing one gets a kick in the graphic design portfolio. I’m fucking serious. I would rather join the TA just to endure them over you. OVER YOU. Can you imagine? The fucking dorks in the TA beat you for a personality.
And what could you possibly need all those sensuous, quilted and spacious pockets for? Your poetry about that drip you poked on facefuck? Shoot me dead. Unless you actually carry around a ball of string, an air pistol and a pen knife that your granddad used to kill a Nazi with, the Barbour is not for you. You’ve already stolen pork-pie hats; you’re not allowed to have these as well.
First up: A massive, Jupiter-sized apology to all the people that had to see me in a rather skimpy pair of shorts the other day. My judgement was all kerflooey in the morning and I was only told just how short (and close-fitting) they were about an hour after leaving my house. An hour. I was flippin' miles away.
It's a bumhole wrenching moment when someone tells you they can see your asymmetrical balls jiggling about like a smuggled budgerigar when you're so far from home. I played it as best I could, but really just ended up walking like a crab in an attempt to conceal the fact that my legs have not advanced in any way since I was five years old, but my balls - god bless them - have never really stopped growing at all. (Side note: WHY GOD? JUST FUCKING WHY IS IT ALWAYS FUCKING ME?)
The worst moment was bumping into some friends. I had to do some crazy-intense eye contact whilst telling them ridiculously complex stories - all the while flapping my hands dramatically above my head in a desperate bid to stop them from peaking down and asking what the fuck I thought I was doing out in public.
...And that brings us neatly on to Zezaurian Basketball, which is the same as Normal Basketball, except played by us, The Zezaurians. And I gotta say, I'm pretty good at it and can even do that thing where you cross the ball under your legs. What I'm not so hot at is dealing with those fucking crazy bastard children from the estate, especially when dressed in a pair in shorts only really suitable for a rubbish twat or a malnourished infant.
I’ll happily admit that I’ve subscribed fully to the hysterical media portrayal of young people as terrifying, out-of-control sociopaths because, oddly enough, it turns out they actually are terrifying, out-of-control sociopaths. But I’m okay with that because Hercules Beefcake is forever following me around so I use him to handle these sorts of precarious encounters. But what about you? Are you going to be okay? What are you going to do when they try and steal your ball?
Not weeing in your underpants is a good starting point. Personally speaking, I couldn't have pissed my pants even if I had wanted to they were bound so tight. No. The only thing that'll really make you feel like a man again is tensing some muscles and striking a pose.
Be the Beefcake.
It's easy if you just make the effort. Think of those weird muscle guys that cover themselves in baby oil and pump up their biceps on stage. You think anyone messes with those guys? Of course they don't. So just do what they do, but as you tense that bicep - and this is crucial - use you finger to point to the nearest exit and tell them to "getouttahere" in a Brooklyn accent. That's what Hercules Beefcake does and no one ever messes with him.
If you really want to go crazy, tense the other bicep and throw in different direction in which you want the gang to leave – this works well if there are multiple exits, or if the gang members perhaps have different routes back home, which makes you look tough, but also helpful.
Trust us; four people all doing this on the B-Ball court is definitely enough to end any harassment. Okay, so it doesn't really work if your arms are made from spaghetti because you'll just look like a de-feathered chicken, but you could always just carry a big fuck-off knife and wave that around in their faces like a menacing cock.
Also, this update is has nothing to do with me losing my ball on Sunday. Nothing at all.
Mr Ninny.
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We were supposed to do an update on how the Zezaurians totally killed it at the Fleapit last Friday at their monthly Drunk Killer Table Tennis Competition, but as one Zezaurian in particular didn't do so well and pulled a massive, bed-wetting strop over it, you might not get to hear about how amazing I am, or how graceful I can be when I win things.
I've been spending quite a bit of time hanging out with "TV" and "film" people recently, something I always thought would sound amazing if I ever got to say that out loud, but it turns out all the people that work in TV and film are self-obsessed splodges of dog shit, so it's not really great at all. Yawn. However, I have managed to wrangle tons of "insider stories" from these horrible little people. I was going to add these facts to Wikipedia, but I got banned from that site for suggesting that The Chronicles of Riddick was actually a pretty good film (it was).
So, here are the top ten things I've learned about famous people that you probably (hopefully!) didn't know:
1. Keanu Reeves has prosthetic buttocks. True! After a motorcycle accident in 1997, the star of Speed lost both his buttocks and now wears a fake pair made from silicone (medically, each cheek is known as a "proarse"). For the sex scene in The Matrix Reloaded the film makers had to CGI out the straps that hold the prosthetic buttocks to his thighs, but you can see them in Downloaded: The Making of the Matrix.
2. Ben Affleck is one of only a handful of people to be allergic to oxygen. To cope with the life threatening disability he has tiny air filters in his nostrils that help convert the gas into methane, which he can breath more easily.
3. John Cusack was born with no eyes and has had them either drawn on by a professional make-up artist or added in during post-production by a special "Eye Generating Computer" developed by his half-brother, Gareth Cusack. This is one of the reasons the 80's heartthrob wears dark shades in so many of his film roles.
4. In the film Big, David Moscow had to wear a specially made "Tom Hanks suit" made by the Jim Henson Workshop. The suit, which weighed over 30 pounds took more than six hours to get into - and was worn for over 12 hours each day over a six week shoot. When asked by reporters if he'd ever do a sequel, Moscow replied: "No way. That suit was so tight and so hot I got a terrible and aggressive fungal infection over my whole body. I smelled of cheese for months afterwards. No, not for all the money in the world."
5.David Blaine was raised by a pod of dolphins and is fluent in their language. He also cites the first seven years of his life living with the aquatic mammals as an "inspiration" to his magic and stunts - some of which include the use of water, which is vital to the way of life for many dolphins.
6. Robert DeNiro once gave birth to a shark.
7. Overwight funny man John Candy was actually two men - the bottom half being his younger brother, Peter Candy, who provided the legs throughout his career. Both men were only 3ft tall and John would stand on his brother's shoulders, wear baggy clothing and do all the verbal acting. Since John's death in 1994 his brother has provided the legs for actors such as Christian Bale and Viggo Mortensen and won the award for "Best Walk" for his work on Lord of the Rings: Return of the King in 2004.
8. Glenn Close played a pterodactyl in 2001's Jurrasic Park III. The veteran actress said she took the role to help raise awareness of dinosaurs with eating disorders. Close is the chairwoman of charity ReptilKidz.
9.Whilst researching for the role of the Terminator, Arnold Schwarzenegger dressed head to toe in tin foil and was sent by director James Cameron back in time to kill the mother of the leader of the human resistance against the machine overlords of the future. Schwarzenegger said the trip had added "realism" to the role he would go on to play in two sequels. For-fucking-real!
10. Al Pacino has a third leg that he conceals in a special pocket in his trousers. In the opening scenes of TheGodfather Part II the extra leg can be seen in the reflection of his iconic character's office window. Amazing.
Bonus fact: Lawrence Fishburne is actually white in real life. I know, I know! He uses make-up to appear African-American in his film roles, and says that he just feels "more comfortable doin' it this way."
Have you read any of the reviews for Propagandhi’s new album, Supporting Caste? How, without a trace of irony, does someone come up with a sentence like this:
“…Instantly hitting with an insanely tight blitz attack of thrashing guitars and anger drenched vocals, ‘Supporting Caste’ ricochets out of the speakers with intent to not only maim but kill, as Propagandhi’s rush of politically fuelled rampages collide with brutal riffs stapled to a juggernaut of melodic rock…” (Room Thirteen)
Alright, calm down Mr Adverb! You’ll have someone’s eye out!
But there's no stopping him:
“…The thrash frenzy introduction of ‘Dear Coach’s Corner’…ensnares all within a 100 mile radius as audio commentary gives way to harshly euphoric blast of thrash before Propagandhi take the track and throw it slamming into your face, challenged only by the punk melodic charm of ‘The Banger’s Embrace’…Brandishing a barrel load of gang vocals amongst a raging hail of uplifting guitars and drum beats…”
Do music journalists go to drama school before attending journalism class? Do they all sit in a big circle and pitch action movies to invisible CEOs at Fox before running around in their underpants screaming? That last paragraph is actually more frantic than the new Transformers trailer. Thing is, if you didn’t have the album, you’d be scared to put it in your CD player in case it accidentally killed someone.
"Mother! Oh, God! Mother, Toby's head has fallen off!"
"What? How?!"
"It was the new record from progressive-thrash band Propagandhi!"
"But Jeremy! I TOLD you how dangerous that could be!"
I understand the need to be expressive, but if I had a conversation in real life that sounded anything like the crazy talk these idiots puke out, I’d get a punch in the throat.
[Answering the phone]
Me: Hello?
Mum: Hi, honey, how are you?
Me: Mother! I’m literally exploding with the violent chain reaction of a four BILLION ton TNT explosion in you face right now.
Mum: That’s nice, Dezmond. How’s the move going? You all settled into your new flat?
Me:Settled in? You’re kidding me, right? I’m not just settled in; I’m literally on fire just arranging the furniture. The new pad is like a hail of bullets made from unicorn horns travelling faster than the speed of light in a vortex of destruction. It’s so intense in my living room right now that every living soul within a mile radius is bleeding from their eyeballs with jealousy at what I’ve picked up from Ikea.
Mum: Well, me and your father will pop over when we can to see you. Do you need anything bringing down?
Me: Holy God, mother. If you and dad arrive at my flat - that’s actually more like an inter-dimensional time-portal of whirling supernovae - you’d have to enjoy an exploding cup of fennel tea with me just so you can understand what its like to have your brain sucked out of your nostrils at a thousand-miles-per-second whilst having a ten ton brick of annihilation thrown into your pathetic chest cavity by a warlock of made from obliteration itself.
Or something.
(9/10 for the new album by the way. I’ll describe it as “splendid.”)
Jesus! All we did was send this girl her Zezaurian cap and membership card in exchange for the postage and packaging. If she turns up to the camping expedition I'm going to have to mace her in the face.
A review of Architects, at the [shit beer brand] Academy, London
Disclaimer: I only went because I was given a magic bracelet that gave me free drinks in the VIP lounge.
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What happened? I turn my back for, like, two minutes and everybody below the age of twenty-five turns into a ridiculous parody of MTV2? Take a long, hard look at that collage of living idiots up there. Do you have any idea how painful that was for me to assemble? I had to sit on my hands and work the mouse with my toes just to stop myself from punching the screen. Every single one of those penises was a "friend" of the band on their MySpace page. Fucking incredible. Where do they all shop for those floppy hats?
Urgh.
Now imagine being stuck in a tiny room with over a thousand of them. I don't like people touching me at the best of times, but get these donks sweated up so they writhe around like a gaggle of ridiculous worms in eye-liner and I was caught somewhere between a heart attack and a holocaust.
You horrible posers.
God. I was so depressed. You know, if you multiplied all the hours these simpletons spent getting their look just right it would stretch longer than the known universe has existed. It would be, like, a zillion-squillion years counted out using the clocks that London Underground use to lie about the time with.
And please, if you can stomach it, take a look at the collage one more time and let me know what they're looking at when they gaze into the middle distance like that. Is there something out there that I can't see? A blinding light of stupidity calling to them?
WHAT. ARE .YOU. LOOKING. AT?
All answers on a postcard that you can just shove up your immaculately groomed assholes because I don't actually care.
Oh, and according to the the lead singer, this gig was the "best gig ever". WHAT?! He couldn't have made it to see Phil Collins live at Wembley in 1987 then. They had a flippin' inflatable dog bigger than a house at that show! Incredible.
But what do I know. The band has over 60,000 friends on MySpace. I don't even have a MySpace and I only have one friend in Real LifeTM.
Oh, and a quick question to the fans: what do you carry around in those oversized backpacks that you all wear? It's tampons, isn't it?
(Oops. I've just realised I didn't actually review the band, but who cares. 'progressive hardcore' does NOT utilise choreographed dance moves. Sorry. Never in a billion years. 1 out 5 stars.)
You wouldn't actually think that the English countryside could be such a tough environment to survive in, but it really was touch-and-go out there at times. So here is (another) Zezaurian GuideTM to get you through it.
Vegetable Land Barons (farmers)
One thing you should know is that all farmers all immoral bastards. Just look at that guy's face. Do you have any idea how much of an idiot he thinks you are? He wants to kill you for heaven's sake. He wants to peel your skin off and prance around in his barn wearing you like a ill-fitting wetsuit as he dances with the decaying body of his murdered sheepdog. I'm not kidding.
They're all the same. They hate an entire cauldron of ethnicities, sexualities, cultures and city dwellers. They will assume that anyone walking on their land is a "complete fucking idiot" that "likes sticking things up their bottom" and knows nothing about what the Labour Government has done to "Britishness". They are homophobic, racist Nazis and they hate vegans - whom they assume are all working for Al Qaeda in a dramatic plot to radicalise British potatoes with "gay thoughts".
If you see a farmer, run and hide. If you're unlucky enough to get caught by a farmer whilst, say, having a poo on "his land", tell him that you "hate Tony" and that you love killing families of badgers (that you agree are responsible for the AIDS epidemic.)
Food
Here's a neat tip: take way more food than everyone else, wait until they've eaten all of theirs and then charge them extortionate prices once you've purposely got them lost. I took my companions on a four mile detour after they consumed the last of their dolphin-friendly tuna and salad cream sandwiches, and then offered up hot cross buns at £20 each and a salt & vinegar crisps for £15 per packet. I made £107 and got a blow job within twenty minutes.
You know, I'm basically slapping Ray Mears over his fat head and telling him which way is north I'm that good at all this shit.
Wild animals
The Devil's Ditch is populated by giant Pig Warriors; creatures that stand ten feet tall and have giant tusks made from gold. They feed on ramblers and are under the command of the Vegetable Land Barons. I picked up some tracks of a Pig Warrior late in the day during my trip, just as the sun was dropping behind the hills. Mr Divorce and Mr Woggle were getting nervous and were holding hands, but I told them they'd be fine if they just followed some simple advice: when confronted with a wild animal don't panic, just take out a gun and blast the fucker in the face whilst laughing your head off shouting, "ha ha ha you stupid animal. I bet you wish YOU had invented semi-automatics, don't you?"
Then sever its head and wear it as giant hat whilst running around masturbating wildly like you're the King of Nature. This is even more satisfying if the creature is not even threatening you and is perhaps hundreds of feet away, minding its own business with its family nearby.
Not so wild animals
It's best not to mess with livestock because they belong to the Vegetable Land Barons, but sometimes it's impossible not to stray into their path because around 99.9999999% of the British countryside has been destroyed to ensure they have enough room to graze before getting turned into lips and asshole burgers.
Cows are mild mannered creatures, but bulls can become either aggressive or amorous (or aggressively amorous). My advice? If you're trapped in a field with a bull and you notice it has an erection, it's best to trip one of your companions over, pull their shirt over their head and punch them on the nose. Then shout for the bull to rape them instead of you whilst running as fast as you can to the nearest exit. 'Survival of Fittest' should be tattooed on your winky to ensure you never forget how important that phrase really is.
(You can just write this back-to-front on your forehead if you're a woman so you can see it when you look in the poser-glass for the zillionth time on any given day.)
Mapping your route
If you're a long time follower of Zezaurianism, you might recall that maps are for babies.
When heading into the wild just scrawl a few illegible smudges on a part of your body that you're not likely to use much, (say, the palm of your hand, for instance) and then just gallop like a twat towards the most exciting looking thing you can see.
One important tip is to ignore signs that say 'Danger' or 'Private Property'; these are for normal people, not Zezaurians.
No, Zezaurians can do as they please, even if Mountain Rescue has to come and fetch them - after all, those guys are just itching to get in their helicopter. Wouldn't you? If I had a massive orange helicopter I'd be like, "where are all the flippin' mountain accidents?!" Can you imagine how boring it must be sitting around the office twiddling with your foreskin all day long when you could be whooshing around in the sky? These guys want you to fall off a ledge and break your head open. They want you to get lost in a blizzard when you're only wearing a bikini and a dopey expression on your face.
Go on, get lost. The mysterious "Tactspaer" or whatever it's called covers the costs anyways.
Local pubs
Ah. The country pub. Cheap ale, a real fire and they let dogs in. They're not so keen on you asking for twelve tequilas for each of your friends, but they won't bat an eyelid if you choose to drive home. That's the spirit.
Okay, doinks. I have been given the weighty responsibility of coming up with a manifesto for this thing called 'Zezaurianism' that I invented. The society is still in its formative stages but Captain Drib Drab (my assistant) has insisted that we get a tangible outline of the philosophies involved down in black and white, so here we go...
The chief principle Captain Drib Drab and I agreed on was shamelessly poached from anarchism, but it's an important one so don't forget it - THERE IS NO AUTHORITY BUT YOURSELF. Obviously, to function in this warped modern world that we've all been so remorselessly tossed into there are certain obligations we must fulfil, such as that sinful and dehumanising practice known as 'work'. During this time you will inevitably encounter petty, megalomaniacal zealots in positions of power who get a kick out of barking orders at you. For the time being you're just going to have to bite your tongue and tow the line, but to help you deal with it you can continuously repeat in your head the words 'THERE IS NO AUTHORITY BUT YOURSELF' over and over. This doesn't work for me but you can give it a try.
The basic idea of the society is to encourage individual members to improve themselves and use their time in an imaginative, constructive and fulfilling way by making use of numerous Zezaurian departments which represent various interests and disciplines. Additionally, members are encouraged to set themselves and other Zezaurians challenges and goals that are not encompassed by the established departments. Whether you want to make small, incremental changes to the way you live your life or just go on a huge flipping adventure, Zezaurianism could be just what you've been looking for. You're probably thinking that you can do all that stuff without some crack-pot club, and you're right, but the society is intended to give your endeavours a genuine sense of purpose.
Already there are several facets of the society of which I will tell you more about presently;
The Astronomy Dept.
This involves group expeditions to picturesque locations for long nights of star gazing, philosophising and drinking.
The Chess Dept.
Members meet for epic battles of strategy, cunning, wit, and drinking. And in Captain Drib Drab's case, losing.
The Literature Dept.
Whether you're a reader or a writer, this is all about the old ABC's, and the way they're strung together. You could be a budding Hemingway and share the outpourings of your soul with fellow members, or just a regular bookworm who feels like waxing lyrical about a novel that honked your hooter. Drinking is encouraged in this department, because as we all know, the world is a far more poetic place when you've got a bit of electric soup flowing through your veins.
The Bicycle Dept.
Members embark on gruelling, cross-country adventures and midnight mischief through the city on that most wonderful of inventions; the bicycle. Drinking is NOT encouraged in this group as it is against the law*.
The Table Tennis Dept.
Members assemble for all-weather training in preparation for the annual Zezaurian Table Tennis Championship, of which the winner takes home the coveted Zezaurian Cup.
The Music Dept.
This department is designed to encourage and inspire musical members into pushing themselves forward, and sharing their musical output with fellow Zezaurians, and for music buffs to discuss important records and make and receive recommendations.
The Survival Dept.
Members venture into the wild to test their instincts, bush craft skills, and general sense of self reliance.
The Dance Dept.
Members must invent humorous dances and perform humorous dances invented by other members.
The Tiny Penis Dept.
Ask Captain Drib Drab about this one.
This is not an exhaustive list of all the elements of Zezaurianism, nor is it strictly speaking an actual manifesto, but it is a fairly accurate description of what Zezaurianism is at this early stage.
Three fast-as-you-can laps dodging orange-faced rich people walking their cats on velvet leashes. I can’t think of anything more fun than that. If your bike has gears, then you must pick one and stick with it as there are lots of fixed gear poser types competing, so we're insisting on one gear for everyone. 
If you really want to go crazy, tense the other bicep and throw in different direction in which you want the gang to leave – this works well if there are multiple exits, or if the gang members perhaps have different routes back home, which makes you look tough, but also helpful.
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