Zezaurian Survival Dept. expedition goes awry

So, Dr. Dolorous and I made it back alive from the forest after our Boxing Day camping extravaganza, and let me tell you, that perverted toe-rag really puts the 'camp' back into camping. We set off in the early afternoon as the sun slowly descended in the dull grey sky, causing the temperature to drop quicker than Drib Drab's trousers in a dark Soho side street.

As promised, we took nothing with us but a knife, an axe, and a box of matches. I also took my trusty harmonica along to provide us with some light entertainment (the doctor says it'll make it's own way out without surgical intervention if I eat plenty of roughage).

It was a struggle to even make our way into the woods, as there was a swarm of doggers congregated in the car park awaiting their sordid peep show. To avoid their twisted leers, we followed the perimeter of the forest, found a way in through a hedge and tried to locate a spot to erect a shelter.

The darkness was deeply oppressive, which, coupled with the fractured squawks of hungry birds and Dr. Dolorous' asthmatic breathing had a very unsettling effect on my mind. I persevered, gripping the axe tightly in readiness for any wild beast that dared come near. To be truthful though, my main concern was fending off any sudden amorous advances from my companion. After the passage of several hours and many arguments, we found a suitable clearing and constructed a crude bivouac that would serve as our home for the remainder of the night. We built a feeble fire and had a long discourse regarding the nature of existence, but after a while our thoughts inevitably turned to food, of which we had none.

We made several unsuccessful attempts at killing a lame rabbit with a woggly eye, but each time we went to deliver the death-blow, our wimpy consciences sprang up and barred the way. The cold was starting to creep into our bones, my hands were blue, and I began to think that our chances of survival were as tiny as Drib Drab's winky. As the Doctor began to weep and curse that we could have possibly thought this trip was a good idea, my eyes rapidly trained upon a cluster of mushrooms sprouting from the fertile forest soil. Problem solved.

After the consumption of several large helpings of 'delicious' mushroom stroganoff, we sat lazily by the crackling fire and gazed up at the moon through the silhouetted treetops. Considering that I expected this expedition to be the death of us, things were going pretty damn well, and I actually began to enjoy myself. However, things are never that simple when Zezaurians are involved. The Doctor began to glare at me in a very alarming way and started addressing me as 'Barbara'. “Barbara darling, come and sit upon mother's bosom” he purred, slowly rising from the ground and moving towards me.

I wasn't feeling quite right myself either, and had spent the previous thirty minutes wondering why there were flashing neon signs promising 'Girls, Girls, Girls' in the middle of a forest, and I couldn't figure out why my feet were reciting poetry. I still had enough sense to get away from that depraved maniac Dolorous though. I darted into the pitch black unknown but he was hot on my heels. The trees developed personalities and faces, I heard sweet jazz music float through the air and saw giant foxes smoking pipes and wearing dinner jackets. I quickly began to suspect that the mushrooms we ingested weren't quite kosher.

Dolorous eventually caught up with me, crying “Barbara, don't leave!” as we collapsed into an addled, gesticulating heap at the bottom of a ditch. From this point onward until the sun rose, my mind draws an inexplicable blank. I don't know whether it was the dodgy mushrooms or some sort of head injury, but I can't for the life of me recall what occurred during those lost hours. One thing I do know though, is that that bloody pervert did not in any way interfere with me sexually. No way Jose. Not in a month of Sundays. No sir. Not a chance.

I hope Drib Drab remembers to pick up my Anusol cream from the chemist.


Zezaurian Annual Pickled Onion Eating Competition ends in tragedy

Fire fighters were called out to a house in Peterborough last night after a huge methane explosion. Neighbours alerted the emergency services at around 6pm after a series of loud and protracted "bum sounds" followed by what one local resident described as, "a smell so bad it gave me AIDS."

According to early reports, a small group of people had gathered to eat "Steve's Pickled Onions" as part of an annual competition inspired by the events at Tunguska in 1908.

"Things were going quite well," said Gunther Dross, a retired dentist and amateur sellotape enthusiast. "But after the eighth jar of onions was consumed this one guy keeled over and complained of an intense burning in his anus. That's when the first explosion occurred."

Fire crews battled a blaze of blue flames that completely destroyed a newly installed bird feeding station and massively upset a miserable old lady at number 22.

"I lost a best friend in there," said Mr Oppenheimer, the organiser of the event. "It was awful. He couldn't get his pants off quick enough and this watery sludge just jetted from him. The smell alone could have killed a village of lumberjack elephants. We ran from the building and as I turned I saw my friend explode in a cloud of faeces and vinegar."

Police investigating the incident said that they hope this acts as a warning to others. "Pickled onions of this strength are not toys," said a spokesperson. "We urge people to exercise caution and think of the consequences that this sort of food abuse can cause, particularly if you mix with gob-fulls of overcooked brussel sprouts just hours before."

When asked if the smelly cloud of poisonous fumes hanging over the neighbourhood would clear, the police spokeswoman said it could be weeks. She also added that she was upset to have missed the end of the new episode of Dr. Who because of the incident.


Hurt feelings make for an amazing night cap

Last night Mr Morose said to me, "Oh, I read that draft post about the cider recipe. It's really, really shit."

It actually hurt my feelings that he said that because I liked my post. I just feel stupid now for taking pictures and everything. But balls to him, I'm posting it anyway. He's just jealous because I have 48% more moustache hair than he has.

So, about the recipe; I think I'll call this drink 'Cale' - that's cider-ale. Or Aider. Some people call it 'Lambswool', but that just sounds retarded. You can call it whatever you like. I don't care.

But I do care that you try and make this. It's in-cred-ible.

You'll need: 4 pints of ale, some sugar, 3 cloves, a couple of cinnamon sticks and four, big, fuck-off apples. You'll also need a grown-up to work the oven.

Step one. Peel and core the apples whilst pretending they're Mr Morose's face. I used cooking apples because they're about the same size as his stupid head. If you're under 37 I doubt you even own an apple corer, but you can just use something short and thin to poke the hole through. I used Mr Morose's penis.

You can ignore those orange things on the chopping board; I was making other stuff at the same time that's probably too complicated for you to understand.

Next, ask the grown-up to work the oven. Tell them you need to cook the apples for 40 minutes at 180 degrees C.

Meanwhile, think about how much you hate Mr Morose for hurting your feelings and heat the ale in a big pot with about three tablespoons of sugar, the cloves and the cinnamon sticks. Do this slowly for about 20 minutes as you say swear words over and over in your brain. And remember: only a nincompoop would let this boil.

I like to imagine that these apples are actually different parts of Mr Morose's corpse that I'm now cooking in my oven because I've gone completely mental and there's no turning back.

Okay! How exciting is this? You now need to squash these with a fork. I know it looks like snotty mash potato, but trust me; it'll taste like Princess Amildala's underpants. If you struggle with this part, just pretend that you're killing Mr Morose even more than you have already and the violence in your shaking hands will do all the hard work for you.

Then you need to squeeze them through a sieve to make a nice purée. I love that word. 'Puuuure-rée'. Brilliant. But perhaps not quite as brilliant as your new life without Mr Morose as your only friend.

Then mix the squished apples in with the hot ale (it'll fizz like you're boiling sherbet, but hang tough with it). When it's hot like a cup of tea is hot, you're ready to drink. It's best to show this off to your new friends that tell you that you never needed Mr Morose in the first place.

Just look how happy my brand-new pal Janine is that I made this stuff (note: that's a mud facial mask):


Zezaurians at loggerheads over priceless artefact

Last week Captain Drib Drab and I met with Professor Peelhead to learn all about the under-appreciated art of metal detecting. Peelhead is slightly warped in the brain, and enjoys nothing better than boring me to tears about the adventures he gets into whilst roaming the vast and frozen grey fields, and the thrill he gets when his gizmo tells him that he's found another bottle cap or whatever. Anyway, normally when he starts getting teary-eyed and blithering about this guff, I slip a bit of rat poison into his tea. I got to thinking though, and decided that I shouldn't knock it until I'd tried it. I asked if he would let me tag along next time, and he kindly did.

Since Drib Drab has less friends than an alarm clock, I would've felt bad if I didn't invite him along too, so off we all went into the twilight, three doinks in search of our fortunes. Things started well enough, we had a few gulps of sloe gin from our hip flasks and set about our quest.

Peelhead, accomplished expert that he is, went off in a strictly mathematical fashion, patiently combing the land in straight lines like a Zen master. Drib Drab and I took a different approach, and perambulated about the field like a pair of drunken three-legged dogs. Hours passed and patience grew thin. I couldn't feel my feet and began to long for my warm bed. But no, I thought. What if I gave in and that smug sod found some treasure? I'd never hear the end of it, so I bravely rambled on.

Yet more hours passed, the sky was black as ink, and the only thing guiding me was a faint signal telling me I was getting closer to something potentially worth digging up. Beep. Beeep. Beeeeep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Unbeknownst to me, Drib Drab was getting the exact same signal and heading straight for me. We Inevitably crashed into each other, exchanging threats and curses while simultaneously diving to the ground and digging frantically with our bare hands. After a few minutes we found it. It was beautiful, glinting invitingly in the cold earth. Drib Drab went to grab it but was just too slow for this punter. I moved in quick and snatched the thing from under his nose.

We inspected our find and got Peelhead's learned opinion (incidentally, he found a mouldy old jock strap). According to him it was a Byzantine idol, encrusted with jewels and probably priceless.

When we got back to London, we phoned the Museum of Priceless Mythical Junk, and they told us that they'd pay us a zillion-squillion pounds for us to part with it. Not bad for a nights work. A problem has arisen, however. I'll be damned if that beady-eyed Judas gets a share of my loot, and he thinks it's his because he spotted it first, so Peelhead confiscated the flipping thing until we sort out our differences. Anyway, he's not getting a bloody penny.

Captain Drib Drab goes on a blind date

By Mr Ninny

Poor old Drib Drab. He's a swell guy if you hold your breath when you’re around him, and he might be a little weird or intense, but his heart is in the right place and he deserves a good woman. Speaking of which, I saw him last night after his blind date with 'Betty' – a friend of a friend of a friend. Apparently she was new in town and was feeling a little lonely. It seemed perfect.

Everything was organised for him and he was told to meet her at 8pm below the clock tower with a single pink carnation in his lapel. He was so nervous he arrived four hours early, chain smoking and already tipsy with nervousness.

It was during their meal at Mildly Famous Tony's that I had the first call from him as he hid near the toilets.

"She looks like a penguin," he whispered through gasps of desperation and anxiety. "A pen-guin. And she's eating the fish."

I asked him what on earth he wanted me to do about it, to which he replied that he needed me to come and get him. He said he was having panic attacks and he couldn't breathe properly.

"Relax, relax," I said. "If you don't like her, finish the meal and say you had a nice time. Then kiss her on the cheek and tell her you need to get up early. If she asks for your number, give her mine and I'll break the news to her if she ever calls. Easy peasy."

He was out of contact for several hours, so I trusted my advice had worked. It was then I heard the phone ring.

"Okay. Now what do I do?" he said.

"What do you mean 'now what do I do'?" I replied, trying not to get any of my honey and avocado face-mask on the phone.

"I'm at her place and everything is tiny to accommodate her stupid penguin size."

I almost knocked over my tray of scented candles. "Why the hell are you at her place? What happened to saying you were tired and had an early start?"

"It was too hard to say anything; she seems really keen on me. I walked her home and then she invited me in. She keeps touching me with her stupid flipper thing," he said, before hurridly saying he had to go.

The third call came at about midnight. I switched off my epilator and asked him what now? In my most annoyed voice.

"I'm in hospital. Can you come and pick me up?"

"Jesus God. Why are you in hospital?"

"I hurt my eyeballs."

"What!? How?"

"Er…well, she sort of went in for a kiss whilst we were sitting on her tiny sofa."


"And when she kissed me she caught me in the eyeball with her beak. And when I screamed, she did this weird clicking sound and started pecking at my face like I’d stolen her egg or something. It was terrifying. And that woke up her dad who came wobbling out and he started pecking at me, telling me to get out of his house. The whole family is nuts."

"Drib Drab...are you saying she's a real penguin?"

There was a lengthy silence, and then he let out a long, long sigh.

"I told you hours ago that she was a penguin."

“No,” I replied, my head in my hand. “You said she looked like a penguin.”

“She does look like a penguin. She looks exactly like a penguin.”

So that was that. I picked him up in my truck and let him stay at my place. The doctors said he’d be blind for about two weeks. He looks terrible.

Oh, and Betty called this morning - he had at least given her my number. She seemed really embarrassed. I said that we all do silly things when we're nervous and fancy people, especially if you're an aquatic, flightless bird and they're a bipedal primate. That was just one of life's lessons we all have to learn at some stage.

Love, I also told her, was a cruel mistress - but I knew of a whole zoo of possibility just waiting for her down the road.



Zezaurian mailbag fit to burst

Lately, the Zezaurian inbox has been creaking under the weight of seemingly endless drivel that floods in on a daily basis, so please people, take it eeeaze! Someone has to sift through that junk. Since I have nothing better to do at the moment, I have selflessly decided to respond to a letter that I have randomly picked out, at random, with my randomising machine.

Dear Zezaurians,

Firstly, I would like to thank you for creating your society, it illuminates my otherwise colourless days and encourages me to grab life by the gonads. However, the purpose of this letter is not to shower you with praise, but to ask for your advice! You see, I have a little problem. I'm thirty-six years old and have yet to interfere with a woman sexually. As you are obviously men of the world, I was hoping you could give me some tips on how to remedy my grim predicament.

Yours sincerely,

George Horses

PS. I have enclosed a photograph of myself so you have a better idea of what I'm up against.

Okay, thanks for taking the time to drop us a line, George, but we're the last people you should ask in regard to this kind of stuff. I know as much about women as Amy Winehouse knows about soap, and Drib Drab thinks his erections are for pissing over high walls. But you're in luck little buddy, because it just so happens that I'm acquainted with Zezaurian temptress, Joy De Vivre, a respected authority on the subject. I explained your troubles to Joy, and here's what she had to say:

Well mon ami, this is a tough one. The usual advice I would give to someone in this sort of situation is to just get out there and be yourself, but judging by your letter and the attached photo, that's the last thing you should be doing, so I don't know what to tell you. You've gone this far without the tender caress of one you love, so just hang in there and I'm sure you'll manage to endure another thirty-six years. If the pressure does get too much, you could always resort to utilising the oldest profession in the book. You might want to check out Chattanooga, Tennessee, where you can find this selection of exquisite creatures roaming the night-

So there you go, George. I hope you find some comfort in Joy's kind words and useful suggestions. Don't worry little buddy, hang tough and something's bound to turn up.


The Zezaurian guide to winter cycling

So, when not running away from colon-retchingly bad hangovers, a gaggle of Zezaurians enjoy nothing more than a cycle ride. I don't know about you, but I average around sixteen miles a day, and boy-oh-brother is it ever cold out there at the moment. So cold in fact that I thought I'd waste both my time and yours by providing a guide on how to stay warm.

But before I give away any handy hints, you need to know that some terrible things can happen to you when riding your bicycle in sub-zero temperatures.

Example #1: Pig-Eye.

I jump out of bed in the morning, leap into my cycling outfit and ride straight to my job as a fashion photographer data administrator without even so much as a glance in the poser-glass. This gives me little time to acclimatise my eyeballs to the cold, so I tend to cry for the entire journey like a drama student in a nipple clamp. When I arrive at the office I have Pig-Eye. It’s terrible:

Okay, so they don't really look like the eyes of a pig, but Google was being a shit.

Example #2: Tiny genitals.

It's bad enough already having a tiny penis, but the cold wind blowing through your Y-fronts can produce a devastating effect.

For instance, these are normal goolies with part of the alphabet on them and a strange pubic centre parting:

And here is a Pre-Raphaelite painting of my goolies after thirty minutes in the saddle:

That's a shrinkage of over 55% which is totally uncool in the communal showers we have at work.

Example #3: Talking like a homeless person with no lips

I was so cold last week that I could not use my mouth properly and spoke like a lipless hobo whilst asking a girl for some directions. "Hav hoo hany hidea how hoo het hoo hunt-hauls hathhe-hal hom here?" I said, as she threw some change at my feet.

Also, your toes and fingers ache with frostbite, but I realise that I'm now starting to sound like an enormous, moaning vagina.

So, to combat the cold you need to dress proper. Here is my uncle Mike's friend, Jerome, modelling for me. (I never noticed just how tiny his nipples were.)

Anyways, start with some underpants and socks and cover the important bits:

Then add extra base layers to keep your weird chicken legs toasty, even if you look like a girl on her period:

Keep going; you'll be lookin' and feelin' great:

Then just pile on everything you have in your wardrobe. Here's Jerome wearing his sister's tights, five pairs of trousers, one pair of shorts, two jumpers, three coats, three hats and an 18th century rapist's moustache - and if you're not sweating like a rapist at this stage, you're not doing it right:

Then you just ride like the wind...

Just like the wind


The Zezaurian Guide To Surviving A Hangover

Modern medicine will have you believe that a hangover is primarily caused by hypoglycemia, dehydration, acetaldehyde intoxication and vitamin B12 deficiency (thanks Wikipedia) but if you believe that guff, you'll believe anything. After exhaustive studies on the subject, Captain Drib Drab and I have discovered that the hangover is really the evil work of a sadistic rhino who exists in the cosmos and comes down to visit after you've had a hairy night on the sauce. His best pal is an equally sadistic eagle, and they spend all day playing chess and devising new and elaborate ways of making life more vile and intolerable than it already is.

The rhino controls physical pain and suffering, and the eagle is more concerned with emotional turmoil. When they get on your case they make quite a formidable team, and can have you cowering under the duvet and praying to a God you don't believe in for days on end. But have no fear, they are not infallible and can be outwitted.

A fairly effective method for keeping them at bay is to stay on the move, or better still, get out of town for the day. The rhino is a slow moving beast, so if you go somewhere new it can take him a while to track you down. You can also try wearing a disguise. I recommend a fake beard and glasses, but you can use whatever takes your fancy. Unfortunately, he has the eagle to help him out who obviously has the advantage of flight, so it's also important to watch the skies.

If you follow these handy hints you can briefly abate a lot of your hangover horrors. But be warned; the rhino is a persistent bastard and will eventually catch up with you bearing his hateful gifts of pain, regret, despair, nausea, self-loathing, and more pain.

I suppose the only authentic way of avoiding a hangover is to abstain from booze altogether, but even I haven't got a mind so sick as to recommend something that stupid. Drink responsibly, doinks.


I ♥ booze

About four months ago I asked my friends what I don’t get enough of in life. Most of them said it was vagina and moustache hair, but my true Zezaurian buddy Dr Dingleberry suggested that I don’t drink enough booze. Crikey, I thought, that’s the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard as I gazed at my bright yellow hands. But then Dr Dingleberry let me try his homemade beer. Now, before this moment I had promised myself I would never love again, but this stuff was just too amazing for words. Three minutes later we had opened the Zezaurian Alcoholics Anonymous Beer and Wine Tasting Dept. and were thinking up ideas for the logo.

In those four months Dr Dingleberry has been busy brewing up some crazy concoctions and we’re now only weeks away from our first sips of ‘Zead’ (yes, it’s Zezaurian Mead, and no, I don’t give a hoot if you think that’s lame). Dr Dingleberry told me last week that it’s "around a billion per cent proof and will shrink your already tiny penis with its potency whilst flying you to Pluto and back."

The Dr also told me that he will need to "milk his brain" as part of the process.

Sorry, mum.


Zezaurian anthropology study results in severe tinnitus

As a keen amateur anthropologist, I always get very excited when the opportunity to learn about a sub-culture in intimate detail arises. Last night my mission was to get some idea about what makes thrash metal enthusiasts tick. To do this I attended my first ever Napalm Death gig, accompanied by fellow Zezaurian, Professor Peelhead. I still can't feel my face.

Straight away I knew things were going to be a struggle, as Peelhead looked rather worse for wear. His glasses were hanging from his face in a curiously lop-sided fashion, and it definitely looked like he had slept in his clothes for at least the two previous nights. In addition to his shabby outward appearance, it was quite clear from his glazed eyes and shit-eating grin that he was on something. He reliably informed me of his prior consumption of at least 47 pints of cider and black, and three bowls of cream of magic mushroom soup.

By the time the support band were halfway through their set, he was trying to climb the walls using only his nipples and going on about 'amalgamating with the ether'. It was at this point that I pretended I didn't know him and got on with my study.

To grasp some idea of the message the band was trying to deliver to the world, I took out my notebook and tried to jot down some of the lyrics that inspire their fans. What words evoke such a die-hard following? What wisdom was I about to be let into? Well, as far as I am aware 'AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH' isn't actually a word, but that seemed to be the gist of things. That, and 'GGGGGRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHH'. Phew.

I then turned my attention to the fans. They come in all shapes and sizes, and the uniform of choice seems to be baggy t-shirts (any colour as long as it's black), jeans, leather jackets, greasy long hair and dubious personal hygiene. Sexy. Every last one of them was gesticulating wildly to each growl that emanated from the stage, moshing as though their life depended on it and grinning like a village idiot.

Initially I was quite cynical and apprehensive to what I was witnessing, but after a while the raw, guttural sounds and honest passion of the music began to get under my skin, and the heartfelt camaraderie of the audience became infectious. Before I knew it I had my arm around Peelhead's shoulder and was screaming and head-banging like it was going out of style.

So, in conclusion, my analysis of thrash metal enthusiasts is that they are salt of the earth folks, generally devoid of pretence and affectation (for the most part), and engendered with a genuine passion for their thing, and for this I can only commend them.

Update: This morning I learned Professor Peelhead somehow missed his last train home and ended up sleeping rough down an alcove somewhere in the vicinity of Goodge Street station. What a doink.


Zezaurian Chess Department invents new opening move

The Oxford Companion to Chess lists 1,327 named openings and variants in the classic game. You have classic manoeuvres such as the Réti Opening, the Queen's Gambit Declined or more interesting and tactical moves, such as the Latvian Gambit, the Two Knights Defence or even the Traxler Variation. However, The Zezaurian Companion to Chess lists 1,328 openings. The extra move was discovered by renowned philanderer Professor Peelhead and his tennis coach, Monsieur Taxidermy.

In true Zezaurian fashion, Professor Peelhead and Monsieur T have decided to share the coveted move with you, the only person who visits this site our fervent readers. One word of caution however; this move is for experienced players only. So, to try and keep things as simple as possible, the Professor has kindly illustrated the move below.

Peelhead's Guide to the Zezaurian Gambit

It’s best to stare your opponent in the eyes when doing this, even if they have a face like my colleague's, which is quite difficult to look at. Remember: chess is as much about psychology as it is pretending you're clever and interesting when playing in a packed London bar.

1. First things first: take a pawn, any old one will do, and move it forward two squares. If you’re black (the chess black, not the Lenny Henry black) it’ll now be your turn to move. You can just shrug your shoulders and move any pawn you fancy. Do it all nonchalant, like it ain't no thang.

2. Now, you really do need to concentrate for this next move. Monsieur T and I took years before we realised that we should have been doing this instead of our normal chess openings:

Leave the board alone and stare at your opponent like you might go bananas. Make your eyes as intense as you can and don't blink. You might even want to chew your lip like you might eat your own face off because you're so serious about going bonko. Do this until they agree to give you both their bank card and their PIN number. You can shake a fist if necessary. It can take time, so it’s often best to limber them up beforehand with a pint of Guinness and a sincere sounding compliment about their fancy haircut.

3. Black vs. White

If you're doing this right, you'll look down and now see something similar to this set-up:

4. Using your bishop

You need to be careful to judge your opponent at this juncture, but by adding some of this into the fold you should end up with something rather like this little gambit (be careful if it’s a school night).

5. Rooks

OK. So far, so good. Now, you should be able to gauge whether or not you are doing this correctly by looking at your opponent and checking how much they look like this:

If you look over and you see this, then you're doing A-Ok. Good work, champ.

6. Counter-attack

Things might get a little hairy now, but if you don't at least try and pull this move off you're just a knob.

7. Critical position

Depending on how well you're doing, try your best to position your favourite piece near one of these:

But I understand if you just don't have the nut sacks for this one.

8. Double attack

For the love of baby Jesus, stay away from one of these. You've come a long way, but you're not as good as you think you are.

9. Epaulette mate

If you're following these instructions properly, you should be doing this about now:

10. Grandmaster draw

Nice one. You've done it. Now you can close the session with a bit of this:

You won't even know who won the chess, but you'll have MASSIVE, donkey-sized hangover the next day.
Next chess club is on Sunday at 4. Bring your sisters.


The Zezaurian Society supports autism benefit gig

The Zezaurian Society has shown its support for international charity Autism in Music (AiM) with a benefit gig in north London. Autistic musicians from all around the world were invited to play to a village hall full of artistic other autistic people. Acts included an autistic gay cabaret and a man with twitchy eyes and a crooked head learning his first chords on the electric guitar.

“It’s been a fantastic night,” said Maria Hendon, creative director of AiM. “The Zezaurian Society has helped raise nearly £53 for autistic musicians to keep doing their 'thing'."

Zezaurian groupie Miss Wormheart was similarly impressed: “This one guy, he came down into the audience because he got confused about where he should stand when he was singing and went for a massive poo on the floor. It was funny at the time, but I suppose someone had to clean that up once everyone had gone home.

“But the music was awe-inspiring. I had never listened to a twenty-eight minute long song that only utilised just one note before.”

AiM has been supporting the unique talents of autistic musicians for over 25 years now and has offices in London, New York, Madrid and Corby. “These guys might not be very good at conversation,” said Hendon, “but by golly; give them a musical instrument and they go bananas. It’s a great way to show how talented these guys can really be.”

To show your support for AiM, visit their website to see how you can book an autistic musician to play in your town.

Dr Dolorous goes nuts (in a kilt)

We were anonymously posted the remains of a travel diary from our least favourite Zezaurian, Dr Dolorous - the pages of which were reportedly found soggy on the side of Càrn Mòr Dearg, Scotland. No one has seen him since he left in early November. Our guess is that he ran off with the girl from the chip shop, Rosie McTavish.

Day Two

"...The food here is to die for. Literally. I was trying to work out what could possibly be worse than eating haggis. Then I found this on the dusty shelves of Hector McBoobies' all-purpose store..."

Day Four
"...Pinch my blue nipples; it's colder than a penguin's testicle up here. The Zezaurian Survival Dept. is prone to summer-only exhibitions, so it was useless getting any of them up to the Highlands for a spot of winter adventuring. Invertebrates. But look at me; lost as a pilchard in a sandbox, freezing cold, hungry and tired. But that's not stopped me from drinking all that whiskey and setting up camp on top of the world. Well, 4,409 ft higher up than those blaspheming fannies in London anyway. Mr Hamlet, my new friend at the distillery, sent me up here to find a rare purple flower and gave me three litres of uisge-beatha (single malt). I went blind in my left eye two days ago. Besides, it's winter and there are no flowers. There's not really any grass up here either. Heck, there are no trees or people. I did see a goat yesterday though. He gave old Dr Dolorous the evil eye.

"No. It's just me, the rock, the snow and Lady Loneliness. I hope Ro
sie is still considering switching to the early shift on Sunday..."

We'll post up further extracts as soon as we're done drying the pages out.

If you see or hear from Dr Dolorous, please email us. His mum wants her tights back.


Zezaurian Therapy Dept. a roaring success

Yesterday Captain Drib Drab and myself ushered in the winter with the first meeting of the Zezaurian Therapy Dept. Life has been particularly unlivable as of late, so we decided to take action and shake off our woes with a spot of psychoanalysis.

As neither of us are qualified therapists, we didn't really know where to begin, so we decided to gain some perspective on our 'problems' by discussing the lives and times of individuals we admire that went through similar existential crises.

Turns out most of them blew their brains out, jumped off cliffs, stabbed themselves in the heart or decapitated themselves. Naturally, this line of thinking was very unhelpful.

We grimly persevered with our futile attempts at fathoming why we are so patently inept at dealing with our own psyches. Spider charts were drawn and the id, ego, and superego were dissected. We mulled over conflict and object relationship theories and free associated until the cows came home.

All I learned about myself was that I was really, really drunk. Then, just as we were making a semblance of progress, an amateur production of Hamlet spilled into the pub and we were forced to endure an hour of drama students going bonkers. After this it was pretty difficult to get our Sigmund Freud hats back on so we killed our beers and dispersed into the night.

Personally, I think our therapy session has done me some good; my shoulders are slightly lighter and my head slightly clearer. I only wish I could say the same for poor old Drib Drab. Last I heard he was locked in a padded room with a stick in his mouth, shouting something about being gang-raped by a giant rhinoceros and an eagle in a pinstripe suit.

Stay sane, doinks!

Zezaurian Chess Club ends in character assassination

A late September afternoon, glorious sunshine permeates the air making the world feel like a splendid place to inhabit. The ceaseless throngs of donks and doinks flowing along the concrete like a river of shit and sin mean nothing. Bumper to bumper traffic commanded by irate goits honking their horns at the slightest provocation cause no grievance in my soul. I am meditative. Today is chess day. Nothing must disturb my inner solace. Captain Drib Drab is running late as usual. I begin to clench my jaw as the seconds tick by mockingly. After the passing of several epochs, Drib Drab decides to grace me with his presence.

Something felt wrong from the moment I clapped eyes on him. Sweating heavily from his ten metre bicycle ride, there was a look in those beady black eyes of his I have never encountered before or since. They hid secrets better left unspoken. His grey pallor had reached a new level. I was convinced he was consumptive but kept it to myself.

After the exchange of greetings and superfluous chit-chat we made a beeline for the nearest dump with a free table that could accommodate a chess board.

Conversation wasn't flowing as it normally does between Drib Drab and I, and I was beginning to get suspicious. Nevertheless, we had chess to play, and I had Guinness to drink. Drib Drab stuck to water which was rather puzzling since he's a raging alcoholic. Anyhow, the board was set and battle commenced.

I will spare you the intimate details of the bloody sacrifices and foolish manoeuvres the games entailed. What I will say though, is that that pale faced smug bastard had been doing his homework on the old Chessmaster 8000000. He beat me twice in row. I felt like attaching his balls to his forehead with a rivet gun, but alas I am not a violent man. I had to exert my revenge in a more psychological way.

After much coercion I extracted the reason for his out of the ordinary behaviour and sinister gait. He told all about the bad, bad things that he had done only days earlier, perhaps expecting an understanding ear. Well, I wasn't in the mood to be understanding.

I won't go into any more detail on this matter and Drib Drab's questionable social exploits shall remain in the dark depths of his conscience. He may have won the chess, but I won the war.

Exploding kneecaps and motorway violence: Zezaurian Cyclists do London to Brighton (badly)

You know it's all going to go wrong when, at 1am the night before, you look at the instructions Mr Morose has written to get us there and see he's written, "go left a bit, down a bit and then find the seaside," (accompanied with a picture of a beer wearing a hat.)

I asked him if he was drunk and he told me that he was required to drink if he was to get any sleep. "But what about these damn instructions?" I said.

"It's fine. You just head down until you find the big blue thing."

"But -"

"Look," he yells pointing at the computer, "have you seen the numbers I have to compute here? The B 20298272002200? The B 2646478292927? Who names these roads? It's a goddamn nightmare. I can remember things like the 'M25' or the 'M3'. They're easy. But this scenic route of yours is just mumbo-jumbo."

So, we managed to get to some village above Reigate with just a few smudgy directions scrawled on Mr Morose's arm. It was here we met a lady who seemed keen to sleep with at least one of us in a secluded car park, but it was a tough call to make; I was tired and already had sore testicles from riding, but on the other hand I'd not touched a woman in many months. But I made the right call; we said thanks, but no thanks and she went on her merry way and we were still on track to get there in the six hours we were aiming for.

After that it was all quite predictable; hills that hurt your legs, views that make you wonder why you live in London, lunatic drivers and miles upon miles of decent tarmac to purr along.

Things got hairy though when we somehow ended up on a goddamn motorway. Don't ask how this happened, it just did. Cars were honking at us as they screamed past at a zillion miles an hour. But balls to them, we thought. We'll just cycle in the fast lane, and show them who's boss.

As it turns out, they were boss. So were the police.

Much to our relief we found the turning for the B 20209293930029 about three miles in and escaped in the nick of time. We then settled for lunch watching some lazy game of cricket before pushing on for the last twenty-odd miles. Then POP! Mr Morose's knee exploded. Poor guy, I thought. All those hills to climb and he's screaming in agony with every rotation of his pedal. It got so painful I was forced to race ahead to escape the annoying sounds he kept making. Aiek, aiek, aiek he kept blurting through the tears. Jesus God, it was so irritating. Eventually, I got him so dosed up on painkillers he said he wanted to sleep forever and complained of a severe itching inside his liver, but he pushed on through. What a champ.

Total saddle time: 6 hours 27 minutes.

Total time: 7 hours 45 minutes (including arguments, moaning, pooing in hedgerows, watching a game of cricket, being seduced and trying to find a shop with a map).

Lessons learned:
1. Zezaurians don't do things in straight lines.
2. Brighton is a fucking shit hole and literally everyone has a really bad tattoo on their arm.
3. When your knee explodes don't ride a bike for 23 miles uphill.

UPDATE: Mr Morose sadly ended the weekend when his body went through the windscreen of a Mercedes at around midnight on Sunday. The driver was on the wrong side of a dual carriageway in a bus lane. What a donk. Mr Morose is OK, but Wilson, his bike, is lost to us forever.