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.


New member joins, time stands still.

So, a new member falls for the mystical allure of Zezaurianism. His name is Tom Bo and according to his mother he is a 'traveller.' Not like a gypsy, but more like a crusty. He's just rowed his way back from the other side of the world or something with a massive beard and tons of stories about sharing a hostel with A-Level gap year students that no one wants to hear. During an "intense" inauguration, Tom received his Zezaurian cap and was then forced to head bang to metal for seven hours. I asked him some questions about why he wanted to join.

Captain Drib Drab: So, why the Zezaurians?

Tom Bo: I thought it was a cult. You all act funny like you're in a cult. However, because I'm an enlightened chap I saw something else in there. I think it was all the free Guinness you guys bought to the party.

CDD: You know, we don't actually let any old drip into the Zezaurian Society.

TB: I got that. But once you teach a new member about the basic premise, it's hard not to say no to it. There are some etiquette rules I had to pick up on and you made me read that fucking manifesto five times. But I apparently had enough artistic baggage to offer, so I was officially welcomed as the newest member.

CDD: We're thrilled.

TB: Is that sarcasm?

CDD: Yes, a little bit. How was the party? I fell to sleep during the Hip Hop bit. I think I danced too hard.

TB: I think I missed that bit too. But the party was cool. My admittance was celebrated with this weird mass hysteria and a disregard for everything. I actually started to get freaked out after a while. And how fucking loud does that stereo go? You guys were blasting it through open windows, throwing stuff into the street, burning things. Your poor neighbours. Then you started shouting stuff about infinity and anomalies. I didn't know if that was about the nature of the cosmos or about women or what.

CDD: It was women, I think. Do you like that hat? You look pretty handsome in it.

TB: Yeah. The ceremonial donning of the Zezaurian headwear gave the assembly its official status. You all took that shit really seriously, despite all your hats being women’s sizes. my head's way too massive for this thing. I look like an ugly air stewardess. And I like the way all the elders changed into tribal vests to perform a ritualistic dance that looked a lot like air guitaring to shit metal to me. There was definitely a sense of potential greatness in the air though. I think. That or groin sweat.

CDD: I'll have to type this up, so can you just say one last thing without boring us about travelling through Asia again?

TB: Yeah: for a man who has travelled around the world for almost a year, met many, many people, perceived a wide scope of different cultures and groups, walked through jungles and deserts, swam in Mother Earth's rivers, seas and lakes, climbed mountains and had sex with a deaf Thai girl, nothing could quite compare to the feeling that what I was embracing in this small room with people of immense intellectual stature was nothing short of amazing.

CDD: That was sarcasm, wasn't it?

TB: Do you think?


Zezaurian Philosphy Club gets off to a confusing start...

Total stranger laughs at disabled people

A total stranger has been reduced to hysterical tears after learning that Zezaurian Society members have decided to 'get into training' up to three weeks in advance of the 60 mile trip to Brighton on bicycle. So who made you fucking super thighs? 60 miles is really far. I'm a total doink; it's a daily struggle to get out of bed every morning, never mind cycling for six hours straight after getting out of bed. And my lungs are shagged. And by 'training' what we really meant was we're quitting smoking and drinking for three weeks. It's not like we've been down the gym pumping iron and drinking banana smoothies or anything.

The Zezaurian Cycle Club is riding to Brighton on Saturday 13th September, leaving London at some point early in the morning. Email for details. You oinly neoid a boike to join.

You can't poop in the sea: The Zezaurian Society Astronomy Expedition 2008

August 25-29 2008 saw the Zezaurian Astronomy Club head out to the light pollution-free skies of Norfolk for the First Annual Zezaurian Astronomy Expedition. It rocked. William and I refused to wash in the showers provided at Manor Farm, instead, hungover and weary, we ran* each morning to the beach to swim in the sea. Heck, that water reduced our testicles to little baby conkers, and we spent the entire expedition smelling of dried crab, but we learned some valuable lessons: firstly, London water is designed to prop-up sales of face moisturiser, and secondly, it's next to impossible to poop in cold salt water. It just refuses to come out, even with gentle coaxing.

However, the evening sky presented perhaps the best star field available in England so we were in for a real Tea Party. Jupiter is incredibly bright at the moment and you can even make out its moons with just a pair of binoculars. Fortunately, we had the Zezaurian (Russian made) Newtonian Reflector Telescope and we got a good eye-full of those swirly storms they seem to always have up there. Impressive as ever. After that we just pointed the telescope upwards and started talking like a couple of hippies about the nature of time, gravitational singularities and why on earth we were single.

Too bad I forgot all my star charts. I was pretty useless at spotting anything else and putting a name to it, but we did get accused of working for the Russian Army by a moustached doink that couldn't understand why the stars above us were moving around. Having explained that the earth was constantly spinning he walked off to tell his son, this weird Colin kid, to stop carrying bricks around like they were babies.

After that I regretted not having taken acid so we went to the pub and got smashed on Guinness.

*We drove.

Email us at if you would like to become a member of the Zezaurian Astronomy Club. You only need eyeballs to join.

Zezaurian Chess Club ends in fisticuffs.

Last Sunday's Zezaurian Chess started so well; all pawns were moved forward in a new tactic learned from Grandpa Roberts making things so difficult I thought my brain would explode with the complex mathematics I had to deal with. But things were difficult enough - the barmaid was basically (a slightly ugly) Wonder Woman and her outfit was distracting for even the most studious of players. On top of that, three insanely happy Japanese girls sat staring at the chess battles with such glee that we could only assume that we were 'in there.'

We weren't.

It has to be said that winning all the time does get boring. Well, according to those that win all the time anyway. But taking a sneaky pawn deep into the enemy's camp, positioning a subtle knight behind enemy lines before sliding the queen around the back of a heavily defended king to force Checkmate ended the reign of Mr Morose. My fists sprang into the air like fireworks I was so so happy to beat him with such cunning and bravery, but Mr Morose was having none of it. According to him he'd let me off with a few 'careless, rooky manoeuvres' earlier in the game rendering it all totally pointless. Balls. I won. He lost.

But whatever, by this point the Guinness had been flowing for a few hours on top of an unremittingly anxious hangover, and the sexual tension between me, Wonder Woman and the insanely happy Japanese girls had reached its peak.* Everything fell into a blurry mess and before I knew it, a white glove was slapped across my face and then I'm duelling in the street with a sword and ruby-red-rouge on my cheeks.

Most of that last part is made up, but I still won.

*I say 'between.' But you know what I mean.