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!