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