For fuck's sake! every evening when I get home from a hard day of toil, anticipating a relaxing night with a couple of episodes of the X-Files, I'm faced with these idiots slouched all over my bed like dead bumblebees. I don't how they get into my flat, but I'm really sick of it. What's a man got to do to get a bit of peace?
The most frustrating, yet immensely addictive game known to man. It's sort of like cocaine; half the time you're happy and laughing and screaming like a bellend, but the rest of the time you're just disappointed whilst dealing with heart palpitations - but you can't say no to it. And it eats all your money.
I won't explain the rules because they seem to change after every shot you play or after every busybody on their way to the toilet tells you a new one. All you need to know is that if you knock that light-brown peg over, you lose all your points. That's quite heartbreaking when you're 1000 up on your opponent. It's even worse when you've been playing snooker since the age of ten and some girl that doesn't even know which end to hold a cue turns up and poos all over your game.
Meanwhile, I've caused this disgusting mess to my beautiful little finger - sustained after I went climbing at Mile End Climbing Wall last week. I turned up telling everyone how easy it is to prance about like Gollum. It's not. It's horrible, hard work, scary and almost killed me.
This was Mark's lunch. He's the only person to cycle 75 miles and arrive at his destination with more wobbly belly fat than when he set off. Every time I looked over at him he was shovelling more shit into his mouth. The guy ate TWELVE Nutri-Grain bars in 3 hours. Those things are like eating a sugary, dried dog turd mixed with gelatinous cancer. That's some kind of endurance record, right?
Two things: firstly, the guy in the red hat, Mr Morose, was actually asking me which way I thought Leatherhead was. Secondly; look at that fucking belt.
Seriously; Tammy Girl, £6.99.
If we were in a band this would be our promo shot and we'd be called the Psychoclists or something even more amazing.
Every time we took a break, Jonny B. Fancy Dress over here would put on another hideous item from his autistic clothing range. It's too bad the camera died before we had time to snap his glittering hot pants and vintage clown shoes.
Heh heh.
59 years old, asthmatic and a bullet still lodged in his gut. Fucker didn't even bust a sweat. Ladies, say hello to The Chief (a.k.a my fucking awesome dad, who is way better than your lesser dad who probably thinks The Wire is "kool").
Woah there! Check out ol' Hercules Beefcake over here taking the ride a bit too seriously. He wouldn't even smile at the camera in case it ruined his "performance". See that backpack he has on there? Full of bricks. If he saw you struggling on the more difficult hills he would start shouting motivational nonsense in your face as if that was going to stop you from shitting your pants as you painfully rode another three inches closer to the summit. He's not coming next time.
I think the 
This is what the chairs in Little Chef do when they're on a break.
Dear Scotland: Let. It. Go. That film was like, what? three stars at best?
"You facking wunt some ya bald cunt? I'll facking do ya."
I've never stood in 60 mile-per-hour wind before. Seriously, when you look at this picture you need to put a hair dryer on top of your screen and whistle like a demented monkey just to taste a fraction of how insane that really was. Also, if you look really closely you can see a leprechaun flying in the air just above the forest.
And poor old Twiglet over here. We had to put horse shoes in her pockets. She only weighs four stone.
Being vegan makes you feel quite smug and self-righteous, but hummus can't hold two slices of bread together for shit. After four hours in my backpack it was like eating soggy leaves wrapped in a humid sanitary towel.
You probably don't know this, but Scotland is a world leader in product design. For instance, I didn't know that this scrubbing brush had such an innovative and useful feature inbuilt. I was doing the washing-up and my mind started FREAKING OUT. Then I drained the water and went, "Oh. That's pretty gay."
If you've been driving for nine hours straight you sort of enter this weird trance where you can only see flickering white lines and you want to scream at anything that moves slower than 90 miles per hour. It gets to a point where you don't really know what you need anymore, then someone gives you one of these, sticks My Best Friend's Wedding in the DVD player and slowly you're coaxed back to the Real World like a drug addict after their first cold turkey. God bless you Big Orange Thing.
Look at that smug little fucker: "Ooh ooh, you can stick me anywhere!"
I think this is only funny if you're in it. But this really did make me laugh. Mostly because it makes everyone look like a knob, especially "Ninja" Tom. I love Chloe falling flat on her face in high speed too.
I was going to do this fucking massive post with all the pictures that were taken, but our photo guy discarded all the shots of people doing retarded things that I could make fun of and instead focused on trying to make people look really attractive and nice. Check out his pictures here, but chances are you’re not in them if you’re ugly or badly dressed – so that’s about thirty of you not in them.
What I will do, however, is make some minor observations and note some key learnings, as they always say at work:
One. If you have an open wound after getting run over by a taxi, it is best not to jump into a canal in Hackney. Holy shit do you need to see how grim Mr Morose’s arm is looking. Likewise, if you do jump into the canal with your tiny little penis flapping about in the weeds, STAY AWAY FROM THE BOTTOM. I’m serious. Do you have any idea how many old jonnies and syringes I had to pluck from my body when I got out? I'm now basically Swamp Thing with advanced stage HIV.
Two. When hosting a party on one of the hottest days of the summer, don’t ask people to dress in tweed. I personally lost two kilograms just from sweating, and that fungal infection has reappeared in my bathing suit area. It's like cottage cheese mixed with vinegar down there.
Three. Why do drugs when you can just impale your face on a garden cane, spin around thirty times and then fall over with blood coming out of your eyes?
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Four. Is there anything lamer than a bunch of skinny twenty-nine year olds that got drunk and covered themselves in drawings of cocks and swear words because they’re too pussy to actually get them tattooed on forever? Well, if that means I only have to have a giant monocle, the name “Maddie” and the news that “I’ve got cancer” on my precious skin for a few hours then I reckon I can live with that.
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Five. When you organise a party, numbers will always start low. Don’t fret about that. I got panicky because by 2:08pm it was just me and this guy, who said he wasn’t in a mood for talking and told me to stop flapping my noise-hole about as it was making him “annoyed.”
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Six. When making friends, try not to make them with any of these.
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Can someone please remind me to pay more attention to my balls next time we cycle forty miles in the baking summer heat? Jesus. They started off fine, but after an hour it felt like I had underpants filled with frogspawn before they slowly dried out and turned into something resembling three week old falafel.
(if you have trouble viewing the text in the flyer stop using Internet Shitsplorer.)
And here is a picture of the winner’s bicycle. Apparently, when he bought it, it came with free tampons.
No wonder it took him over an hour to get around the first lap if he had to keep the stabilisers on his tiny blue bicycle.
What a worthless piece of shit. I'd rather drink dog cum than be seen riding this.
First thing: look at the fucking size of Conan Keating's arm! Jeepers! Secondly, to the goof in the lead: buy some new fucking shorts you lazy bum-poser. No wonder all the cabbies try and drive you off the road. I think I even saw a rogue testicle flapping wildly in the wind as you flew past. Eww.
Hello testicles!
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"
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