Things we did in 2009

So, the year is almost over and I'm off to Mexico for a month. There's you not getting pissed on shitty Tesco own brand lager that your step dad hid in the garage, whilst I'm out adventuring in some Mayan ruin with my Zezaurian cap soaking up the heat. Hard luck.

But don't fret - I've left you with a bunch of really, really bad pictures of people you probably don't know doing things you don't care about. Behold! Our year in shitty pictures:


Watch the skies

Hello doinks. If you are familiar with some of our Zezaurian theories, you will be aware that all of the emotional turmoil in the universe is caused by an evil cosmic eagle that stalks the skies in search of feeble minded morons such as myself to torment and cause untold misery. I have explained this theory to many of my friends, colleagues and just about anyone else who will listen but my wisdom invariably falls on deaf ears.

Well, now I have proof. My good friend Professor Peelhead who is currently seeking his fortune in China stumbled upon the sadistic bastard while out metal detecting, and managed to get this amazing shot of a guy who was blubbering because his boyfriend dumped him or something. Now I have irrefutable evidence that my theory is correct, I shall wait eagerly for those Nobel prize bozos to get in touch. So long, rat race!


Peace and quiet, please.

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?


Your laughter makes my brain hemorrhage

By Hercules Beefcake

So, hardly anyone turned up to 'Zezaurian Billiards'. Not even when we rebranded it to 'Zilliards' in an effort to Get Down With It. This meant that Non-Zezaurians had to join in. Ho hum.

I suppose nobody turned up for a few reasons; chiefly, because we're immensely unlikeable, but also because no one understands what bar billiards actually is. It's not snooker, it's not pool, it's not American pool, and it's not billiards. It's this:

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.

Dear Madame Fluke,

You didn't even want to play the stupid game, so don't do that silly little victory dance after wiping the board. Just because the landlord had his eye on you and gave us an entirely new rule that said that if you pot the final ball in the 'Impossible Pocket' you magically 'win'. The guy had the hots for you and would say anything to make you like him. He's a liar and a cheat and you're still rubbish.

P.S. Every time Drib Drab laughs, God kills a baby.




Even more Zezaurian fuck ups

By D. Mulder

You can always rely on my flatmate, Captain Beefcake, to hurt himself in one way or another. Assuming nothing truly terrible is ever going to happen to him, it's sort of becoming good fun watching this guy return home from work everyday with yet another injury or another broken bicycle. Everything he touches breaks. Living with him is like living in the pages of Ubik. He's a fucking calamity.


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.

One thing about it made me feel better though: Jesus God is the 'climbing community' ever a good lookin' bunch of people. Woah-ho-ho. No wonder they all chose a sport in which you spend the entire time facing a wall. I've never seen so many ugly people in one room. They were everywhere, some literally hanging from the ceiling. Still, beats watching all the posers in East London trying out their new Autumn Wardrobes. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WHEN THE APOCALYPSE COMES? You can't live long on smugness alone, don't you know.


My bum hurts

By Drib Drab

I hope cycling to Brighton each autumn isn't going to turn into some kind of weird pilgrimage. We did it last year, totally fucked it up, ended up on the motorway heading towards Woking or somewhere equally as atrocious and almost killed ourselves in the process.

This year wasn't quite so ball achingly eventful, and not quite as tough (nine miles less). But that's what happens when you don't drink grappa the night before (and you remember to take a map).

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 Zezaurian Society needs to start thinking about some kind of equal opportunities policy.


Now, if you enjoyed these wonderful pictures, you're going to go bananas when you see what Mark has done on YouTube: check out the video he (lovingly) made here (needs sound and a quadruple espresso).

Man, this Mark guy is so happy and enthusiastic the whole time he's basically a puppy.



Zezaurians don't climb Ben Nevis

By Stirling McIndependence

Scotland is a hilly place just north of England where Mel Gibson lived in 1273. I went there last week to climb Ben Nevis, but forgot how weather works and I only packed my summer clothes because it was really sunny in London. Weirdly, it turned out it was too cold, wet and windy to do any mountain climbing. Instead we took a bunch of pictures of Scottish things:

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?


"Michelle, they better bloody-well have wi-fi back at the B&B because I need to load this picture onto Facebook like, pronto."

"Martin, my mum will go flippin' mental when she sees this."


"You facking wunt some ya bald cunt? I'll facking do ya."

"Leave it Tel. Tel, leave it; he's only little."


"And on today's Classic Rock Hour we'll be listening to your views on why all Scottish people look like crows."


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!"


Another Zezaurian bicycle fuck-up

Still, at least he finally got a wet gash near his mouth.


Nine minutes you won't get back

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.

Zezaurian Tweed Party Video Mash up (needs sound)

(Made by Mark, who I assume must be unemployed. I love that he's used every "special feature" his home movie software has available. What a dork.)


Tweedurian Summer Party

By Drib Drib

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?


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.

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.”


Six. When making friends, try not to make them with any of these.


Seven. When cropping pictures, make it look like there were more people at the party then there really was.


The Zezaurian Guide To Good Fortune

By Mr Morose

Boy oh boy. I just can't seem to get a break. Alongside being born with banana shaped feet and inside-out internal organs, God kindly took the liberty of giving me the face of a professional boxing glove tester. I've been hit by cars, walked into glass doors, been shanghaied in a religious cult, lived in a tent for six months and continuously been a victim of crime. Money is repelled from me. Skin cream brings me out in hives. Paracetamol gives me migraines. What I'm driving at is that I have always suffered chronically with bad luck, which I'm presently trying to remedy.

My friend Richard once told me that you make your own luck. Anyway, since he's only a figment of my imagination I probably shouldn't listen to him. Instead, I paid a visit to Zezaurian temptress/mystic Joy De Vivre for some of her sage advice and voodoo mumbo-jumbo. After kicking me in the gonads, she proceeded to read my palm. "Milk, bread, lentils, coffee, pile cream" she cooed. I'd forgotten to wash off the shopping list I scrawled on my hand, so we tried reading tea leaves instead. It didn't sound good. According to those leaves I don't have long left, and it won't be fun. Whatever, I had enough of her superstitious tripe and sought out a more realistic solution and called my Grandpa.

Well, I might as well have phoned Jesus, the use that did me. He told me that I have a negative attitude and that the idea of blaming things on bad luck is a way I avoid taking personal responsibility for what happens in my life blablabla. He should stick to playing scrabble.

So, just when I thought I'd never get to the bottom of my problem, the answer presented itself to me this afternoon while I was sitting on the number 43 bus. There he was, hiding behind the pink-hued pages of the Financial Times, occasionally glancing over at me with a knowing glint in his eye. It was a bloody great ostrich wearing a porkpie hat and a waistcoat. You may recall me telling you about the rhino and the eagle who control hangovers and emotional pain. Well, this crafty bugger seems to be in cahoots with old lady luck. I still haven't figured out a way of getting him off my back, but when I do, you'll be the first to know.


By Jonny Pineapple

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.

It hurts. The entire ball-to-ass region actually hurts.



Happy Birthday Us

By Drib Drab

Can you flippin' believe it? The Zezaurian Society is going to be one year old next month. I certainly can’t believe it. When Mr Morose and I first thought this silly thing up, groping each other under a warm blanket as we gazed up at the stars, I never thought it would last. But it did last and we’ve achieved so much more with our lives since then. For instance, Mr Morose grew some bumfluff on his face and I finally got that aggressive fungal infection sorted out.

Oh, and this little website. But I'm not sure that can be described as an "achievement". I promise we'll post something good on it one day. But in the meantime, join us for The Zezaurian (Tweed) Birthday Party – 22nd August, at London Fields. All you need to do is turn up dressed in tweed with a suitcase full of drugs and the rest will follow. There’s a secret plan B if it rains. But it won’t rain because Mr Morose is going to do his Sun Dance every morning between now and then to ensure it’s bright and cheerful.

All the details are in the flyer. Rub it Click it to make it bigger:

(if you have trouble viewing the text in the flyer stop using Internet Shitsplorer.)


Drib Drab.


Here is a map.

Battersea Cog Home

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr Ronan Keating, winner of the Zezaurian Cycle Race, July 2009.


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.


The only girl in the race. Just check out those sexy, trim legs. Oh wait. That’s Drib Drab – or as I like to call him “Mr Spaghetti”.


This guy spent £2000 on his bike but doesn’t know how to change the tyres. Still, at least all the Hoxton cunts give him the nod of approval when he walks it along the pavement during working hours.


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.

Next race will take place in September sometime. Email if you want to take part. The winner gets a pair of (Zezaurian) hair curlers.


Miss Vacant Eyes


Zezaurian Music Dept. vs. Poo Flap

Festival toilets are grim, everyone knows that and it’s boring listening to people go on and on about them each summer - but oddly, the one I used on the weekend was immaculate. Admittedly, I was quite high for the entire festival, but still, it seemed pretty special compared to some of the shit tanks I’ve dumped in over the years.

Anyways, by the time Saturday arrived I could no longer ignore the fact that I had been holding in a giant turd in my bursting colon for at least twenty hours and I was anxious that I was over cooking it (with recollections that they can dry out inside you and you have to pick them out with chop sticks and olive oil).

So I got inside the toilet and tried to hover my bum and genitals over the plastic “Poo Flap”. The thing is, the log I’d been cooking up was clearly a nightmarish behemoth and I really needed to sit down to get it out effectively - but in doing so it would mean my genitals would have to touch the Poo Flap as the bowl of the toilet was so shallow. That clearly just couldn’t happen in any way. Seriously. I've put my dick in some gross places before, but there was no way it was touching the Poo Flap.

To overcome this I ingeniously sat down on the seat whilst cupping my cock and balls in one hand, and held them above my thighs. Problem solved. I actually ended up quite enjoying the turd in the end, and I sat thinking about all the good fun things I would do with my day, but at the very last contraction to evacuate the turd, my body betrayed me entirely. I just didn’t anticipate the involuntary jet of piss that would erupt from my penis, hitting my face, covering my shirt and, eventually, dousing my already smelly balls in hot slash.

They should give a name to this unfortunate reflex, because it’s fucking embarrassing dangerous.

I might call it "being a massive loser".


broken balls, exposed balls: cycle practice goes wrong

Hello testicles!

It's been a strange few weeks for the Zezaurian Cycling Dept. and things have been getting pretty painful out on the busy roads of London's Famous London. I'm struggling to keep up with the number of accidents people keep getting themselves into, but let's take look at some of my favourites ever since we said we'd do that silly race around Battersea Park.

1. "Invisible Stack"

Is there anything in life better than seeing Tim Howard hit an "invisible obstacle" in the middle of a busy road and camply flying over his handlebars, crashing face first into the tarmac like a rubbish twat? I've been playing that one on repeat in my head for weeks.

Total distance covered: 2.3 metres
Total time: 0.7 seconds
Shame level: getting caught out with an erection in maths class
Pain level: advanced vaginal thrush

2. "Stationary Stack"

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"

Special Brew and Ouzo are a pleasant mix, right? So much so, they make boys strip to their cock and balls and ride down what is perhaps the most densely packed road in London on a Saturday night and head home wondering how they're going to retrieve their penises from inside their stomachs. They should call this homoerotic game "Shrimp Saddle".

I think some of the naked riders were imagining that all the girls would whoop and throw their knickers at them, but all that really happened was that people shouted "fucking queer homo gays" and spat on their backs. Nice work revellers!

Total distance covered: 1km
Total time: 12 awful minutes
Shame level: telling people that you thought Terminator Salvation was a "pretty good" film
Pain level: sitting through all 115 minutes of Terminator Salvation


See you on the 11th,

Miss Vacant Eyes