The Zezaurian guide to the countryside

You wouldn't actually think that the English countryside could be such a tough environment to survive in, but it really was touch-and-go out there at times. So here is (another) Zezaurian GuideTM to get you through it.

Vegetable Land Barons (farmers)

One thing you should know is that all farmers all immoral bastards. Just look at that guy's face. Do you have any idea how much of an idiot he thinks you are? He wants to kill you for heaven's sake. He wants to peel your skin off and prance around in his barn wearing you like a ill-fitting wetsuit as he dances with the decaying body of his murdered sheepdog. I'm not kidding.

They're all the same. They hate an entire cauldron of ethnicities, sexualities, cultures and city dwellers. They will assume that anyone walking on their land is a "complete fucking idiot" that "likes sticking things up their bottom" and knows nothing about what the Labour Government has done to "Britishness". They are homophobic, racist Nazis and they hate vegans - whom they assume are all working for Al Qaeda in a dramatic plot to radicalise British potatoes with "gay thoughts".

If you see a farmer, run and hide. If you're unlucky enough to get caught by a farmer whilst, say, having a poo on "his land", tell him that you "hate Tony" and that you love killing families of badgers (that you agree are responsible for the AIDS epidemic.)


Here's a neat tip: take way more food than everyone else, wait until they've eaten all of theirs and then charge them extortionate prices once you've purposely got them lost. I took my companions on a four mile detour after they consumed the last of their dolphin-friendly tuna and salad cream sandwiches, and then offered up hot cross buns at £20 each and a salt & vinegar crisps for £15 per packet. I made £107 and got a blow job within twenty minutes.

You know, I'm basically slapping Ray Mears over his fat head and telling him which way is north I'm that good at all this shit.

Wild animals

The Devil's Ditch is populated by giant Pig Warriors; creatures that stand ten feet tall and have giant tusks made from gold. They feed on ramblers and are under the command of the Vegetable Land Barons. I picked up some tracks of a Pig Warrior late in the day during my trip, just as the sun was dropping behind the hills. Mr Divorce and Mr Woggle were getting nervous and were holding hands, but I told them they'd be fine if they just followed some simple advice: when confronted with a wild animal don't panic, just take out a gun and blast the fucker in the face whilst laughing your head off shouting, "ha ha ha you stupid animal. I bet you wish YOU had invented semi-automatics, don't you?"

Then sever its head and wear it as giant hat whilst running around masturbating wildly like you're the King of Nature. This is even more satisfying if the creature is not even threatening you and is perhaps hundreds of feet away, minding its own business with its family nearby.

Not so wild animals

It's best not to mess with livestock because they belong to the Vegetable Land Barons, but sometimes it's impossible not to stray into their path because around 99.9999999% of the British countryside has been destroyed to ensure they have enough room to graze before getting turned into lips and asshole burgers.

Cows are mild mannered creatures, but bulls can become either aggressive or amorous (or aggressively amorous). My advice? If you're trapped in a field with a bull and you notice it has an erection, it's best to trip one of your companions over, pull their shirt over their head and punch them on the nose. Then shout for the bull to rape them instead of you whilst running as fast as you can to the nearest exit. 'Survival of Fittest' should be tattooed on your winky to ensure you never forget how important that phrase really is.

(You can just write this back-to-front on your forehead if you're a woman so you can see it when you look in the poser-glass for the zillionth time on any given day.)

Mapping your route

If you're a long time follower of Zezaurianism, you might recall that maps are for babies.

When heading into the wild just scrawl a few illegible smudges on a part of your body that you're not likely to use much, (say, the palm of your hand, for instance) and then just gallop like a twat towards the most exciting looking thing you can see.

One important tip is to ignore signs that say 'Danger' or 'Private Property'; these are for normal people, not Zezaurians.

No, Zezaurians can do as they please, even if Mountain Rescue has to come and fetch them - after all, those guys are just itching to get in their helicopter. Wouldn't you? If I had a massive orange helicopter I'd be like, "where are all the flippin' mountain accidents?!" Can you imagine how boring it must be sitting around the office twiddling with your foreskin all day long when you could be whooshing around in the sky? These guys want you to fall off a ledge and break your head open. They want you to get lost in a blizzard when you're only wearing a bikini and a dopey expression on your face.

Go on, get lost. The mysterious "Tactspaer" or whatever it's called covers the costs anyways.

Local pubs

Ah. The country pub. Cheap ale, a real fire and they let dogs in. They're not so keen on you asking for twelve tequilas for each of your friends, but they won't bat an eyelid if you choose to drive home. That's the spirit.


Zezaurian Music Dept. 2008 Analysis

As the title suggests, I have decided to dissect some of the 'best' albums of 2008 as chosen by those supposedly in the know (professional music critics etc.), because I'm far more astute and knowledgeable on such things than those trend-following bottom-feeders. I compiled my list from some popular publications and the most reoccurring records got a place. I haven't necessarily listened to them all but that's not important. Right, here's the list (in no particular order):

Dear Science by TV On The Radio

This overrated piece of junk was on all the best-of lists but I don't hear the attraction. Sounds like a bunch of gay drama students wanking. Dross.

Fleet Foxes by Fleet Foxes

Another universally praised pile of tripe. Imagine the Beach Boys (if the Beach Boys were utterly talentless gimps). Hippy drivel.

Only By The Night by Kings of Leon

Bloated, uninspired, witless, U2-sounding, radio-friendly gloop.

Viva La Vida by Coldplay

The latest offering from the most boring band in the universe. About as enjoyable as having your bell-end vigourously rubbed by a man with a cheese grater.

Tell Tale Signs: The Bootleg Series Vol. 8 by Bob Dylan

Is this guy still alive? Sounds like my grandpa talking in his sleep while accompanied by a monkey with leprosy playing an out of tune guitar with three strings.

The Seldom Seen Kid by Elbow

I've always suffered chronically with insomnia; I tried every sleep inducing product on the market and all the relaxation techniques you could shake a stick at to remedy my torturous condition, achieving very little success and resigning myself to a life of wakeful misery with no respite. That was until I slid this shiny coffee coaster into my stereo. Flipping hell! It should come with a warning: 'Do not operate heavy machinery while listening to this music'.

For Emma Forever Ago by Bon Iver

The man who made this record was clearly wronged by a woman, then duly turned into one. What a baby! I haven't heard this much melodramatic moaning since I visited the Wailing Wall. This punter needs to man up a bit.

Third by Portishead

I quite enjoyed this one. It's sort of like the musical equivalent of having a nervous breakdown after you finally realise there's no hope and life is completely and utterly futile. 5 stars.

There's a lot more on my list but I can't be bothered to endure anymore so I'll wrap it up. I'm aware that I paint a bleak portrait of the modern musical landscape, but have no fear, Propagandhi have a new album out soon. I'm now going to listen to some trad-jazz and try to forget about this vile century.


The Zezaurian guide to Paris

Fresh from my adventures in Paris, I present to you the Zezaurian Guide to the world's most expensive toilet.


All good Zezaurians should try and dabble in the local language whenever possible. I got a grade C for my GCSE French exams and that got me quite far in a conversation with a group of policemen (who all just stood around smoking cigarettes and holding their guns like they were immaculate cocks at a homosexual urinal meeting):

Me: Good evening!

Them: Good morning.

Me: Do you know where horses sell bread to visit the beach toilets?

Them: Er...

Me: Oh, Sorry. My name is Drib Drab and I am 9 years old. My favourite animal is a small pea.

Them: Do you need directions, sir?

Me: I grew up in a hospital and turned left at the bank. My mother is an expensive zoo and you are a toothbrush?


Incidentally, it took the whole of Saturday for me to find my hotel and my shoes have no soles left. Heck, I have no soul left after that amount of walking around.

Also, if you are in a restaurant and you haven't had enough time to decipher the complicated menu, you may wish to ask for more time by saying "une minute, s'il vous plait". This works for the whole of France and probably any other country for that matter. However, if you're stupid enough to say it in Paris you will be served "one omelette" (for 76 euros).


I went for precisely four poos over course of my weekend trip. Of those visits to the toilet I could only flush the bog once and wash my hands twice because Parisians generally have no flushing mechanism on their shitters or handles for their taps. So every time I sat to eat dinner, shake hands with someone or smoke a cigarette, I was putting poo fingers in or near my mouth or transferring bum matter to other people. Eww.

UPDATE: I've just been told that the 'flushing mechanisms' I had been searching for in such a blind panic were actually located on the floor via a foot pedal.

I'd like to now publicly apologise to all the people that had to go into the toilet after me. That second poo was a really bad one.


There are thieves and con artists everywhere in Paris, like some bastard smog. Luckily, I'm no stranger to getting mugged, and when it happened again I was determined to not to lose all my money because I can handle these situations with a skill known as 'bartering'.

Here's the scene: Night and a mugger walks up to me (menacingly) and points a knife at my genitals.

Mugger: Bonsoir, monsieur. How mooch money do you av?

Me: Er...I have 100 euros in two fifty notes.

Mugger: May I please take fifty from you?

Remember: you must learn to whittle these guys down or you will end up paying over the odds.

Me: How's about I give you 30 euros? Do you have any change?

Mugger: Er...Oui. I av a little [he's checks his bum-bag whilst I look after his knife]. What aboot 40 euros?

Me: C'mon! I'm not made of money. 30 euros.

Mugger: Okay. 30. Hand it over.

Me: 20.

Mugger: What?!

Me: 20 Euros. I forgot about the recession.

Mugger: Oh, yeah. Fair point. What aboot 25 euros?

Me: 10?

Mugger: Monsieur! Vous êtes un cauchemar! I av a family with a droog habit to feed!

Me: Look, Monsieur, 10 Euros is my final offer [I'm winking knowingly at my friends at this point].

There is a long pause as he looks over at his mugger colleagues loitering on the other side of the road. They mostly shrug their shoulders at him in mild confusion at my awesome bartering skills.

Mugger: Pour l'amour de Dieu! Okay, okay. 10 euros!

Remember: getting mugged on a budget needn't hamper your holiday enjoyment. Paying 7 fucking euros for an Orangina will.


Which idiot thinks that Paris is some kind of "fashion capital" of the world? The cunts couldn't dress a salad.


This is incredible. They hate animals so much that I saw one guy actually laugh at his rare-species-of-dolphin-burger, pointing his fingers at it like it was totally 'owned'.

"Ha ha ha you stoooopid fucking dolphin! Ha ha ha. I ate you all up! Yum yum yum! Je déteste humide mammifères! Bwwwwaa Ha ha ha!"

Speaking of animals, I saw a woman actually walking a terrified cat on a leash through traffic. The unfortunate creature was having about ten billion heart attacks a second with its little legs spread out completely horizontal, its belly writhing on the ground like an amorous crab. But that cat was lucky as most Parisians will wear their pets on their head (pointing and laughing at them).


The number one vocation in Paris is sitting on the ground looking after a little paper cup. Weird.


I have no advice to give; they're a nightmare and the pretty ones live in special bubbles which cancel out your entire existence to them. The only attractive Parisian that gave old Drib Drab the eyeball was this woman in the background.

But check out my friend Janine; she finally got that month-old sanitary towel unstuck from her clunge.


I was going to bang on about another trillion things, like the metro lines all being a slightly different shade of purple, but I'm all garlicked out. In short, if you're thinking of visiting Paris, go to Berlin instead.


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Keeping your dongle warm in the winter


Zezaurian AGM party totally fucking lame

It started so well. Mr Morose had "secured a date from the internet," whilst Mr Emotion came along with his entire collection of Cliff Richard albums. Thankfully, Dr Dolorous was given the wrong date and address and Mr Hooray even hired a personality for the night. As is tradition, Professor Peelhead dropped an entire sheet of acid tabs, Mr Ninny invited a bus-load of hotties whilst Monsieur Taxidermy got that Rosie from the chip shop to come. Heck, even Woggle turned up. There was no sign of Miss Wormheart, however, but she was probably too busy purchasing crème & aloe toilet paper to clean her bottom with.

Yes, this was the Zezaurian's Post AGM Party to welcome yet another year of painful existence exciting Zezaurian adventures.


Mr Morose was getting anxious that his date ("Tyroné") was not going to turn up. "She said she'd be here by seven thirty, the ghastly bitch." I told him to relax and gave him some rum. He took the bottle and sat in the corner muttering to himself as the band arrived - we'd booked The Bum Synonyms, a post-grimecore/rock n' roll outfit from Corby. We paid them with monopoly money our friend Janine had acquired from a chap she knows at Fulham market. They seemed liked a nice bunch of guys, but the lead singer/trumpet player was really edgy and kept flashing his over-long foreskin at the waitresses, which was pretty uncool.


Professor Peelhead was literally hanging from the ceiling by his toenails and it was only two minutes past eight. He was screaming something about Italian border guards and a glue gun, the crazy bastard. Then Mr Ninny's "bus-load of hotties" arrived. Things were not going quite to plan.


"She's still not here," Mr Morose was saying over and over again as he downed a second bottle of rum. "It's always the same, Drib Drab; just one crushing disappointment after another." But I had no time for him and his moroseness; Joy De Vivre had arrived and she was alone. Finally, I thought! Finally I'll tell her how I really feel...


"...And you're ugly, you smell weird...what else? Oh, you think you're funny but you're only funny looking." Joy was now counting these insults out on her fingers. "Hmmm...oh and you have weird chicken legs. And -" Okay, okay, I get the picture, Joy; you're not ready for a steady boyfriend just yet.


The Bum Synonyms were taking to the stage and the place was packed. Mr Ninny was dancing with all the girls whilst Mr Emotion stood in the corner of the room staring at the wall - but it was okay because Dr Dingleberry had arrived with a bucket O' Zead™ so I was about to get more drunk than I've ever been in my life. George Horses then arrived with his date that he won off eBay, and I was starting to think that maybe this party was going to turn out okay after all.


"She's here! She's here! Her car ride was delayed because the wheel axle bent or something, but Tyroné is here!"

I kept asking the happiest looking Mr Morose I think I'll ever see.



"look; over there. The one with the bum-bag."



I was watching Mr Morose negotiate a dancing procedure with Tyroné when there was a tap on my thigh. I turned around and looked down. It was Betty. After my disastrous date with her a few months ago, I was sure I'd never have to see her again. How she got an invite is still a mystery, but I suspect that Mr Ninny had something to do with it. She gestured for me to dance with her by nudging her beak against my leg. Heck, I thought, why the hell not? Everyone else was pairing off by this point, and even Peelhead, dribbling with fear under a table to escape "the giant rhino lurking in the car park," was still getting more attention from the ladies than me. I took her flipper-wing and we danced the evening away.

01:15 - 08:12

A total blur/sick buckets/police enquiry/lots of dancing/ruffled feathers


I woke and looked at the chick next to me. She was sleeping soundly with her little flipper things resting gently on the pillow. I didn't have the heart to wake her, so I got up and went to see what happened to Mr Morose...

The fire brigade took three hours to get that thing off him. Apparently the poor guy had to roll her in flour just to find the wet patch, and then, once he'd located a pocket of skin with which to sexually engage with, Peelhead burst through the door screaming about this bloody rhino in the car park before leaping from the window. Tyroné was so startled that she suffered a massive heart attack. Poor old Mr Morose, he was under that for over eight hours - but I suspect some of us lost our virginity in more horrific ways. At least she made an impression on him.

Almost all of this story is true.



Zezaurian snot rocketeer hunting season now open

Today was the official launch of the 2009 snot rocketeer hunting season. I chose today because today was the day my patience finally collapsed after what must have been the sixth time in the past three months that another cyclist has either flobbed a big yellowy-brown phlegm-ball at me or has actually fired a proper snot rocket - where they hold one nostril and blow quick and hard, sending a mucus missile into my flight path as I overtake. I can't take it any longer.

The first time this happened I was overtaking (I cycle at like, a zillion miles an hour) and this chubby poltroon (he looked like a banker) was dawdling along on his crappy mountain bike with his legs spread out wide like he was giving birth to the saddle, and just before I passed him he hawked, turned his head to his right and launched this huge jelly bullet into my crotch. I skidded to a stop and just stared at this thing. It looked like a yellow-brown jellyfish washed-up on the beach. I was consumed by complete disbelief as it wobbled about only millimetres from my genitals. I had to scrape the thing off with a twig.

The second time I was riding behind another mountain biker (you're all disgusting and I hate you) and he did a double snot rocket, firing out the warm gooey contents of his sinuses first from his left nostril and then the right, like a whale blowing air from that weird hole they have in their heads. We were going up a hill at the time and a misty cloud of snot enveloped me. I had to throw my new cycling jersey in the bin and wash my skin with fire when I got home.

Then it happened again, and again and again (all mountain bikers riding in the city, incidentally) and then it happened this morning. Oh. My. God. I was actually stationary at the time, waiting with about a dozen other cyclists and the (mountain) biker to my left just held one nostril (I was almost falling off my bike looking for cover), inflated his lungs (launch sequence almost complete) and fired this green bazooka down into my legs. I almost fell off my bike, but managed to dodge the missile which had splattered into the tarmac.

I don't know if any children read this website, but if you're a wee nipper, best to cover your eyes right about now (you too, Mr Morose).

I've killed a man. I took the pump from his bicycle and I rammed it up his bum without even a hint of homoerotic desire. His eyes squawked out his head as he let out a yelp, and there, right there in the road near the Houses of Parliament I began pumping air into his asshole with such violence I almost dislocated my arm. He was screaming that he had children and a loving wife, and that just made me pump even more furiously. Then...pop. His head exploded all over the road with blood and brain and skull and snot dripping from car doors and lying in puddles of thick gloop on the ground.

I calmly picked up my bike and road on to work, which is where I am now. Obviously not doing any work because I'm typing this out and oh, what's that? Crap. I think the police are here.

Must dash - but Zezaurians! Hear this: snot rocketeer hunting season has begun and I want to see plenty of heads above my fireplace when I get out of prison.