The Zezaurian guide to the countryside

I've just got back from a trip to the Devil's Ditch, a "scary" and "haunted" wood located near...er...Pangbourne. I met up with two unfortunates from the Zezaurian Survival Dept., Mr Divorce and Mr Woggle - an irritating ponce and an odorous simpleton, respectively. They had much to learn about the wild from Ol' Captain Drib Drab, that's for sure.

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 Guide^TM 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.)

Food

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.