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.