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.

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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?

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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.

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If we were in a band this would be our promo shot and we'd be called the Psychoclists or something even more amazing.

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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.

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Heh heh.

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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.

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

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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.

DD.