The Zezaurian Society

So Long...

2011-09-27T17:58:00.000+01:00

You've been with me for years. Together we've trod in shit, danced like a boob, run away from fights, splashed in piss and kicked people in the balls.

The best pair of shoes I ever had.

Z Camp 2011

2011-07-31T22:18:00.000+01:00

Falcon Punch

2011-02-22T12:54:00.004Z

Ka-pow.

Recently I have been running instead of cycling around London in an effort to up my fitness levels. I’ve even been drinking protein smoothies to get RIPPED and reduce my bra size. But that is not today's story.

No, civilians. That is just the "intro" to today's story.

You see, when going around London on a bike you’re usually concentrating hard on not getting run over by prawn-heads driving with low IQs and yabbering into their mobiles. However, now I'm on the pavement my view of the world is different and I seem to notice just how many people throw litter on the ground.

I don't know about you, but littering is just about the worst thing a human can do. It shows such a fundamental lack of respect for anything that if you're happy to lob a coke can into a defenceless bush, then you’re probably cool stabbing a baby in the face.

In short, nothing bursts my piles more than litter bugs. And yes, I said "litter bugs" like I'm seven and learning about the environment for the first time. But that's what they are: bugs to be squished and shat upon by us decent folk.

Now, the only problem I have is that if someone is okay stabbing a baby/littering, then they're also probably okay punching me in my beautiful face too. That's why, thus far, I've never had the balls to tell a litter bug to pick up their rubbish and put it in a bin like a normal, fully developed and reasoned person would.

This vexes me because it makes me a weakling.

Well, turds to that, because I just passed the ultimate Good Citizen Test this morning when I was walking to work and a couple (an actual husband and wife tag team) attacked a man in the street.

I have no idea why the couple did this, and I didn’t hear the argument because I was listening to Justin Bieber's latest opus on my headphones. But, as everyone stood around watching, I still rushed over and stepped between the punches, kicks and screams...and HOLY SHIT, like a mutha-chunking super hero I actually managed to break that shizzle up. I even took a few punches, but shrugged them off like they were no thang (however, I did later wimper a little, alone, in a toilet cubicle).

The fight ended and I actually managed to restrain a bigger man than me, telling him to "cool it."

What an amazing thing to shout into a stranger's face. "Cool it, bro...not on my watch."

So yeah. I assume this means I'll be fine telling a litter bug to use the rubbish bins the council conveniently provided in future. Non?

Whatever it means, I’m now known as The Zezauriator.

Please use the bins provided.

A Zezaurian guide to making a crap birthday present slightly less crap

2011-01-17T15:27:00.001Z

My dad is literally the hardest person in the solar system to buy a gift for. He has a few hobbies, such as beekeeping and hiding in his shed doing goodness-knows-what. But, at 61 years old, with reasonable wealth, what more do you need? You already own everything you want to own, such as those drill heads and that Expert Guide to Falling Asleep During Any Film. I scoured the internet for weeks trying to find him something. But Nothing. Out of all the millions and millions of things you can buy, he doesn’t need any of it.

So, in a panic, I just got him some beers for his birthday, which felt like a safe bet. But that’s pretty boring and makes me, the “creative and thoughtful” eldest child, look a bit like an uncaring and uncreative shit head.

Assuming you’re reading this whilst nodding your head, thinking; yes, my dad is also a pain in the ass when it comes to gifts, try this alternative approach: make the fucker work for it. Do you know how much time I wasted looking for something for you on the internet? That was Drib Drab's internet ~~porn~~ time, buster. So I buried my boring beer gift in the woods -- got the coordinates for the tree I planted them under and drew him a map. It's a punishment for being so difficult.

Using his dorky GPS gizmo, off he goes. Puff puff, pant pant.

That’s it Steve. You’re welcome. What’s that? You wanted to spend your afternoon watching the DVD Box Set of The Pacific – the one thoughtful gift someone got you after working out what you’d actually like for your birthday? Ooops.

I should’ve filled it with IOUs. Man, that would've been way more hilarious. Happy Birthday, ~~you old fart~~ dearest father.

Love from Drib Drab. xxx

It's the bottom one.

2011-01-08T19:27:00.002Z

Anal itching -- A rough guide

Anal itching may be just an annoyance, or may be so troublesome that it dominates your life. It is usually made worse by warmth, and is often most troublesome in bed. The skin round the anus easily becomes irritated and inflamed. This is because it is difficult to keep the area round the anus clean and dry; the skin is crinkly and traps tiny faecal particles. Eww. It is also sweaty and airless, and it may be moist from an anal or vaginal discharge. Double ewww. When it becomes irritated, scratching is a natural reaction, but this damages the skin further – what we in the business call the "itch/scratch cycle".

Causes of anal itching

Washing too much...or not enough! Poor hygiene can be responsible for anal itching, but so can excessive cleaning, especially if you use harsh soaps or a brush. A fucking brush!

Leakage of faeces can lead to itching around the anus. This is made worse after tangy, vegan food.

Ointments and creams are notorious causes of anal itching. If you have itching, it is a natural reaction to buy an anaesthetic gel for the anal area. Most of these are labelled ‘for haemorrhoids’ and contain lignocaine, tetracaine, cinchocaine, pramocaine, chilli powder or benzocaine with other ingredients. At first they help, but then the itching may return because you have become sensitive to one of the ingredients in the cream or ointment and they are keeping the area moist. Do not use them for more than 1 week.

Skin conditions, such as psoriasis or eczema, can affect the skin round the anus and cause itching. Pile can sometimes be itchy, partly because of the fucking gross, slimy discharge they produce. How have you even got friends?

Fungal infections, similar to thrush or athlete’s foot, are another common cause. Fungi fucking love warm, damp and damaged skin, so if you have an itchy anus for any reason and then damage the skin by scratching, fungi can take hold and basically have a massive party in your ass.

Sexually transmitted infections are what many people worry about, but are not usually the reason.

Bum warts, caused by papillomavirus, thrive in warm, moist conditions such as the skin near the anus and can be very itchy.
Herpes can also infect the anus if someone has rimmed you with a disgusting cold-sore.

Bumworms are tiny worms, about 13 mm long, which live in the lower part of the bowel. They are very common and make me want to throw up just thinking about them. The female worms, the dirty bastards, creep out of the anus at night – how they know it is night, and why they come out only at night, is an X-File. They lay about a billion eggs on the skin of the anus, causing intense, mind-numbing itching at night. When you cave in and scratch your bum hole the eggs lodge under your fingernails, and it is easy to transfer them to your mouth (you dirty weirdo) and reinfect your gut by swallowing the eggs. Aghhhhhhh!

Pleasure. It is worth asking yourself whether you are deriving a perverse, almost erotic, pain/pleasure from scratching the itchy area, which is keeping the irritation going. GO ON: ASK YOURSELF.

Zezaurian Award For The Worst Thing Said In 2010

2010-12-10T14:56:00.005Z

I'm absolutely fascinated by the Wikileaks story and every moral, political and philosophical question it throws up. But boy-oh-brother, have I read some bullshit in the past week. Most of this has come from our world leaders and the dickfaces they employ and collude with, but I think it's too easy to vote for them in our Award for the Worst Thing Said In 2010.

That title is going to 'Bill40' commenting over at Comment is Free at the Guardian in a discussion about the hackers targeting Mastercard et al.

Click on the image to read the entire, sorry mess -- and I think this can only be read in the voice of Alan Partridge:

My Cringe Gland is has inflamed to the size of the fucking moon.

Dedicated, or just another victim of bullying?

2010-11-19T09:04:00.000Z

Long time Zezaurian, Hercules Beefcake, (imaginatively named at birth by his parents 'Tom Cox') has done something either entirely amazing, or has just fallen victim to some form of bullying.

He left London to spend a few days with our solicitor -- both having recently been made out of work -- and next thing I hear from our law man is that he's convinced the fitness freak to sign a Change of Name Deed. In both a reference to the made-up Zezaurian name I gave him and with a less flattering reference to a well-known Bash Street Kid, 'Tom Cox' is now -- officially in the eyes of the law -- named "Hercules 'Plug' Beefcake".

Click for full-size proof of this man's stupidity

I'm going to say this is both a form of bullying and coercion but is also entirely amazing. And now that he's signed it in ink, I really do see the resemblance.

DD.

I did a bad thing (again)

2010-11-05T14:51:00.011Z

Hello, reader (and that’s definitely "reader" in the singular),

It's been a while. Partly because I have shunned technology to spend time exploring the soggy delights of ~~a woman~~ the Lake District...not with other Zezaurians, but with my parents. First observation: parents are much better company than people of your own age. They pay for everything. All food is totally free, you don’t have to pay for petrol and even accommodation is a just a given. I had my dad making me breakfast every morning for a week whilst my mother was busy preparing my daily jam sandwiches. They're like fleshy, good natured, mobile bank machines.

When you go anywhere in a car more than 10 miles with anyone your own age they suddenly demand that you chip in on the running costs of the car. Do you see me asking for you to pay X% of my gas bill for that time you crashed over and took a shower? No. Sod off. Parents are way better than your friends.

Anyways. The Lake District.

Here is Drib Drab senior and I arguing about what was better: hiking with a girly GPS device that tells you everything, including when (and how) to wipe your bottom – or a 1973 edition of A. Wainwright’s fourth book in his fell walking series. (the GPS won whilst we were still navagating our way out of the car park).

Unfortunately, despite how amazing parents are, they are also, generally speaking, a little frailer than people your own age, and as such mine sustained minor injuries that stopped them from climbing the highest peaks on Day Two. So, in true parenting fashion, my mummy made me some more jam sandwiches and sent me up the mountain range on my own (but with the GPS device strapped firmly around my neck).

Twin Peaks

The whole, lonely climb was pretty straightforward, except I was holding a wee in for about an hour and could never really find a spot to relieve myself -- there are no trees or bushes of any kind up there and I had been caught out the previous day when a group of children appeared from “nowhere” when I got my penis out by some trees. I kept on ascending higher and higher, with each step becoming more painful as I felt the searing hot pain of my exploding bladder bursting below my guts. I took a deep breath, however, determined to reach the summit before I relieved myself, as if it would be a little treat to for having reached the top.

I got to the summit pretty quickly, hopping about with no time to celebrate as I found a small boulder to crouch behind and let rip. I had to be careful though as there were a few other hikers up there and I didn’t want them to see what I was doing; as if taking a slash is somehow a mysterious and creepy-weird thing that only creeps and weirdos do.

I got down on to my knees, unbuckled my penis and let the hot gushes spurt out. It was a blissful feeling as my bladder drained; I even closed my eyes such was the pleasure I felt. However, with hindsight, that was my major mistake: it was as my eyes were closed that the most insane gust of wind literally curled the jet of piss into a perfect, horizontal U shape and sprayed it directly into my face. The weird thing is, I was so eager to get the fluid out of my body, and so keen to not be caught relieving myself that I just let it carry on that way for entire duration of the piss. Big fat yellow droplets of hot piss splashing in my face.

Within the space of 16 months I have accidentally pissed in my own face twice. I’m thirty years old.

On the upside my mother did all my washing.

DD.

Hercules Beefcake hurts himself (again)

2010-09-21T23:18:00.001+01:00

There are not that many things that make me want to double over and vomit, and I'm pretty sure I've seen the worst the internet has to offer. But one thing that really, really makes me queasy is the thought of pulling off a fucking toenail. Jesus wept.

Hercules Beefcake is forever hurting himself (example here). True to form, he did it again a few weeks ago -- apparently kicking something so hard that his toenail, after bending backwards, 'died.' I'm not sure I understand the science here, but it's enough to make me ingest my own testicles. But it gets worse; as he pulled off his sock the other day it snagged and ripped most of it out. Here, in an awful effort to boost this site's stats, is the video.

Has this shit gone viral yet? Why do my videos never go viral?

Zezaurian Art Dept. going to "Hell"

2010-09-20T09:48:00.001+01:00

It was so nice to have the Pope with us. God bless.

Zezaurian online dating secures zero responses

2010-08-17T21:24:00.000+01:00

Poor old Drib Drab. He was never very good with women.

If you're single and would like a date with DD, send saucy pictures of yourself to young.hentaiprincess102@snotmail.com

Zezaurian summer in 12 shit pictures

2010-08-09T21:23:00.003+01:00

Behold! a bunch of terrible pictures we took during our summer holiday. I think my favourite incident this summer was watching an old lady fall out of the back of a car, but I didn't have my camera with me so you'll just have to close your eyes and laugh at that one using your Mind's Eye.

===

Please, could you get any more pathetic? "Oooh, I'm so old and tired! Oooh, won't you give me a help up?" You should be on fire.

I'm 30 in a few weeks and one thing I've noticed about getting old is that you care a lot less about your outfit and a lot more about making things easier for yourself. I like having my camera on my belt; it's practical.

I like how Wess has his big fat Ph.D., but Bill, still living with his mother, just has 42 regrettable years accumulating dork knowledge and a chronic addition to hentai.

Nice shoes, dickface. Do they make them for men?

This is what happens when you get old; your skin falls off and you do really lame things, like write a blog about it.

On further consideration, you do look about fifteen -- which I'm not sure is good or bad.

Nice. Eight old people had to die just so you could sit down.


It was still better than 'Avatar'.

I think the best part of this is that he's not even high.

There is something immensely satisfying about pissing on to someone else's turd. It's the way you can break it apart and make it roll in the water like a dying whale. I think it harks back to our hunting days or something.

Hitting women always turns out amazing in photos.

Abortion Clinic: the best band that never existed

2010-08-01T12:14:00.002+01:00

A few years ago I started a scream-core band called Abortion Clinic, which is the best name for any band ever. Try now to think of a better name. You can't, partly because you're a dolt, but mostly because it's unbeatable. Unfortunately I can't play any instruments, so we didn't even get to the practice stage, but I did just stumble upon some sample lyrics I had stored in my 'awful and embarrassing ideas' folder. Here, immortalised forever on a blog that three people read, the political venom of the greatest band to never have existed.

Untitled

Blood on your thighs

Lies lies lies.

A pain in your cunt

But what do you want?

Vacuum it out!

Twisting metal of destruction

Crushing bones of hate

Three weeks with no bleeding

Your period was too late

Now you have

Blood on your thighs

Lies lies lies

Blood on your thighs

Lies lies lies

Forceps of evil

Clamp open your womb

Of death!

Of Death!

Mutant Twins of pain

Rip open your womb

Fists punch through into light

Put up the fight!

Blood on your thighs

Lies lies lies

Blood on your thighs

Lies lies lies

===

I know. I'm wasted working in retail.

Zezaurian Art Dept. feeling rough

2010-06-24T12:08:00.000+01:00

Zezaurian Rock Climbing Dept. admits failings

2010-06-10T16:38:00.007+01:00

Not that anyone I tell about this cares, but I've taken to rock climbing over the past few months. I finally feel as though I’ve found my sport, but, as I mentioned a while back, it's a sport reserved for a very special brand of humourless dork, so I don't feel I really fit in at the local climbing club.

One example of this was a few weeks back when I remarked to a fellow climber how much one of the climbing 'volumes' on the wall looked like a giant Picasso-esque vagina, but he just stared at me as if he’d caught me licking his dog.

I also never understood why these nerds have to spend thirty minutes doing ridiculous warm-up exercises. Do you see He-Man doing some homo squat thrusts before kicking Twistoid in the ball-sack?

Non.

Anyways, my climbing skills have progressed enough for me to try stuff outside of the club, away from the nerds.

If you live in London you might have seen the Shoreditch Boulder? If you haven't, it's basically a big rock in the middle of a park that you can climb on. I turned up last weekend, got my pot belly out for the ~~bitches~~ ladies, and started to climb it in the most masculine way possible, but I was suddenly thwarted by these mesmerising idiots:

"John, John. Listen: this part is literally teaming with negative energy."

"You're right, Valerie, but Ken picked up on some POSITIVE energy on the other side of the boulder, so we're dealing with something pret-ty major here."

If the rock could actually talk, I can only assume it would tell them that sixty-two year-old virgins are Nature’s way of saying “give up.”

So, after Ken suggested they all go back to his to listen to his collection of yawns, I got to climbing.

Ho-ly Shit.

After ten minutes my hands looked as if they had been dipped into a bucket of cold sores. And my arms. Jesus God, my arms. I actually woke later that night in spasms of pain. I thought I was having a double heart attack. I’ve never paid any attention to “Sport Scientists” before, simply because that is what stupid people that manage to get into university become, but they might have a point about stretching before rigorous exercise.

So, this evening I will return to the local climbing club. I won’t make any fanny jokes and I will take my warm up session very seriously. I will not moan when the colony of herpes on my hands begins to bleed and I will go home and do any crying into the muffled humility of my pillow.

DD

Zezaurian Art Department: Itchy

2010-06-07T09:37:00.001+01:00

Knob in a pot

2010-06-03T11:23:00.001+01:00

Our good buddy Michael, who always seems to contact us out of the blue with disgusting penis related stories, has just contacted us out of the blue with a disgusting penis related story.

FYI...

==

Hello,

I went for a cystoscopy yesterday. For Drib Drab’s benefit, this is where they stick a camera up your winkie and look in your bladder. I couldn't eat for 6 hours before the op so they took my order for food for when I came around from the anaesthetic. It was from a list of sandwiches, so of course I couldn't eat any. I explained to the assistant 'I'm vegan, I can't eat any'. She replied 'well if I read them out to you, you can tell me what you want'. I nearly shouted 'I'm vegan, not fucking illiterate!'

They gave me some operation pants to wear which would have covered more if the were made from a thinning hairnet. On entering the operating theatre the operating assistant introduced himself as Adrian, but noted that it wasn't important that I remember this. The surgeon of all things had a stammer, so could hardly get his words out, which hardly instilled c..c...c...c...confidence.

The general anaesthetic knocked me out pretty much instantly. When I awoke I was in a strange room and quite disorientated, I saw a man standing next to me and for some reason I still don't understand called out in desperate and pathetic voice 'Adrian...!' The man just said 'no'. I had to piss like crazy so this man, who wasn't Adrian, put my knob in a pot and I just laid back and pissed. When I looked down my thighs were smeared with blood. My knob kept dripping blood so I just left it in the pot of piss, not knowing that the fit nurse would be the one who'd have to remove it back on the ward. At least all that trauma makes the old fella swell up.

Only trouble is that now when I piss it feels like I'm passing burning hot shards of glass, it actually makes me cry out. My boxers are so bloody it looks like I've had a miscarriage. And they didn't even find anything so it was all for naught! Best guess now is that the kidney pain I had was a small stone that I passed. I now have a dilemma, do I drink more and dilute the piss but have to break the blood seal more often, or do I drink less, so piss less, but have it more acidic so it stings more? If I drink too little there's a chance my knob will heal too well and seal off completely, resulting in a return journey and the forceful reopening of my already battered urethra.

M.

==

P.s. This is what they stuck down his cock.

Being a Zezaurian makes you popular

2010-05-24T20:02:00.000+01:00

Oh, wait. No it doesn't. I'm at work and I go out for, like, five minutes and someone does this to my banana.

(That first line reads: "Good morning, Mr Pidgeon. The results from your trip to the GUM clinic are ready for collection...")

This is not the sort of badly spelt disrespect I thought I'd encounter after I become a member of the Zezaurian Society. I thought we'd get the same respect people with tattoos get.

In light of this, I think we're probably going to have to change "The Zezaurian Society" to just "The Zs" or somin'. Maybe we need to turn it into a gang like the scary kids have on the estate behind our new HQ. We could start doing gang related things like having MySpace profiles and wearing REALLY big trousers.

And, for the record, I only had chlamydia and they got rid of it ages ago.

Zezaurian Art Department: Happy Birthday, Steve

2010-05-21T13:23:00.000+01:00

Zezaurian Art Department: ianalphone

2010-05-18T15:11:00.001+01:00

Saying sorry to a dog

2010-05-18T10:41:00.002+01:00

Our amusing (and slightly posh) friend Jamie doing stand up. Who knew?

Zezaurian HQ relocates, loses all dignity

2010-05-14T13:36:00.001+01:00

Avid losers,

Stop logging in every day to see if there’s been an update. We’re fucking busy! Plus we had the internet confiscated after my mother saw what happened to the bandwidth during “lights out”.

We’ve also been busy relocating the Z HQ to an even crummier block of flats. We’re now in a new neighbourhood that appears to be run, Lord of the Flies style, by a gang of incredibly intimidating eleven year olds. Word to the wise: don’t refuse to buy these children cigarettes from the shop. I had so much spit on my jacket afterwards I had to throw it in the bin as if it didn’t cost me £170.

Anyways, the move, thanks for asking, went quite well. Only one minor hiccup: getting people shown around the flat we were moving out from turned into a minor headache. We had this slut of an estate agent walking prospective tennants in at all sorts of funny hours. The worst was a Saturday morning after I had managed to get rid of the world’s most annoying friend, Duncan, after an extremely heavy night on the alcopops. I finally got him off the sofa and out the door (after pouring yoghurt into his suitcase as punishment for being such a painful asshole) and surveyed the damage.

I felt fucking awful and started sweating really badly. I stripped to my underpants and felt like crying but figured that having a poo and a shower would make me feel better.

My hangover poo was pretty tremendous. It was a strange mixture; somewhere between a gas, liquid and solid and smelled much more sour than usual. Fucker was huge too; like a giant yellow-brown conger eel. Anyways, half way through the poo I heard the door buzzer go and I started laughing that Duncan had obviously found the yoghurt. It kept buzzing but I decided to just sit there and cackle to myself. The buzzing eventually stopped and I finished the turd, satisfied that I was the victor in my ongoing prank battle.

Then, to my horror, the front door started to unlock. I listened, wondering who the heck it could be and then heard the unmistakable, nasal whine of the estate agent.

"Helllloooo, Davvvvid…are you home? ...It’s empty, come on in."

I quickly flushed and started frantically fanning the air as if the building was on fire.

"Davvvvvid? Are you in the toiiiiilet?"

My whole body had gone light. The bathroom door is about 3 foot from the front door and I could hear sheepish footsteps piling into the hall. I don’t really remember asking my hand to open the door, but it did so anyway, the betraying fucker.

I walked out in my underpants, sucking my stomach in as the acrid smell of shit followed me like an embarrassing dog. I looked at the estate agent, smiled and then saw the two attractive young ladies she had with her.

“Good morning” I croaked, watching them actually wince as the smell hit them.

The estate agent quickly ushered them into the living room like a concerned mother, with me slowly following. Then I realised, standing there almost naked, that I didn’t really have anywhere to go. One girl had already started looking around my bedroom, the other heading for the kitchen which left me in the middle of the flat. So I just stood there, arms awkwardly crossed and my little penis poking against the light grey cotton of my M&S underpants.

It was at that moment a little droplet of urine helpfully chose to leave the end of my penis and make a nice, fifty-pence-piece size dark patch.

To be fair, the hangover was now completely cured by fear and shame.

I received sympathetic smiles from the two girls, as if I was mentally handicapped, but living life as best I could. They chose not to even look in the toilet. Far as I can tell they didn’t move in.

Politics yeah!

2010-04-22T23:03:00.000+01:00

Heh heh. Jellyfish man certainly got me all hard.

£1.65

2010-04-22T22:32:00.002+01:00

I hate these cunts. So, the most cost effective option for me is to...to..? Wait. OK; I'll post it to Mexico and get it there. Wait, wait. I'll just pick it up on the door. Woah -- hold on. What was I thinking? I'll just post it to my mum's house in Peterborough. No, no. I'll print it out at home, using my own ink and paper. Right. I'll go with that one then. Thanks.

Chinese Love

2010-04-09T21:39:00.000+01:00

A small excerpt from the latest piece of correspondence received from Professor Peelhead, who is presently seeking his fortune in China…

what is my news, well in my desperation of not having a girlfriend I decided to go with a prostitute, so off i went on my bicycle in search of love for money, down the alleys and back alleys i went, spotting mimgers left and right, then i saw one i thought was not too bad, for the grand sum of three pounds i stripped off into my finest, she then proceeded to snot on my shoes, she fired a bogey-flob out of her nose from a standing position onto the floor in the direction of my shoes - I daren't think or check, it put me off my game completely, after the rise and fall in an anti-climatic failure, and three pounds lighter I looked for further ado, I found , I negotiated, I was ready, this one , not to be outdone, told me to go over to the bed, then proceeded to take a piss in a kitchen bowl, which she put on a shelf , and then proceeded, for seven pounds i got a floppy f-ck and a wank, but look on the bright side - we all had a cheap evenings entertainment, actually it wasn't cheap, when i got home i found i had lost 20 quid, which in my little dumpling restaurant is 66 portions of bloody dumplings.

"It's the best thing to do"

2010-04-01T11:05:00.011+01:00

A conversation with the wonderful Hercules Beefcake...

From: Thomas
Sent: 01 April 2010 09:29
To: David
Subject:

So it looks like someone forgot to extend my contract. Couldn't get into the building today and there's no one in to add me to the system. Looks like I might not get paid today or until it's sorted. Typical.

From: David
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:03
To: Thomas
Subject: RE:

Dude, that sucks. You still looking for a new job?

Listen, Madame came over for a reason last night… this is sort of mind numbing, but she’s pregnant and probably won’t keep it. I’m not gonna come out tonight and will leave work at lunch time.

From: Thomas
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:07
To: David
Subject: RE:

You're kidding me? I assumed you were still bagging up to keep it safe?

From: David
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:09
To: Thomas
Subject: RE:

I know, but we did it, drunkenly without one like ONCE, what seems like forever ago. She was actually ok about it. I don’t really know how I feel about it to be honest.

From: Thomas
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:13
To: David
Subject: RE:

At least you know it works.

Dude she seemed pretty calm when she was talking to us last night. I guess it's different for both of you. I mean, she's still young and not long out of uni and getting a career going whereas you're almost 30 and have mentioned kids before. Think it's the best thing to do though.

From: David
Sent: 01 April 2010 10:16
To: Thomas
Subject: RE:

April Fools, you donkey.

Zezaurian website gains conciousness

2010-03-08T22:11:00.002Z

Special report: Mexico

2010-02-05T14:46:00.010Z

...And by "special" I mean "special", like a spaz. As in; "spedchialll."

Spedchialll dog eye

Just look at that fucking eyeball. This picture was taken in my beachside kitchen and the malignant blob actually leaked on the floor as I was eating dinner. I have not eaten anything made with plum tomatoes since.

Quite impressed Picasa's anti-red eye function picked this up though.

Spedchialll words

I found this in the local paper beneath a picture of a girl sunbathing with her top off. I don't think the girl had any idea that the "bi-lingual" editor had commissioned this discreet photoshoot. Still, I felt like I learned a thing or two after reading that.

Spedchialll bum wipes

I think the cleaner was hankering for a tip. Quite impressive really. Not as impressive as what the bogs in Mexico do with your turds though. It's strange, I think how a society deals with its poos tells you something about its people. For instance, here, in England we have quite small toilet bowls with very little water at the bottom. This means a) your poo only shows its head with its long body half-way round the U-bend and b) after you've done your poo, wiped your anus and covered the brown mess with toilet paper you can't even see the turd. THIS IS BAD. It means we, the English people, are ashamed of being human.

It's very different in Mexico though. These people are PROUD of their turds.

Firstly, they have so much water in the bowl of the toilet that you practically dip your balls in it when you sit down. And, as you are not allowed to put toilet paper in the bowl, when you stand up to flush you are confronted with a huge brown coil of shit languishing up at the brim, like "Hi ya! It's Meeeeee! Timothy Turd!"

The best part is when you flush though. At first the water doesn't really do anything, as if the poo is just getting ready for its big song and dance exit. Then it starts to slowly spin around, gently gaining momentum and after a short while you're actually hypnotised by its sensual water dance. Then Glusghghhg! It's gone. Just like that it gets sucked away at supersonic speeds. It's like the curtain suddenly falling on the most thrilling show on earth, leaving you breathless with wonder.

That is how you should say good-bye to a shit.

Hello 2010

2010-01-26T20:57:00.005Z

"2010 is going to be my year," is what my very charming and excellent friend "John" told me last week. "I'm going to take the bull by the gonads and milk its prostate dry. Yes, fuck-nudger; it's the year of my success."

That's the spirit, "John".

And, after securing a promotion at work (and getting rid of that weird lump) he certainly took to milking the bull's innards; "Hey," he told me, "Do you remember that chick, Paola? From Camden? Like, forever ago?" I didn't actually remember a girl called Paola from like forever ago, but on he rambled: "Well, over a year ago I met her in some bar, pulled her, got her number and promised her I would call her and take her out for a good time."

The Big Point he eventually got to was that he never called her up because before he could he went and met somebody else and embarked on a quest for Love with her instead. That lasted for quite a while, but, like most young love, sadly ended. So, skip to last week and "John" is now telling me that he finally text this Paola girl back - more than a year later. I scoffed at this move of painful desperation but was shown two fingers and told that he had actually secured a date. The silly bitch had actually agreed to meet him. She must have really liked him.

Anyways, I wished him luck, ensured he'd remembered to wash behind his ball sack and off he went on his Hot Date.

This is the email I got from him the next day:

Well, the lovely miss Paola stood me up. I have to take my rug off to her though, it was pretty funny. I'm standing at Camden station at half seven (the arranged time) and no sign of her. Perfectly natural to be a few minutes late so no panic. I wait for another 45 minutes and she still doesn't show so I'm feeling like a twat. Try calling, no answer. Text her to see what's happening…a few minutes later 'Oh.. you meant THIS year. I thought you wanted to meet next year, sorry! I'm busy this year.'

Witty bitch.

Leave me alone!

2010-01-22T16:54:00.001Z

I don't know what my neighbour here thinks she's doing, but whatever it is, IT'S NOT WORKING.

Things we did in 2009

2009-12-18T09:29:00.008Z

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:

I gloried in the fact that Mr Morose and I invented a pointless society that means so much more to random and troubled drunk people that they'll let you draw a lopsided 'Z' on their spotty back. Thanks weirdo reveller!

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Drib Drab finally tied the knot with his long-term partner and business associate, "Duncan". Or just stood next to him at a wedding. I forget which.

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Drib Drab forgot that he looked like this in the morning and continued on his day until a lady shopkeeper maced him in the face and called him a "shitty burglar."

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This was probably my favourite wee in the whole of 2009. Classic.

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2009 was also the year that I learned I was raised as a girl until the age of four.

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What is all this you wonder? This, here, is how much stuff our friend Stuart needs to stay just one night in a flat that's not his own. We have here a mini-mattress, a fucking thermal underlay, two pillows, a sleeping bag, mosquito net and a giant box of extra absorbent tampons for those pesky Night Bleeds.

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"Let's take mum and dad, and auntie Val and uncle Neil out for dinner. You know, something really special."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll book somewhere."

To be fair, the food was really nice but this really was in the entrance.

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So we find out it's someone's birthday and my assistant, Miss Hope, excels herself by giving them these amazing cakes. The best part is that you can make any phrase you like. My favourite is still "fuck rot" - as in, "your cock has a bad case of fuck rot, you cunt head."

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Cave men started the ball rolling with face-painting-whilst-high thousands of years ago. I'm glad modern man has managed to hold on to that tradition.

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What are those guys really for that sit in the toilets of bars and give you soap and aftershave? I've always assumed they were there to stop people taking and selling drugs. This 'Toilet Caddy' was by the far the nicest guy I've ever met in a lavatory and he didn't care that everyone was hoofing coke up their hooters. He washed my hands, patted them dry and gave me some Armani to spray on my balls. Drib Drab didn't really want me to give him any money, so he promised him he could have his picture put on a blog that only a few dickheads read. Look how fucking high he is!

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This man represented me in court.

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Hanging tough at Z-HQ, circa April 2009.

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This girl's eyeballs are so massive that it takes her eyelids over 20 seconds to blink. Waking her up in the morning requires you to listen to Also Sprach Zarathustra.

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See you next year doinks.

Watch the skies

2009-12-13T17:17:00.002Z

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.

2009-12-01T10:13:00.004Z

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

2009-11-23T12:03:00.016Z

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. Urgh.

Yours,

Disappointed.

Even more Zezaurian fuck ups

2009-10-30T12:08:00.004Z

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

2009-10-20T19:47:00.016+01:00

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.

Zezaurians don't climb Ben Nevis

2009-09-28T20:25:00.026+01:00

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.

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Dear Scotland: Let. It. Go. That film was like, what? three stars at best?

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"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."

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

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

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

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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.

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And poor old Twiglet over here. We had to put horse shoes in her pockets. She only weighs four stone.

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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.

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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."

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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.

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Look at that smug little fucker: "Ooh ooh, you can stick me anywhere!"

Twat.

Another Zezaurian bicycle fuck-up

2009-09-28T18:13:00.001+01:00

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

Nine minutes you won't get back

2009-09-11T11:41:00.007+01:00

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

2009-08-26T14:39:00.025+01:00

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?

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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.

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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.”

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

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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

2009-08-15T19:51:00.010+01:00

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.

Vaseline

2009-08-15T18:32:00.008+01:00

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.

Planes, Trains and Myocardial Infarctions

2009-08-07T11:10:00.004+01:00

By Drib Drab

First, John Candy's heart exploded, then Steve Martin stopped being funny and now John Hughes' heart has exploded.

Bummer.

Happy Birthday Us

2009-07-29T12:15:00.015+01:00

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.)

Regards,

Drib Drab.

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Here is a map.

Battersea Cog Home

2009-07-15T12:38:00.012+01:00

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

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And here is a picture of the winner’s bicycle. Apparently, when he bought it, it came with free tampons.

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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.

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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”.

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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.

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What a worthless piece of shit. I'd rather drink dog cum than be seen riding this.

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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.

Regards,

Miss Vacant Eyes

Zezaurian Music Dept. vs. Poo Flap

2009-07-09T23:45:00.000+01:00

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

2009-06-24T09:39:00.003+01:00

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

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See you on the 11th,

Miss Vacant Eyes

Zezaurian Summer Cycle Race

2009-06-12T19:03:00.003+01:00

UPDATE: We've moved this to 11 July, Battersea Park – first race 1pm.

Three fast-as-you-can laps dodging orange-faced rich people walking their cats on velvet leashes. I can’t think of anything more fun than that. If your bike has gears, then you must pick one and stick with it as there are lots of fixed gear poser types competing, so we're insisting on one gear for everyone.

6 riders per race, 4 stages. Frolicking by the river afterwards and Northern Soul from 10pm-4am.

The winner gets a Zezaurian Headband - the hip new look for the summer.

Regards,

Miss Vacant Eyes

Four Days of Pain

2009-06-05T20:31:00.020+01:00

***Updated because two of the people in these pictures are hot-shot lawyers and pulled a bed-wetting strop about it***

I Just spent four very long days exhausting myself with some nice rich people in what was, I think, the Land of Narnia. It was more fun than I've had in the last four years combined, despite being told that Narnia is shit-hole because it's full of Christians and paedophiles.

On one day I jumped off the top of a waterfall so high that all the skin was ripped off my shins from hitting the water so hard. I was also shot in the face, left kidney, buttocks, hands and shoulder by a real-life marine, fresh from Afghanistan, in a game of underpants-only paintball. Joy.

===

I found this on the kitchen table of my cottage one morning. It was the only black person I saw in the country side. Her name was Sammy.

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This man came into my room every night and took the covers from me. He also made me answer questions such as: "Who would you rather skin alive and eat, your mum or your dad? If you say your dad, you're a gay."

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This is me wishing that I'd laid off all the free stuff they gave out.

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I know this looks kinda racist, but that was just a slug that I found and everyone was saying, "do something hilarious with it". The little fucker excreted this horrible jelly that took over an hour to fully remove. (Side note: slugs don't smell of anything.)

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My friend Tom took this picture. Seriously, how fucking shit can you make an image? Ooh, ooh, look, it's like we're in a saloon bar in the wild west. What a fucking drip. The worst part is, when he reads this he'll get all moody because he'll actually think it's a "good picture". When I took this off the camera it was one of eleven shots of the same thing - this being the only one in focus. Some days I hate Tom.

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This is Tom. Ladies, he's single and has these big square man-boob things because he works out the whole time and drinks four litres of milk a day. He's got the personality of cancer though.

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It's hard to tell from just looking at this picture, but that speaker was playing Hiretsukan at full-fucking-whack and it was such a great moment I thought I should capture it on film and post it on the Internet.

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This guy was called Henry. He was so chilled out and confident about his life that he slept like that all afternoon and all evening whilst everyone else got fucked up. I kept laughing saying that we should draw on his face and burn his pubes off, but everyone else just shrugged their shoulders and said that Tupac wouldn't do that, so maybe we shouldn't either.

Zezaurian Astronomy Dept. gets a Facebook account

2009-05-22T12:49:00.006+01:00

When life gets you down, or you stare at your Facebook page and wonder, "why am I such a drip?" it’s usually best to think "what would Tupac do?" and take some time out to think about something that’s actually interesting for once. Sending barely intelligible messages to other drips is not interesting, no matter how you dress it up. But thinking about the super-massive black hole at the centre of our galaxy sure is.

I know, I know; you thought it would be you at the centre of the galaxy, but no, it’s actually "something" (most likely a black hole) 4.5 million times the mass of the sun. If, like me, you live in England you've probably never seen the sun, but I've been assured that the fucker is huge. Like, so huge it’s making my brain ache just thinking about it. So I can’t really compute something being 4.5 million times its mass.

Still, this black hole is also 300,000 light years away, which is a distance so vast it’s making my brain and my nipples ache. But at that distance, this HUGE monster of space-and-time-bending-madness is the size of a football on the moon. A FOOTBALL ON THE MOON. Please tell me you find this more interesting that writing "LOL" under pictures of last Saturday’s drunken mess?

What’s that? You do!?

Then why-oh-why am I the only fucker in the Zezaurian Astronomy Dept.?

Don't say it's because hanging out with me in a field looking at the sky is lame. It's not. It's amazing. Trust me, the first time I ever saw Saturn's rings through a telescope I could not sleep for days. Heck, it's even better than The X-Files comic series - and the The X-Files comic series is pretty cool.

So, in an attempt to lure in at least one new ~~assistant~~ member I would like to present to you my top ten facts about the universe as an act of persuasion.

In order of amazingness...

10. A supernova explosion produces more energy in its first ten seconds than the Sun will in its entire lifetime. Seriously, that is just astonishing. Are you not astonished? Really? Then how this little fact:

9. Uranus smells really bad today.

8. How many moons do you think Jupiter has? Guess first, then highlight to answer: Duh. It’s 63, you dope.

7. The universe is so vast in relation to the matter it contains that it can be compared in the following way: A building 20 miles long, 20 miles wide and 20 miles high that contains just one, tiny-weenie grain of sand. And there’s you looking at this stupid website when you could be out hugging nature.

6. Our galaxy has approximately 100 thousand million stars alone. Outside that, there are millions upon millions of other galaxies. Zezaurian astronomers (me) would guess that there are 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 stars in the entire universe. Holysmokes! That’s just too much to take in. Go and smoke a massive blunt and think about that. Then draw me a picture of your confusion.

5. A pulsar is a small star made up of neutrons so densely packed together that if one the size of a ten pence coin landed on earth, it would weigh approximately 100 million tons. Which is about the same as yo mama weighs.

4. The star Betelgeuse (it's in that video up top), is a total mutha humper of a gas-ball. With a diameter of around 700 million miles, if you put that sonofabitch in the centre of our solar system it would extend beyond the orbit of Jupiter. Does your tiny human brain have any idea how fucking massive that is? Its bigger than Lady Gaga. That's how big.

3. The Milky Way has a radius of about 50,000 light years - but there is a giant supercluster of galaxies in the direction of the constellations Perseus and Pegasus that is over a thousand million light-years long. Woooo-ie. That's special.

2. Uranus smells worse than it did one minute ago. Get some fresh wipes in there, stinky.

And my all time favourite...

1. Most of the elements found in the human body originated in stars; we are literally made of stardust. This never fails to blow me away. Then I look at people like this and realise that it's not all that romantic at all.

===

I will be star watching on Sunday evening using my Newtonian Refracting Telescope. If I find life on another planet, I’ll let you know. If you find life on this planet, let me know.

Live long and prosper,

Drib Tiberius Drab.

The Zezaurian Music Dept. reviews Yann Tiersen

2009-05-18T18:19:00.022+01:00

Electric Ballroom, May 2009

When I was born the umbilical cord was wrapped twice around my tiny little baby throat as the other end was being ripped away from my traumatised belly button. This meant that as I was violently ejected from my mother’s vagina I was being strangled and my eyeballs were popping out of my bewildered face.

To ensure I could survive to tell the tale (on the internet) all these 29 years later, the doctor had to push me back inside my (poor, poor) mother - followed by his big doctor hand - which he used to unravel the cord from my neck before ripping me back out into the blinding light of planet earth. It was a pretty shitty start to things, but ho-hum.

Of course, I can’t remember any of this happening because I was only 32 seconds old and unconscious. But I was told all about it after it became deeply apparent that I had an overwhelming phobia of having my throat or belly button touched, looked at, debated or in anyway referenced or referred to.

It’s been a real shitter all my life. The first thing that happened to me in this world has had such an effect on my mental health that I can’t even read a book without turning the centre crease to one side because I can’t have it lined up to my Adam's Apple. It's a bona fide disability.

Once, this girl stuck her tongue in my belly button during sex and my knee involuntarily cracked her so hard in the stomach she actually vomited over me (true).

Anyways, I also find it quite hard to enjoy a live music show when there’s very little space to watch the band and people are shifting around, spilling pints of beer from cups so flimsy they might as well be condoms. All those gross bodies shuffling around trying to find their dopey friends. Urgh.

But not one to make a fuss, as Tiersen faffed about on stage last week I kindly moved to one side to let this woman get past so she could join her friends just in front of me. But she never went and stood with them. No. The dope went and stood in the space I had temporally opened up to let her through, blocking my chance of moving back by wearing this ridiculously oversized leather backpack. This meant I was standing at a 30 degree angle on one foot, wincing, trying not to spill my own saggy johnny full of beer.

After I eventually managed to squeeze back in behind her, something truly terrible happened: I felt this horrendous sensation in my belly button. A toggle on the women’s backpack jabbed right in there – but because the venue was so packed I couldn't free myself and it stayed in there and twisted about as she jiggled around like a horny toad.

With the toggle jabbing ONLY in my bellybutton, and unable to escape, despite calling for help, I started to feel really dizzy. It just wouldn't stop, like the backpack was actually attached to me via a bastard umbilical cord of its own. Jab jab jab. It was the puggle not even my school bullies had managed to give me.

Would it now seem dramatic to say this was the worst moment of my entire life?

I don't care. It was.

After I had feinted the bouncers ploughed through the crowd like a bunch of champs and gave me a fireman’s lift out of there. They even helped me clean my underpants, which was pretty friendly of them.

But just like I've been doing everyday since my ridiculous birth, I'm going to keep on truckin' and try and make it to next week.

(And fuck knows what Tiersen's set was like, but I heard all the Amelie fans were disappointed that he only plays shitty post-rock these days. Bad luck.)

Zezaurians finally have fun

2009-05-11T19:14:00.020+01:00

Last weekend a few of us thought it would be a good idea to surrender our bodies to the power of gravity and hurl ourselves from a great height with only an elastic string between us and a bone smashing, blood-soaked death at the bottom of a lake. And as if this weren't enough excitement for one day, us brave Zezaurians ventured into the wild immediately after the nerve rattling leap for a survival expedition in the notoriously dangerous and terrifying 'Scratchface Wood'.

Drib Drab and I awoke at stupid o' clock filled with fear and doubt at the prospect ahead of us. Personally, I wake up full of fear and doubt most days, so this was nothing new. I tried to invent elaborate excuses to bow out but Drib Drab explained to me that to overcome my reservations about hurtling myself through the air with great rapidity that I had to “feel the fear” and “be the fear”. He illustrated this statement with a weird clawing gesture with his hands that made me think he was suffering a stroke. After much feeling the fear and being the fear we embarked on our folly.

Accompanying us for the jump were fellow Zezaurians Terry Le Hate and Baby Monkey Skull, who put us to shame with their calm composure. After the writing of wills we went ahead and did our bungee business. It was pretty fun. We descended from the sky like graceful swooping eagles (all except for Drib Drab who had to be kicked off the ledge and looked like he was suffering some kind of mid-air seizure on the way down). 'Be the fear' indeed.

We proceeded to rendezvous with Woggle and Mr. Divorce, picked up some supplies, and headed to the aforementioned Scratchface Wood to continue our action packed day.

After a lengthy hike, we set up camp and Drib Drab and I gave the others a lesson on how to build a woodland shelter. Settling down for a rest, we surveyed our handiwork with pride and satisfaction. Terry produced a package containing this weird green stuff that he rolled in paper and set fire to. Everyone readily inhaled the fumes and began to behave quite strangely. I don't know what that was all about though.

While Terry was having a philosophical debate with an oak tree, Mr. Divorce suggested that we play a game called 'Sardines' and we ran off into the forest like a pack of loonies. I think the reason for this might have been that weird green stuff I told you about.

The night wore on, we cooked over the open fire, ate, drank, consumed more of that green stuff, talked nonsense, and decided that the world was a pretty good place to inhabit after all. We fell asleep with the dirt and the bugs and the sinister thought of the hangover rhino sharpening his scythe in readiness for a busy day ahead.

I invented the Zezaurian Society. NO, I INVENTED THE ZEZAURIAN SOCIETY.

Hands fucking off

2009-05-09T16:16:00.000+01:00

Hey tumours, it’s bad enough rosy-cheeked rich people got their grubby little hands on my favourite jacket, but I’m going to fucking explode if any more of you vacant, poser art students puts your stinky ink-stained fingers on the Barbour.

Zezaurians have been wearing these things since before the time of dragons. They belong to us, not you and your stupid electro-pop poser band mates. Next chump I see wearing one gets a kick in the graphic design portfolio. I’m fucking serious. I would rather join the TA just to endure them over you. OVER YOU. Can you imagine? The fucking dorks in the TA beat you for a personality.

And what could you possibly need all those sensuous, quilted and spacious pockets for? Your poetry about that drip you poked on facefuck? Shoot me dead. Unless you actually carry around a ball of string, an air pistol and a pen knife that your granddad used to kill a Nazi with, the Barbour is not for you. You’ve already stolen pork-pie hats; you’re not allowed to have these as well.

P.S. You all smell of toe jam.

Zezaurian Basketball

2009-05-01T13:50:00.005+01:00

First up: A massive, Jupiter-sized apology to all the people that had to see me in a rather skimpy pair of shorts the other day. My judgement was all kerflooey in the morning and I was only told just how short (and close-fitting) they were about an hour after leaving my house. An hour. I was flippin' miles away.

It's a bumhole wrenching moment when someone tells you they can see your asymmetrical balls jiggling about like a smuggled budgerigar when you're so far from home. I played it as best I could, but really just ended up walking like a crab in an attempt to conceal the fact that my legs have not advanced in any way since I was five years old, but my balls - god bless them - have never really stopped growing at all. (Side note: WHY GOD? JUST FUCKING WHY IS IT ALWAYS FUCKING ME?)

The worst moment was bumping into some friends. I had to do some crazy-intense eye contact whilst telling them ridiculously complex stories - all the while flapping my hands dramatically above my head in a desperate bid to stop them from peaking down and asking what the fuck I thought I was doing out in public.

...And that brings us neatly on to Zezaurian Basketball, which is the same as Normal Basketball, except played by us, The Zezaurians. And I gotta say, I'm pretty good at it and can even do that thing where you cross the ball under your legs. What I'm not so hot at is dealing with those fucking crazy bastard children from the estate, especially when dressed in a pair in shorts only really suitable for a rubbish twat or a malnourished infant.

I’ll happily admit that I’ve subscribed fully to the hysterical media portrayal of young people as terrifying, out-of-control sociopaths because, oddly enough, it turns out they actually are terrifying, out-of-control sociopaths. But I’m okay with that because Hercules Beefcake is forever following me around so I use him to handle these sorts of precarious encounters. But what about you? Are you going to be okay? What are you going to do when they try and steal your ball?

Not weeing in your underpants is a good starting point. Personally speaking, I couldn't have pissed my pants even if I had wanted to they were bound so tight. No. The only thing that'll really make you feel like a man again is tensing some muscles and striking a pose.

Be the Beefcake.

It's easy if you just make the effort. Think of those weird muscle guys that cover themselves in baby oil and pump up their biceps on stage. You think anyone messes with those guys? Of course they don't. So just do what they do, but as you tense that bicep - and this is crucial - use you finger to point to the nearest exit and tell them to "getouttahere" in a Brooklyn accent. That's what Hercules Beefcake does and no one ever messes with him.

If you really want to go crazy, tense the other bicep and throw in different direction in which you want the gang to leave – this works well if there are multiple exits, or if the gang members perhaps have different routes back home, which makes you look tough, but also helpful.

Trust us; four people all doing this on the B-Ball court is definitely enough to end any harassment. Okay, so it doesn't really work if your arms are made from spaghetti because you'll just look like a de-feathered chicken, but you could always just carry a big fuck-off knife and wave that around in their faces like a menacing cock.

Also, this update is has nothing to do with me losing my ball on Sunday. Nothing at all.

Mr Ninny.

---

We were supposed to do an update on how the Zezaurians totally killed it at the Fleapit last Friday at their monthly Drunk Killer Table Tennis Competition, but as one Zezaurian in particular didn't do so well and pulled a massive, bed-wetting strop over it, you might not get to hear about how amazing I am, or how graceful I can be when I win things.

Flu?

2009-04-28T15:44:00.006+01:00

"Doctor, doctor!"

"My god man, what on earth is the matter with you?"

"I think I'm terribly, terribly poorly."

"Okay. What are your symptoms?"

"Well, I just can't stop dancing."

"MY GOD."

"What? What is it?"

"I just don't believe it."

"Doc, what is it? You're scaring me."

"You have a case of...Boogie Fever."

Hollywood

2009-04-16T21:24:00.000+01:00

I've been spending quite a bit of time hanging out with "TV" and "film" people recently, something I always thought would sound amazing if I ever got to say that out loud, but it turns out all the people that work in TV and film are self-obsessed splodges of dog shit, so it's not really great at all. Yawn. However, I have managed to wrangle tons of "insider stories" from these horrible little people. I was going to add these facts to Wikipedia, but I got banned from that site for suggesting that The Chronicles of Riddick was actually a pretty good film (it was).

So, here are the top ten things I've learned about famous people that you probably (hopefully!) didn't know:

1. Keanu Reeves has prosthetic buttocks. True! After a motorcycle accident in 1997, the star of Speed lost both his buttocks and now wears a fake pair made from silicone (medically, each cheek is known as a "proarse"). For the sex scene in The Matrix Reloaded the film makers had to CGI out the straps that hold the prosthetic buttocks to his thighs, but you can see them in Downloaded: The Making of the Matrix.

2. Ben Affleck is one of only a handful of people to be allergic to oxygen. To cope with the life threatening disability he has tiny air filters in his nostrils that help convert the gas into methane, which he can breath more easily.

3. John Cusack was born with no eyes and has had them either drawn on by a professional make-up artist or added in during post-production by a special "Eye Generating Computer" developed by his half-brother, Gareth Cusack. This is one of the reasons the 80's heartthrob wears dark shades in so many of his film roles.

4. In the film Big, David Moscow had to wear a specially made "Tom Hanks suit" made by the Jim Henson Workshop. The suit, which weighed over 30 pounds took more than six hours to get into - and was worn for over 12 hours each day over a six week shoot. When asked by reporters if he'd ever do a sequel, Moscow replied: "No way. That suit was so tight and so hot I got a terrible and aggressive fungal infection over my whole body. I smelled of cheese for months afterwards. No, not for all the money in the world."

5. David Blaine was raised by a pod of dolphins and is fluent in their language. He also cites the first seven years of his life living with the aquatic mammals as an "inspiration" to his magic and stunts - some of which include the use of water, which is vital to the way of life for many dolphins.

~~6. Robert DeNiro once gave birth to a shark.~~

7. Overwight funny man John Candy was actually two men - the bottom half being his younger brother, Peter Candy, who provided the legs throughout his career. Both men were only 3ft tall and John would stand on his brother's shoulders, wear baggy clothing and do all the verbal acting. Since John's death in 1994 his brother has provided the legs for actors such as Christian Bale and Viggo Mortensen and won the award for "Best Walk" for his work on Lord of the Rings: Return of the King in 2004.

8. Glenn Close played a pterodactyl in 2001's Jurrasic Park III. The veteran actress said she took the role to help raise awareness of dinosaurs with eating disorders. Close is the chairwoman of charity ReptilKidz.

9. Whilst researching for the role of the Terminator, Arnold Schwarzenegger dressed head to toe in tin foil and was sent by director James Cameron back in time to kill the mother of the leader of the human resistance against the machine overlords of the future. Schwarzenegger said the trip had added "realism" to the role he would go on to play in two sequels. For-fucking-real!

10. Al Pacino has a third leg that he conceals in a special pocket in his trousers. In the opening scenes of The Godfather Part II the extra leg can be seen in the reflection of his iconic character's office window. Amazing.

Bonus fact: Lawrence Fishburne is actually white in real life. I know, I know! He uses make-up to appear African-American in his film roles, and says that he just feels "more comfortable doin' it this way."

Oh, fuck off; it's better than Twitter.

Zezaurian Music Dept. explodes in a firestorm of hyperbole

2009-04-13T12:25:00.004+01:00

Have you read any of the reviews for Propagandhi’s new album, Supporting Caste? How, without a trace of irony, does someone come up with a sentence like this:

“…Instantly hitting with an insanely tight blitz attack of thrashing guitars and anger drenched vocals, ‘Supporting Caste’ ricochets out of the speakers with intent to not only maim but kill, as Propagandhi’s rush of politically fuelled rampages collide with brutal riffs stapled to a juggernaut of melodic rock…” (Room Thirteen)

Alright, calm down Mr Adverb! You’ll have someone’s eye out!

But there's no stopping him:

“…The thrash frenzy introduction of ‘Dear Coach’s Corner’…ensnares all within a 100 mile radius as audio commentary gives way to harshly euphoric blast of thrash before Propagandhi take the track and throw it slamming into your face, challenged only by the punk melodic charm of ‘The Banger’s Embrace’…Brandishing a barrel load of gang vocals amongst a raging hail of uplifting guitars and drum beats…”

Do music journalists go to drama school before attending journalism class? Do they all sit in a big circle and pitch action movies to invisible CEOs at Fox before running around in their underpants screaming? That last paragraph is actually more frantic than the new Transformers trailer. Thing is, if you didn’t have the album, you’d be scared to put it in your CD player in case it accidentally killed someone.

"Mother! Oh, God! Mother, Toby's head has fallen off!"

"What? How?!"

"It was the new record from progressive-thrash band Propagandhi!"

"But Jeremy! I TOLD you how dangerous that could be!"

I understand the need to be expressive, but if I had a conversation in real life that sounded anything like the crazy talk these idiots puke out, I’d get a punch in the throat.

[Answering the phone]

Me: Hello?

Mum: Hi, honey, how are you?

Me: Mother! I’m literally exploding with the violent chain reaction of a four BILLION ton TNT explosion in you face right now.

Mum: That’s nice, Dezmond. How’s the move going? You all settled into your new flat?

Me: Settled in? You’re kidding me, right? I’m not just settled in; I’m literally on fire just arranging the furniture. The new pad is like a hail of bullets made from unicorn horns travelling faster than the speed of light in a vortex of destruction. It’s so intense in my living room right now that every living soul within a mile radius is bleeding from their eyeballs with jealousy at what I’ve picked up from Ikea.

Mum: Well, me and your father will pop over when we can to see you. Do you need anything bringing down?

Me: Holy God, mother. If you and dad arrive at my flat - that’s actually more like an inter-dimensional time-portal of whirling supernovae - you’d have to enjoy an exploding cup of fennel tea with me just so you can understand what its like to have your brain sucked out of your nostrils at a thousand-miles-per-second whilst having a ten ton brick of annihilation thrown into your pathetic chest cavity by a warlock of made from obliteration itself.

Or something.

(9/10 for the new album by the way. I’ll describe it as “splendid.”)

Miss J.F Jukebox

A warm welcome to our newest member

2009-04-08T09:37:00.006+01:00

Jesus! All we did was send this girl her Zezaurian cap and membership card in exchange for the postage and packaging. If she turns up to the camping expedition I'm going to have to mace her in the face.

Każdy płatek jest w tych częściach

2009-04-06T11:30:00.002+01:00

Zezaurian music dept. loses all hope

2009-02-02T17:09:00.000Z

A review of Architects, at the [shit beer brand] Academy, London

Disclaimer: I only went because I was given a magic bracelet that gave me free drinks in the VIP lounge.

---

What happened? I turn my back for, like, two minutes and everybody below the age of twenty-five turns into a ridiculous parody of MTV2? Take a long, hard look at that collage of living idiots up there. Do you have any idea how painful that was for me to assemble? I had to sit on my hands and work the mouse with my toes just to stop myself from punching the screen. Every single one of those penises was a "friend" of the band on their MySpace page. Fucking incredible. Where do they all shop for those floppy hats?

Urgh.

Now imagine being stuck in a tiny room with over a thousand of them. I don't like people touching me at the best of times, but get these donks sweated up so they writhe around like a gaggle of ridiculous worms in eye-liner and I was caught somewhere between a heart attack and a holocaust.

You horrible posers.

God. I was so depressed. You know, if you multiplied all the hours these simpletons spent getting their look just right it would stretch longer than the known universe has existed. It would be, like, a zillion-squillion years counted out using the clocks that London Underground use to lie about the time with.

And please, if you can stomach it, take a look at the collage one more time and let me know what they're looking at when they gaze into the middle distance like that. Is there something out there that I can't see? A blinding light of stupidity calling to them?

WHAT. ARE .YOU. LOOKING. AT?

All answers on a postcard that you can just shove up your immaculately groomed assholes because I don't actually care.

Oh, and according to the the lead singer, this gig was the "best gig ever". WHAT?! He couldn't have made it to see Phil Collins live at Wembley in 1987 then. They had a flippin' inflatable dog bigger than a house at that show! Incredible.

But what do I know. The band has over 60,000 friends on MySpace. I don't even have a MySpace and I only have one friend in Real Life^TM.

Oh, and a quick question to the fans: what do you carry around in those oversized backpacks that you all wear? It's tampons, isn't it?

I knew it.

Gah. Roll on April 19th.

----

(Oops. I've just realised I didn't actually review the band, but who cares. 'progressive hardcore' does NOT utilise choreographed dance moves. Sorry. Never in a billion years. 1 out 5 stars.)

The Zezaurian guide to the countryside

2009-01-29T16:37:00.007Z

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.

The Zezaurian guide to women

2009-01-28T00:47:00.002Z

Zezaurian Music Dept. 2008 Analysis

2009-01-24T22:51:00.004Z

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

2009-01-19T09:43:00.043Z

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

Lingo

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).

Hygiene

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.

Thieves

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.

Fashion

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

Food

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).

Work

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

Women

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.

DD.

If you hated this, you'll also hate these Zezaurian Guides to...

Hangovers
Keeping your dongle warm in the winter

Zezaurian AGM party totally fucking lame

2009-01-11T17:22:00.009Z

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.

19:34

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.

20:02

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.

21:34

"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...

21:36

"...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.

21:45

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.

22:59

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

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

"There!"

Where?

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

Oh.

11:58

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

08:57

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.

DD.

Zezaurian snot rocketeer hunting season now open

2009-01-06T09:18:00.027Z

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.

Zezaurian Survival Dept. expedition goes awry

2008-12-30T22:55:00.021Z

So, Dr. Dolorous and I made it back alive from the forest after our Boxing Day camping extravaganza, and let me tell you, that perverted toe-rag really puts the 'camp' back into camping. We set off in the early afternoon as the sun slowly descended in the dull grey sky, causing the temperature to drop quicker than Drib Drab's trousers in a dark Soho side street.

As promised, we took nothing with us but a knife, an axe, and a box of matches. I also took my trusty harmonica along to provide us with some light entertainment (the doctor says it'll make it's own way out without surgical intervention if I eat plenty of roughage).

It was a struggle to even make our way into the woods, as there was a swarm of doggers congregated in the car park awaiting their sordid peep show. To avoid their twisted leers, we followed the perimeter of the forest, found a way in through a hedge and tried to locate a spot to erect a shelter.

The darkness was deeply oppressive, which, coupled with the fractured squawks of hungry birds and Dr. Dolorous' asthmatic breathing had a very unsettling effect on my mind. I persevered, gripping the axe tightly in readiness for any wild beast that dared come near. To be truthful though, my main concern was fending off any sudden amorous advances from my companion. After the passage of several hours and many arguments, we found a suitable clearing and constructed a crude bivouac that would serve as our home for the remainder of the night. We built a feeble fire and had a long discourse regarding the nature of existence, but after a while our thoughts inevitably turned to food, of which we had none.

We made several unsuccessful attempts at killing a lame rabbit with a woggly eye, but each time we went to deliver the death-blow, our wimpy consciences sprang up and barred the way. The cold was starting to creep into our bones, my hands were blue, and I began to think that our chances of survival were as tiny as Drib Drab's winky. As the Doctor began to weep and curse that we could have possibly thought this trip was a good idea, my eyes rapidly trained upon a cluster of mushrooms sprouting from the fertile forest soil. Problem solved.

After the consumption of several large helpings of 'delicious' mushroom stroganoff, we sat lazily by the crackling fire and gazed up at the moon through the silhouetted treetops. Considering that I expected this expedition to be the death of us, things were going pretty damn well, and I actually began to enjoy myself. However, things are never that simple when Zezaurians are involved. The Doctor began to glare at me in a very alarming way and started addressing me as 'Barbara'. “Barbara darling, come and sit upon mother's bosom” he purred, slowly rising from the ground and moving towards me.

I wasn't feeling quite right myself either, and had spent the previous thirty minutes wondering why there were flashing neon signs promising 'Girls, Girls, Girls' in the middle of a forest, and I couldn't figure out why my feet were reciting poetry. I still had enough sense to get away from that depraved maniac Dolorous though. I darted into the pitch black unknown but he was hot on my heels. The trees developed personalities and faces, I heard sweet jazz music float through the air and saw giant foxes smoking pipes and wearing dinner jackets. I quickly began to suspect that the mushrooms we ingested weren't quite kosher.

Dolorous eventually caught up with me, crying “Barbara, don't leave!” as we collapsed into an addled, gesticulating heap at the bottom of a ditch. From this point onward until the sun rose, my mind draws an inexplicable blank. I don't know whether it was the dodgy mushrooms or some sort of head injury, but I can't for the life of me recall what occurred during those lost hours. One thing I do know though, is that that bloody pervert did not in any way interfere with me sexually. No way Jose. Not in a month of Sundays. No sir. Not a chance.

I hope Drib Drab remembers to pick up my Anusol cream from the chemist.

Zezaurian Annual Pickled Onion Eating Competition ends in tragedy

2008-12-26T14:18:00.018Z

Fire fighters were called out to a house in Peterborough last night after a huge methane explosion. Neighbours alerted the emergency services at around 6pm after a series of loud and protracted "bum sounds" followed by what one local resident described as, "a smell so bad it gave me AIDS."

According to early reports, a small group of people had gathered to eat "Steve's Pickled Onions" as part of an annual competition inspired by the events at Tunguska in 1908.

"Things were going quite well," said Gunther Dross, a retired dentist and amateur sellotape enthusiast. "But after the eighth jar of onions was consumed this one guy keeled over and complained of an intense burning in his anus. That's when the first explosion occurred."

Fire crews battled a blaze of blue flames that completely destroyed a newly installed bird feeding station and massively upset a miserable old lady at number 22.

"I lost a best friend in there," said Mr Oppenheimer, the organiser of the event. "It was awful. He couldn't get his pants off quick enough and this watery sludge just jetted from him. The smell alone could have killed a village of lumberjack elephants. We ran from the building and as I turned I saw my friend explode in a cloud of faeces and vinegar."

Police investigating the incident said that they hope this acts as a warning to others. "Pickled onions of this strength are not toys," said a spokesperson. "We urge people to exercise caution and think of the consequences that this sort of food abuse can cause, particularly if you mix with gob-fulls of overcooked brussel sprouts just hours before."

When asked if the smelly cloud of poisonous fumes hanging over the neighbourhood would clear, the police spokeswoman said it could be weeks. She also added that she was upset to have missed the end of the new episode of Dr. Who because of the incident.

Hurt feelings make for an amazing night cap

2008-12-17T19:00:00.007Z

Last night Mr Morose said to me, "Oh, I read that draft post about the cider recipe. It's really, really shit."

It actually hurt my feelings that he said that because I liked my post. I just feel stupid now for taking pictures and everything. But balls to him, I'm posting it anyway. He's just jealous because I have 48% more moustache hair than he has.

So, about the recipe; I think I'll call this drink 'Cale' - that's cider-ale. Or Aider. Some people call it 'Lambswool', but that just sounds retarded. You can call it whatever you like. I don't care.

But I do care that you try and make this. It's in-cred-ible.

You'll need: 4 pints of ale, some sugar, 3 cloves, a couple of cinnamon sticks and four, big, fuck-off apples. You'll also need a grown-up to work the oven.

Step one. Peel and core the apples whilst pretending they're Mr Morose's face. I used cooking apples because they're about the same size as his stupid head. If you're under 37 I doubt you even own an apple corer, but you can just use something short and thin to poke the hole through. I used Mr Morose's penis.

You can ignore those orange things on the chopping board; I was making other stuff at the same time that's probably too complicated for you to understand.

Next, ask the grown-up to work the oven. Tell them you need to cook the apples for 40 minutes at 180 degrees C.

Meanwhile, think about how much you hate Mr Morose for hurting your feelings and heat the ale in a big pot with about three tablespoons of sugar, the cloves and the cinnamon sticks. Do this slowly for about 20 minutes as you say swear words over and over in your brain. And remember: only a nincompoop would let this boil.

I like to imagine that these apples are actually different parts of Mr Morose's corpse that I'm now cooking in my oven because I've gone completely mental and there's no turning back.

Okay! How exciting is this? You now need to squash these with a fork. I know it looks like snotty mash potato, but trust me; it'll taste like Princess Amildala's underpants. If you struggle with this part, just pretend that you're killing Mr Morose even more than you have already and the violence in your shaking hands will do all the hard work for you.

Then you need to squeeze them through a sieve to make a nice purée. I love that word. 'Puuuure-rée'. Brilliant. But perhaps not quite as brilliant as your new life without Mr Morose as your only friend.

Then mix the squished apples in with the hot ale (it'll fizz like you're boiling sherbet, but hang tough with it). When it's hot like a cup of tea is hot, you're ready to drink. It's best to show this off to your new friends that tell you that you never needed Mr Morose in the first place.

Just look how happy my brand-new pal Janine is that I made this stuff (note: that's a mud facial mask):

Zezaurians at loggerheads over priceless artefact

2008-12-15T23:20:00.014Z

Last week Captain Drib Drab and I met with Professor Peelhead to learn all about the under-appreciated art of metal detecting. Peelhead is slightly warped in the brain, and enjoys nothing better than boring me to tears about the adventures he gets into whilst roaming the vast and frozen grey fields, and the thrill he gets when his gizmo tells him that he's found another bottle cap or whatever. Anyway, normally when he starts getting teary-eyed and blithering about this guff, I slip a bit of rat poison into his tea. I got to thinking though, and decided that I shouldn't knock it until I'd tried it. I asked if he would let me tag along next time, and he kindly did.

Since Drib Drab has less friends than an alarm clock, I would've felt bad if I didn't invite him along too, so off we all went into the twilight, three doinks in search of our fortunes. Things started well enough, we had a few gulps of sloe gin from our hip flasks and set about our quest.

Peelhead, accomplished expert that he is, went off in a strictly mathematical fashion, patiently combing the land in straight lines like a Zen master. Drib Drab and I took a different approach, and perambulated about the field like a pair of drunken three-legged dogs. Hours passed and patience grew thin. I couldn't feel my feet and began to long for my warm bed. But no, I thought. What if I gave in and that smug sod found some treasure? I'd never hear the end of it, so I bravely rambled on.

Yet more hours passed, the sky was black as ink, and the only thing guiding me was a faint signal telling me I was getting closer to something potentially worth digging up. Beep. Beeep. Beeeeep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Unbeknownst to me, Drib Drab was getting the exact same signal and heading straight for me. We Inevitably crashed into each other, exchanging threats and curses while simultaneously diving to the ground and digging frantically with our bare hands. After a few minutes we found it. It was beautiful, glinting invitingly in the cold earth. Drib Drab went to grab it but was just too slow for this punter. I moved in quick and snatched the thing from under his nose.

We inspected our find and got Peelhead's learned opinion (incidentally, he found a mouldy old jock strap). According to him it was a Byzantine idol, encrusted with jewels and probably priceless.

When we got back to London, we phoned the Museum of Priceless Mythical Junk, and they told us that they'd pay us a zillion-squillion pounds for us to part with it. Not bad for a nights work. A problem has arisen, however. I'll be damned if that beady-eyed Judas gets a share of my loot, and he thinks it's his because he spotted it first, so Peelhead confiscated the flipping thing until we sort out our differences. Anyway, he's not getting a bloody penny.

Captain Drib Drab goes on a blind date

2008-12-15T09:51:00.000Z

By Mr Ninny

Poor old Drib Drab. He's a swell guy if you hold your breath when you’re around him, and he might be a little weird or intense, but his heart is in the right place and he deserves a good woman. Speaking of which, I saw him last night after his blind date with 'Betty' – a friend of a friend of a friend. Apparently she was new in town and was feeling a little lonely. It seemed perfect.

Everything was organised for him and he was told to meet her at 8pm below the clock tower with a single pink carnation in his lapel. He was so nervous he arrived four hours early, chain smoking and already tipsy with nervousness.

It was during their meal at Mildly Famous Tony's that I had the first call from him as he hid near the toilets.

"She looks like a penguin," he whispered through gasps of desperation and anxiety. "A pen-guin. And she's eating the fish."

I asked him what on earth he wanted me to do about it, to which he replied that he needed me to come and get him. He said he was having panic attacks and he couldn't breathe properly.

"Relax, relax," I said. "If you don't like her, finish the meal and say you had a nice time. Then kiss her on the cheek and tell her you need to get up early. If she asks for your number, give her mine and I'll break the news to her if she ever calls. Easy peasy."

He was out of contact for several hours, so I trusted my advice had worked. It was then I heard the phone ring.

"Okay. Now what do I do?" he said.

"What do you mean 'now what do I do'?" I replied, trying not to get any of my honey and avocado face-mask on the phone.

"I'm at her place and everything is tiny to accommodate her stupid penguin size."

I almost knocked over my tray of scented candles. "Why the hell are you at her place? What happened to saying you were tired and had an early start?"

"It was too hard to say anything; she seems really keen on me. I walked her home and then she invited me in. She keeps touching me with her stupid flipper thing," he said, before hurridly saying he had to go.

The third call came at about midnight. I switched off my epilator and asked him what now? In my most annoyed voice.

"I'm in hospital. Can you come and pick me up?"

"Jesus God. Why are you in hospital?"

"I hurt my eyeballs."

"What!? How?"

"Er…well, she sort of went in for a kiss whilst we were sitting on her tiny sofa."

"So?"

"And when she kissed me she caught me in the eyeball with her beak. And when I screamed, she did this weird clicking sound and started pecking at my face like I’d stolen her egg or something. It was terrifying. And that woke up her dad who came wobbling out and he started pecking at me, telling me to get out of his house. The whole family is nuts."

"Drib Drab...are you saying she's a real penguin?"

There was a lengthy silence, and then he let out a long, long sigh.

"I told you hours ago that she was a penguin."

“No,” I replied, my head in my hand. “You said she looked like a penguin.”

“She does look like a penguin. She looks exactly like a penguin.”

So that was that. I picked him up in my truck and let him stay at my place. The doctors said he’d be blind for about two weeks. He looks terrible.

Oh, and Betty called this morning - he had at least given her my number. She seemed really embarrassed. I said that we all do silly things when we're nervous and fancy people, especially if you're an aquatic, flightless bird and they're a bipedal primate. That was just one of life's lessons we all have to learn at some stage.

Love, I also told her, was a cruel mistress - but I knew of a whole zoo of possibility just waiting for her down the road.

X.

Zezaurian mailbag fit to burst

2008-12-09T13:42:00.015Z

Lately, the Zezaurian inbox has been creaking under the weight of seemingly endless drivel that floods in on a daily basis, so please people, take it eeeaze! Someone has to sift through that junk. Since I have nothing better to do at the moment, I have selflessly decided to respond to a letter that I have randomly picked out, at random, with my randomising machine.

Dear Zezaurians,

Firstly, I would like to thank you for creating your society, it illuminates my otherwise colourless days and encourages me to grab life by the gonads. However, the purpose of this letter is not to shower you with praise, but to ask for your advice! You see, I have a little problem. I'm thirty-six years old and have yet to interfere with a woman sexually. As you are obviously men of the world, I was hoping you could give me some tips on how to remedy my grim predicament.

Yours sincerely,

George Horses

PS. I have enclosed a photograph of myself so you have a better idea of what I'm up against.

Okay, thanks for taking the time to drop us a line, George, but we're the last people you should ask in regard to this kind of stuff. I know as much about women as Amy Winehouse knows about soap, and Drib Drab thinks his erections are for pissing over high walls. But you're in luck little buddy, because it just so happens that I'm acquainted with Zezaurian temptress, Joy De Vivre, a respected authority on the subject. I explained your troubles to Joy, and here's what she had to say:

Well mon ami, this is a tough one. The usual advice I would give to someone in this sort of situation is to just get out there and be yourself, but judging by your letter and the attached photo, that's the last thing you should be doing, so I don't know what to tell you. You've gone this far without the tender caress of one you love, so just hang in there and I'm sure you'll manage to endure another thirty-six years. If the pressure does get too much, you could always resort to utilising the oldest profession in the book. You might want to check out Chattanooga, Tennessee, where you can find this selection of exquisite creatures roaming the night-

So there you go, George. I hope you find some comfort in Joy's kind words and useful suggestions. Don't worry little buddy, hang tough and something's bound to turn up.

The Zezaurian guide to winter cycling

2008-12-06T13:25:00.006Z

So, when not running away from colon-retchingly bad hangovers, a gaggle of Zezaurians enjoy nothing more than a cycle ride. I don't know about you, but I average around sixteen miles a day, and boy-oh-brother is it ever cold out there at the moment. So cold in fact that I thought I'd waste both my time and yours by providing a guide on how to stay warm.

But before I give away any handy hints, you need to know that some terrible things can happen to you when riding your bicycle in sub-zero temperatures.

Example #1: Pig-Eye.

I jump out of bed in the morning, leap into my cycling outfit and ride straight to my job as a ~~fashion photographer~~ data administrator without even so much as a glance in the poser-glass. This gives me little time to acclimatise my eyeballs to the cold, so I tend to cry for the entire journey like a drama student in a nipple clamp. When I arrive at the office I have Pig-Eye. It’s terrible:

Okay, so they don't really look like the eyes of a pig, but Google was being a shit.

Example #2: Tiny genitals.

It's bad enough already having a tiny penis, but the cold wind blowing through your Y-fronts can produce a devastating effect.

For instance, these are normal goolies with part of the alphabet on them and a strange pubic centre parting:

And here is a Pre-Raphaelite painting of my goolies after thirty minutes in the saddle:

That's a shrinkage of over 55% which is totally uncool in the communal showers we have at work.

Example #3: Talking like a homeless person with no lips

I was so cold last week that I could not use my mouth properly and spoke like a lipless hobo whilst asking a girl for some directions. "Hav hoo hany hidea how hoo het hoo hunt-hauls hathhe-hal hom here?" I said, as she threw some change at my feet.

Also, your toes and fingers ache with frostbite, but I realise that I'm now starting to sound like an enormous, moaning vagina.

So, to combat the cold you need to dress proper. Here is my uncle Mike's friend, Jerome, modelling for me. (I never noticed just how tiny his nipples were.)

Anyways, start with some underpants and socks and cover the important bits:

Then add extra base layers to keep your weird chicken legs toasty, even if you look like a girl on her period:

Keep going; you'll be lookin' and feelin' great:

Then just pile on everything you have in your wardrobe. Here's Jerome wearing his sister's tights, five pairs of trousers, one pair of shorts, two jumpers, three coats, three hats and an 18th century rapist's moustache - and if you're not sweating like a rapist at this stage, you're not doing it right:

Then you just ride like the wind...

Just like the wind

The Zezaurian Guide To Surviving A Hangover

2008-11-30T13:37:00.013Z

Modern medicine will have you believe that a hangover is primarily caused by hypoglycemia, dehydration, acetaldehyde intoxication and vitamin B12 deficiency (thanks Wikipedia) but if you believe that guff, you'll believe anything. After exhaustive studies on the subject, Captain Drib Drab and I have discovered that the hangover is really the evil work of a sadistic rhino who exists in the cosmos and comes down to visit after you've had a hairy night on the sauce. His best pal is an equally sadistic eagle, and they spend all day playing chess and devising new and elaborate ways of making life more vile and intolerable than it already is.

The rhino controls physical pain and suffering, and the eagle is more concerned with emotional turmoil. When they get on your case they make quite a formidable team, and can have you cowering under the duvet and praying to a God you don't believe in for days on end. But have no fear, they are not infallible and can be outwitted.

A fairly effective method for keeping them at bay is to stay on the move, or better still, get out of town for the day. The rhino is a slow moving beast, so if you go somewhere new it can take him a while to track you down. You can also try wearing a disguise. I recommend a fake beard and glasses, but you can use whatever takes your fancy. Unfortunately, he has the eagle to help him out who obviously has the advantage of flight, so it's also important to watch the skies.

If you follow these handy hints you can briefly abate a lot of your hangover horrors. But be warned; the rhino is a persistent bastard and will eventually catch up with you bearing his hateful gifts of pain, regret, despair, nausea, self-loathing, and more pain.

I suppose the only authentic way of avoiding a hangover is to abstain from booze altogether, but even I haven't got a mind so sick as to recommend something that stupid. Drink responsibly, doinks.

I ♥ booze

2008-11-25T11:24:00.021Z

About four months ago I asked my friends what I don’t get enough of in life. Most of them said it was vagina and moustache hair, but my true Zezaurian buddy Dr Dingleberry suggested that I don’t drink enough booze. Crikey, I thought, that’s the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard as I gazed at my bright yellow hands. But then Dr Dingleberry let me try his homemade beer. Now, before this moment I had promised myself I would never love again, but this stuff was just too amazing for words. Three minutes later we had opened the Zezaurian ~~Alcoholics Anonymous~~ Beer and Wine Tasting Dept. and were thinking up ideas for the logo.

In those four months Dr Dingleberry has been busy brewing up some crazy concoctions and we’re now only weeks away from our first sips of ‘Zead’ (yes, it’s Zezaurian Mead, and no, I don’t give a hoot if you think that’s lame). Dr Dingleberry told me last week that it’s "around a billion per cent proof and will shrink your already tiny penis with its potency whilst flying you to Pluto and back."

The Dr also told me that he will need to "milk his brain" as part of the process.

Sorry, mum.

Zezaurian anthropology study results in severe tinnitus

2008-11-24T20:02:00.014Z

As a keen amateur anthropologist, I always get very excited when the opportunity to learn about a sub-culture in intimate detail arises. Last night my mission was to get some idea about what makes thrash metal enthusiasts tick. To do this I attended my first ever Napalm Death gig, accompanied by fellow Zezaurian, Professor Peelhead. I still can't feel my face.

Straight away I knew things were going to be a struggle, as Peelhead looked rather worse for wear. His glasses were hanging from his face in a curiously lop-sided fashion, and it definitely looked like he had slept in his clothes for at least the two previous nights. In addition to his shabby outward appearance, it was quite clear from his glazed eyes and shit-eating grin that he was on something. He reliably informed me of his prior consumption of at least 47 pints of cider and black, and three bowls of cream of magic mushroom soup.

By the time the support band were halfway through their set, he was trying to climb the walls using only his nipples and going on about 'amalgamating with the ether'. It was at this point that I pretended I didn't know him and got on with my study.

To grasp some idea of the message the band was trying to deliver to the world, I took out my notebook and tried to jot down some of the lyrics that inspire their fans. What words evoke such a die-hard following? What wisdom was I about to be let into? Well, as far as I am aware 'AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH' isn't actually a word, but that seemed to be the gist of things. That, and 'GGGGGRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHH'. Phew.

I then turned my attention to the fans. They come in all shapes and sizes, and the uniform of choice seems to be baggy t-shirts (any colour as long as it's black), jeans, leather jackets, greasy long hair and dubious personal hygiene. Sexy. Every last one of them was gesticulating wildly to each growl that emanated from the stage, moshing as though their life depended on it and grinning like a village idiot.

Initially I was quite cynical and apprehensive to what I was witnessing, but after a while the raw, guttural sounds and honest passion of the music began to get under my skin, and the heartfelt camaraderie of the audience became infectious. Before I knew it I had my arm around Peelhead's shoulder and was screaming and head-banging like it was going out of style.

So, in conclusion, my analysis of thrash metal enthusiasts is that they are salt of the earth folks, generally devoid of pretence and affectation (for the most part), and engendered with a genuine passion for their thing, and for this I can only commend them.

Update: This morning I learned Professor Peelhead somehow missed his last train home and ended up sleeping rough down an alcove somewhere in the vicinity of Goodge Street station. What a doink.

Zezaurian Chess Department invents new opening move

2008-11-20T10:57:00.065Z

The Oxford Companion to Chess lists 1,327 named openings and variants in the classic game. You have classic manoeuvres such as the Réti Opening, the Queen's Gambit Declined or more interesting and tactical moves, such as the Latvian Gambit, the Two Knights Defence or even the Traxler Variation. However, The Zezaurian Companion to Chess lists 1,328 openings. The extra move was discovered by renowned philanderer Professor Peelhead and his tennis coach, Monsieur Taxidermy.

In true Zezaurian fashion, Professor Peelhead and Monsieur T have decided to share the coveted move with you, ~~the only person who visits this site~~ our fervent readers. One word of caution however; this move is for experienced players only. So, to try and keep things as simple as possible, the Professor has kindly illustrated the move below.

Peelhead's Guide to the Zezaurian Gambit

It’s best to stare your opponent in the eyes when doing this, even if they have a face like my colleague's, which is quite difficult to look at. Remember: chess is as much about psychology as it is pretending you're clever and interesting when playing in a packed London bar.

1. First things first: take a pawn, any old one will do, and move it forward two squares. If you’re black (the chess black, not the Lenny Henry black) it’ll now be your turn to move. You can just shrug your shoulders and move any pawn you fancy. Do it all nonchalant, like it ain't no thang.

2. Now, you really do need to concentrate for this next move. Monsieur T and I took years before we realised that we should have been doing this instead of our normal chess openings:

Leave the board alone and stare at your opponent like you might go bananas. Make your eyes as intense as you can and don't blink. You might even want to chew your lip like you might eat your own face off because you're so serious about going bonko. Do this until they agree to give you both their bank card and their PIN number. You can shake a fist if necessary. It can take time, so it’s often best to limber them up beforehand with a pint of Guinness and a sincere sounding compliment about their fancy haircut.

3. Black vs. White

If you're doing this right, you'll look down and now see something similar to this set-up:

4. Using your bishop

You need to be careful to judge your opponent at this juncture, but by adding some of this into the fold you should end up with something rather like this little gambit (be careful if it’s a school night).

5. Rooks

OK. So far, so good. Now, you should be able to gauge whether or not you are doing this correctly by looking at your opponent and checking how much they look like this:

If you look over and you see this, then you're doing A-Ok. Good work, champ.

6. Counter-attack

Things might get a little hairy now, but if you don't at least try and pull this move off you're just a knob.

7. Critical position

Depending on how well you're doing, try your best to position your favourite piece near one of these:

But I understand if you just don't have the nut sacks for this one.

8. Double attack

For the love of baby Jesus, stay away from one of these. You've come a long way, but you're not as good as you think you are.

9. Epaulette mate

If you're following these instructions properly, you should be doing this about now:

10. Grandmaster draw

Nice one. You've done it. Now you can close the session with a bit of this:

You won't even know who won the chess, but you'll have MASSIVE, donkey-sized hangover the next day.
Next chess club is on Sunday at 4. Bring your sisters.

The Zezaurian Society supports autism benefit gig

2008-11-18T00:50:00.036Z

The Zezaurian Society has shown its support for international charity Autism in Music (AiM) with a benefit gig in north London. Autistic musicians from all around the world were invited to play to a village hall full of artistic other autistic people. Acts included an autistic gay cabaret and a man with twitchy eyes and a crooked head learning his first chords on the electric guitar.

“It’s been a fantastic night,” said Maria Hendon, creative director of AiM. “The Zezaurian Society has helped raise nearly £53 for autistic musicians to keep doing their 'thing'."

Zezaurian groupie Miss Wormheart was similarly impressed: “This one guy, he came down into the audience because he got confused about where he should stand when he was singing and went for a massive poo on the floor. It was funny at the time, but I suppose someone had to clean that up once everyone had gone home.

“But the music was awe-inspiring. I had never listened to a twenty-eight minute long song that only utilised just one note before.”

AiM has been supporting the unique talents of autistic musicians for over 25 years now and has offices in London, New York, Madrid and Corby. “These guys might not be very good at conversation,” said Hendon, “but by golly; give them a musical instrument and they go bananas. It’s a great way to show how talented these guys can really be.”

To show your support for AiM, visit their website to see how you can book an autistic musician to play in your town.

Dr Dolorous goes nuts (in a kilt)

2008-11-11T17:09:00.004Z

We were anonymously posted the remains of a travel diary from our least favourite Zezaurian, Dr Dolorous - the pages of which were reportedly found soggy on the side of Càrn Mòr Dearg, Scotland. No one has seen him since he left in early November. Our guess is that he ran off with the girl from the chip shop, Rosie McTavish.

Day Two
"...The food here is to die for. Literally. I was trying to work out what could possibly be worse than eating haggis. Then I found this on the dusty shelves of Hector McBoobies' all-purpose store..."

Day Four
"...Pinch my blue nipples; it's colder than a penguin's testicle up here. The Zezaurian Survival Dept. is prone to summer-only exhibitions, so it was useless getting any of them up to the Highlands for a spot of winter adventuring. Invertebrates. But look at me; lost as a pilchard in a sandbox, freezing cold, hungry and tired. But that's not stopped me from drinking all that whiskey and setting up camp on top of the world. Well, 4,409 ft higher up than those blaspheming fannies in London anyway. Mr Hamlet, my new friend at the distillery, sent me up here to find a rare purple flower and gave me three litres of uisge-beatha (single malt). I went blind in my left eye two days ago. Besides, it's winter and there are no flowers. There's not really any grass up here either. Heck, there are no trees or people. I did see a goat yesterday though. He gave old Dr Dolorous the evil eye.

"No. It's just me, the rock, the snow and Lady Loneliness. I hope Rosie is still considering switching to the early shift on Sunday..."

We'll post up further extracts as soon as we're done drying the pages out.

If you see or hear from Dr Dolorous, please email us. His mum wants her tights back.

Zezaurian Therapy Dept. a roaring success

2008-11-03T16:05:00.015Z

Yesterday Captain Drib Drab and myself ushered in the winter with the first meeting of the Zezaurian Therapy Dept. Life has been particularly unlivable as of late, so we decided to take action and shake off our woes with a spot of psychoanalysis.

As neither of us are qualified therapists, we didn't really know where to begin, so we decided to gain some perspective on our 'problems' by discussing the lives and times of individuals we admire that went through similar existential crises.

Turns out most of them blew their brains out, jumped off cliffs, stabbed themselves in the heart or decapitated themselves. Naturally, this line of thinking was very unhelpful.

We grimly persevered with our futile attempts at fathoming why we are so patently inept at dealing with our own psyches. Spider charts were drawn and the id, ego, and superego were dissected. We mulled over conflict and object relationship theories and free associated until the cows came home.

All I learned about myself was that I was really, really drunk. Then, just as we were making a semblance of progress, an amateur production of Hamlet spilled into the pub and we were forced to endure an hour of drama students going bonkers. After this it was pretty difficult to get our Sigmund Freud hats back on so we killed our beers and dispersed into the night.

Personally, I think our therapy session has done me some good; my shoulders are slightly lighter and my head slightly clearer. I only wish I could say the same for poor old Drib Drab. Last I heard he was locked in a padded room with a stick in his mouth, shouting something about being gang-raped by a giant rhinoceros and an eagle in a pinstripe suit.

Stay sane, doinks!

Zezaurian Chess Club ends in character assassination

2008-09-29T00:18:00.006+01:00

A late September afternoon, glorious sunshine permeates the air making the world feel like a splendid place to inhabit. The ceaseless throngs of donks and doinks flowing along the concrete like a river of shit and sin mean nothing. Bumper to bumper traffic commanded by irate goits honking their horns at the slightest provocation cause no grievance in my soul. I am meditative. Today is chess day. Nothing must disturb my inner solace. Captain Drib Drab is running late as usual. I begin to clench my jaw as the seconds tick by mockingly. After the passing of several epochs, Drib Drab decides to grace me with his presence.

Something felt wrong from the moment I clapped eyes on him. Sweating heavily from his ten metre bicycle ride, there was a look in those beady black eyes of his I have never encountered before or since. They hid secrets better left unspoken. His grey pallor had reached a new level. I was convinced he was consumptive but kept it to myself.

After the exchange of greetings and superfluous chit-chat we made a beeline for the nearest dump with a free table that could accommodate a chess board.

Conversation wasn't flowing as it normally does between Drib Drab and I, and I was beginning to get suspicious. Nevertheless, we had chess to play, and I had Guinness to drink. Drib Drab stuck to water which was rather puzzling since he's a raging alcoholic. Anyhow, the board was set and battle commenced.

I will spare you the intimate details of the bloody sacrifices and foolish manoeuvres the games entailed. What I will say though, is that that pale faced smug bastard had been doing his homework on the old Chessmaster 8000000. He beat me twice in row. I felt like attaching his balls to his forehead with a rivet gun, but alas I am not a violent man. I had to exert my revenge in a more psychological way.

After much coercion I extracted the reason for his out of the ordinary behaviour and sinister gait. He told all about the bad, bad things that he had done only days earlier, perhaps expecting an understanding ear. Well, I wasn't in the mood to be understanding.

I won't go into any more detail on this matter and Drib Drab's questionable social exploits shall remain in the dark depths of his conscience. He may have won the chess, but I won the war.

Exploding kneecaps and motorway violence: Zezaurian Cyclists do London to Brighton (badly)

2008-09-15T11:34:00.001+01:00

You know it's all going to go wrong when, at 1am the night before, you look at the instructions Mr Morose has written to get us there and see he's written, "go left a bit, down a bit and then find the seaside," (accompanied with a picture of a beer wearing a hat.)

I asked him if he was drunk and he told me that he was required to drink if he was to get any sleep. "But what about these damn instructions?" I said.

"It's fine. You just head down until you find the big blue thing."

"But -"

"Look," he yells pointing at the computer, "have you seen the numbers I have to compute here? The B 20298272002200? The B 2646478292927? Who names these roads? It's a goddamn nightmare. I can remember things like the 'M25' or the 'M3'. They're easy. But this scenic route of yours is just mumbo-jumbo."

So, we managed to get to some village above Reigate with just a few smudgy directions scrawled on Mr Morose's arm. It was here we met a lady who seemed keen to sleep with at least one of us in a secluded car park, but it was a tough call to make; I was tired and already had sore testicles from riding, but on the other hand I'd not touched a woman in many months. But I made the right call; we said thanks, but no thanks and she went on her merry way and we were still on track to get there in the six hours we were aiming for.

After that it was all quite predictable; hills that hurt your legs, views that make you wonder why you live in London, lunatic drivers and miles upon miles of decent tarmac to purr along.

Things got hairy though when we somehow ended up on a goddamn motorway. Don't ask how this happened, it just did. Cars were honking at us as they screamed past at a zillion miles an hour. But balls to them, we thought. We'll just cycle in the fast lane, and show them who's boss.

As it turns out, they were boss. So were the police.

Much to our relief we found the turning for the B 20209293930029 about three miles in and escaped in the nick of time. We then settled for lunch watching some lazy game of cricket before pushing on for the last twenty-odd miles. Then POP! Mr Morose's knee exploded. Poor guy, I thought. All those hills to climb and he's screaming in agony with every rotation of his pedal. It got so painful I was forced to race ahead to escape the annoying sounds he kept making. Aiek, aiek, aiek he kept blurting through the tears. Jesus God, it was so irritating. Eventually, I got him so dosed up on painkillers he said he wanted to sleep forever and complained of a severe itching inside his liver, but he pushed on through. What a champ.

Total saddle time: 6 hours 27 minutes.

Total time: 7 hours 45 minutes (including arguments, moaning, pooing in hedgerows, watching a game of cricket, being seduced and trying to find a shop with a map).

Lessons learned:
1. Zezaurians don't do things in straight lines.
2. Brighton is a fucking shit hole and literally everyone has a really bad tattoo on their arm.
3. When your knee explodes don't ride a bike for 23 miles uphill.

UPDATE: Mr Morose sadly ended the weekend when his body went through the windscreen of a Mercedes at around midnight on Sunday. The driver was on the wrong side of a dual carriageway in a bus lane. What a donk. Mr Morose is OK, but Wilson, his bike, is lost to us forever.

New member joins, time stands still.

2008-09-12T13:18:00.000+01:00

So, a new member falls for the mystical allure of Zezaurianism. His name is Tom Bo and according to his mother he is a 'traveller.' Not like a gypsy, but more like a crusty. He's just rowed his way back from the other side of the world or something with a massive beard and tons of stories about sharing a hostel with A-Level gap year students that no one wants to hear. During an "intense" inauguration, Tom received his Zezaurian cap and was then forced to head bang to metal for seven hours. I asked him some questions about why he wanted to join.

Captain Drib Drab: So, why the Zezaurians?

Tom Bo: I thought it was a cult. You all act funny like you're in a cult. However, because I'm an enlightened chap I saw something else in there. I think it was all the free Guinness you guys bought to the party.

CDD: You know, we don't actually let any old drip into the Zezaurian Society.

TB: I got that. But once you teach a new member about the basic premise, it's hard not to say no to it. There are some etiquette rules I had to pick up on and you made me read that fucking manifesto five times. But I apparently had enough artistic baggage to offer, so I was officially welcomed as the newest member.

CDD: We're thrilled.

TB: Is that sarcasm?

CDD: Yes, a little bit. How was the party? I fell to sleep during the Hip Hop bit. I think I danced too hard.

TB: I think I missed that bit too. But the party was cool. My admittance was celebrated with this weird mass hysteria and a disregard for everything. I actually started to get freaked out after a while. And how fucking loud does that stereo go? You guys were blasting it through open windows, throwing stuff into the street, burning things. Your poor neighbours. Then you started shouting stuff about infinity and anomalies. I didn't know if that was about the nature of the cosmos or about women or what.

CDD: It was women, I think. Do you like that hat? You look pretty handsome in it.

TB: Yeah. The ceremonial donning of the Zezaurian headwear gave the assembly its official status. You all took that shit really seriously, despite all your hats being women’s sizes. my head's way too massive for this thing. I look like an ugly air stewardess. And I like the way all the elders changed into tribal vests to perform a ritualistic dance that looked a lot like air guitaring to shit metal to me. There was definitely a sense of potential greatness in the air though. I think. That or groin sweat.

CDD: I'll have to type this up, so can you just say one last thing without boring us about travelling through Asia again?

TB: Yeah: for a man who has travelled around the world for almost a year, met many, many people, perceived a wide scope of different cultures and groups, walked through jungles and deserts, swam in Mother Earth's rivers, seas and lakes, climbed mountains and had sex with a deaf Thai girl, nothing could quite compare to the feeling that what I was embracing in this small room with people of immense intellectual stature was nothing short of amazing.

CDD: That was sarcasm, wasn't it?

TB: Do you think?

Zezaurian Philosphy Club gets off to a confusing start...

2008-09-08T21:41:00.000+01:00

Total stranger laughs at disabled people

2008-09-01T20:51:00.001+01:00

A total stranger has been reduced to hysterical tears after learning that Zezaurian Society members have decided to 'get into training' up to three weeks in advance of the 60 mile trip to Brighton on bicycle. So who made you fucking super thighs? 60 miles is really far. I'm a total doink; it's a daily struggle to get out of bed every morning, never mind cycling for six hours straight after getting out of bed. And my lungs are shagged. And by 'training' what we really meant was we're quitting smoking and drinking for three weeks. It's not like we've been down the gym pumping iron and drinking banana smoothies or anything.

The Zezaurian Cycle Club is riding to Brighton on Saturday 13th September, leaving London at some point early in the morning. Email for details. You oinly neoid a boike to join.

You can't poop in the sea: The Zezaurian Society Astronomy Expedition 2008

2008-09-01T20:33:00.001+01:00

August 25-29 2008 saw the Zezaurian Astronomy Club head out to the light pollution-free skies of Norfolk for the First Annual Zezaurian Astronomy Expedition. It rocked. William and I refused to wash in the showers provided at Manor Farm, instead, hungover and weary, we ran* each morning to the beach to swim in the sea. Heck, that water reduced our testicles to little baby conkers, and we spent the entire expedition smelling of dried crab, but we learned some valuable lessons: firstly, London water is designed to prop-up sales of face moisturiser, and secondly, it's next to impossible to poop in cold salt water. It just refuses to come out, even with gentle coaxing.

However, the evening sky presented perhaps the best star field available in England so we were in for a real Tea Party. Jupiter is incredibly bright at the moment and you can even make out its moons with just a pair of binoculars. Fortunately, we had the Zezaurian (Russian made) Newtonian Reflector Telescope and we got a good eye-full of those swirly storms they seem to always have up there. Impressive as ever. After that we just pointed the telescope upwards and started talking like a couple of hippies about the nature of time, gravitational singularities and why on earth we were single.

Too bad I forgot all my star charts. I was pretty useless at spotting anything else and putting a name to it, but we did get accused of working for the Russian Army by a moustached doink that couldn't understand why the stars above us were moving around. Having explained that the earth was constantly spinning he walked off to tell his son, this weird Colin kid, to stop carrying bricks around like they were babies.

After that I regretted not having taken acid so we went to the pub and got smashed on Guinness.

*We drove.

Email us at zezaurian.society@gmail.com if you would like to become a member of the Zezaurian Astronomy Club. You only need eyeballs to join.

Zezaurian Chess Club ends in fisticuffs.

2008-09-01T19:47:00.000+01:00

Last Sunday's Zezaurian Chess started so well; all pawns were moved forward in a new tactic learned from Grandpa Roberts making things so difficult I thought my brain would explode with the complex mathematics I had to deal with. But things were difficult enough - the barmaid was basically (a slightly ugly) Wonder Woman and her outfit was distracting for even the most studious of players. On top of that, three insanely happy Japanese girls sat staring at the chess battles with such glee that we could only assume that we were 'in there.'

We weren't.

It has to be said that winning all the time does get boring. Well, according to those that win all the time anyway. But taking a sneaky pawn deep into the enemy's camp, positioning a subtle knight behind enemy lines before sliding the queen around the back of a heavily defended king to force Checkmate ended the reign of Mr Morose. My fists sprang into the air like fireworks I was so so happy to beat him with such cunning and bravery, but Mr Morose was having none of it. According to him he'd let me off with a few 'careless, rooky manoeuvres' earlier in the game rendering it all totally pointless. Balls. I won. He lost.

But whatever, by this point the Guinness had been flowing for a few hours on top of an unremittingly anxious hangover, and the sexual tension between me, Wonder Woman and the insanely happy Japanese girls had reached its peak.* Everything fell into a blurry mess and before I knew it, a white glove was slapped across my face and then I'm duelling in the street with a sword and ruby-red-rouge on my cheeks.

Most of that last part is made up, but I still won.

*I say 'between.' But you know what I mean.