Even more Zezaurian fuck ups

By D. Mulder


You can always rely on my flatmate, Captain Beefcake, to hurt himself in one way or another. Assuming nothing truly terrible is ever going to happen to him, it's sort of becoming good fun watching this guy return home from work everyday with yet another injury or another broken bicycle. Everything he touches breaks. Living with him is like living in the pages of Ubik. He's a fucking calamity.

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Meanwhile, I've caused this disgusting mess to my beautiful little finger - sustained after I went climbing at Mile End Climbing Wall last week. I turned up telling everyone how easy it is to prance about like Gollum. It's not. It's horrible, hard work, scary and almost killed me.

One thing about it made me feel better though: Jesus God is the 'climbing community' ever a good lookin' bunch of people. Woah-ho-ho. No wonder they all chose a sport in which you spend the entire time facing a wall. I've never seen so many ugly people in one room. They were everywhere, some literally hanging from the ceiling. Still, beats watching all the posers in East London trying out their new Autumn Wardrobes. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WHEN THE APOCALYPSE COMES? You can't live long on smugness alone, don't you know.

My bum hurts

By Drib Drab

I hope cycling to Brighton each autumn isn't going to turn into some kind of weird pilgrimage. We did it last year, totally fucked it up, ended up on the motorway heading towards Woking or somewhere equally as atrocious and almost killed ourselves in the process.

This year wasn't quite so ball achingly eventful, and not quite as tough (nine miles less). But that's what happens when you don't drink grappa the night before (and you remember to take a map).

This was Mark's lunch. He's the only person to cycle 75 miles and arrive at his destination with more wobbly belly fat than when he set off. Every time I looked over at him he was shovelling more shit into his mouth. The guy ate TWELVE Nutri-Grain bars in 3 hours. Those things are like eating a sugary, dried dog turd mixed with gelatinous cancer. That's some kind of endurance record, right?

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Two things: firstly, the guy in the red hat, Mr Morose, was actually asking me which way I thought Leatherhead was. Secondly; look at that fucking belt.

Seriously; Tammy Girl, £6.99.

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

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Every time we took a break, Jonny B. Fancy Dress over here would put on another hideous item from his autistic clothing range. It's too bad the camera died before we had time to snap his glittering hot pants and vintage clown shoes.

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Heh heh.

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59 years old, asthmatic and a bullet still lodged in his gut. Fucker didn't even bust a sweat. Ladies, say hello to The Chief (a.k.a my fucking awesome dad, who is way better than your lesser dad who probably thinks The Wire is "kool").

Woah there! Check out ol' Hercules Beefcake over here taking the ride a bit too seriously. He wouldn't even smile at the camera in case it ruined his "performance". See that backpack he has on there? Full of bricks. If he saw you struggling on the more difficult hills he would start shouting motivational nonsense in your face as if that was going to stop you from shitting your pants as you painfully rode another three inches closer to the summit. He's not coming next time.

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

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Now, if you enjoyed these wonderful pictures, you're going to go bananas when you see what Mark has done on YouTube: check out the video he (lovingly) made here (needs sound and a quadruple espresso).

Man, this Mark guy is so happy and enthusiastic the whole time he's basically a puppy.

DD.

Zezaurians don't climb Ben Nevis

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

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

Nine minutes you won't get back

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

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.