Apologies From A Man Leaving The Games Industry

I recently performed, or “read out”, a piece I’d written for Reads Like A Seven, at the kind request of One Life Left‘s Ste Curran. What I wrote was a mixture of sincerity, confession and juvenile scatology, and because it’s 2,500 words, I’m not going to blather on here. TL:DR; I shit on my balls in Austria, I’m sorry, and am going to run a pub in Nottingham.

Because this Reads Like A Seven was part of the Stoke Newington Literary Festival, I will be using fancy dividing graphics. And there’s footnotes, because I’m Terry Pratchett now and there’s nothing you can do about it.

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I recently resigned from my role as Associate Editor on the Official Xbox Magazine.

I had no idea what an Associate Editor was, until I was made one. One who associates freely with editors, perhaps. One with access to the editor’s restroom, where one is spritzed with editorial fragrances by a team of beautiful publisher-funded swans, who time their honking to conceal your editorly farts.

It was only when my duties and salary didn’t change, that I realised that Associate Editor, in my case at least, is what happens when your boss thinks that having a forty year old staff writer on the team is beginning to make the whole magazine look tragic1.

I’m leaving the games industry to run a pub in Nottingham, but before I leave, I wanted to get my affairs in order. And the only appropriate way to do that is with a list of apologies.

11970857801243195263Andy_heading_flourish.svg.med ANYONE WHO READ MY PREVIEWS

I’m sorry to anyone who missed my gently coded warnings. When I said “we can’t wait to find out more,” at the end of a passionless regurgitation of a feature list, that was the closest thing I could professionally say to “I don’t even know what this game is”. The first time I heard someone say “we’ve really listened to our community”, I was impressed, and reported keenly on this consumer-orientated and responsive attitude. By the end of my career, all I wanted was one developer to say “we’ve ignored our community, as they are plainly fucking idiots”.

And when I said “this game isn’t going to change the world” in the last paragraph, I meant “I’m sorry I waited this long to try and tell you that this game looks utterly shit”.

I didn’t mean to generate unwarranted hype, and I’m sorry if you feel like your life is burdened with a hype surplus. But from inside my cell,  I was trying to warn you.

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PEOPLE WHO USES VIDEO GAME REVIEWS AS BUYER’S GUIDES

I will apologise, for one last time2, to anyone who bought Spore as a direct result of me scoring it 95.

In my defence, it wasn’t a terrible game. It was good, even. But when magazines score out of 100, the 90 percent zone works like Star Trek’s warp speeds, the exact science of which was refined in The Next Generation. Every percentage point above 91 is an exponential leap, tending to infinity at Warp Factor 10. If PC Gamer ever scored a game 100 per cent, time space and human thought would almost certainly collapse.

In this environment, a score of 95 was scientifically reckless, and I’m sorry for using percentages that I clearly didn’t understand.

11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_ornament.svg.med YOU

I’d like to apologise to you, for making an over-long and 27-year-old Star Trek reference. But that’s how I’ve survived these last eight years. Drop one grenade of relatively niche information, then wade through the rubble of assumed competence.

There have been many times when that assumption has slipped.

A time that’s lodged in my brain was at the Codemasters office in Guildford. I was previewing a racing game for a prestigious magazine. It was, I dunno – DiRT or something – and they offered me a go on their sit-down driving machine toy with the wobbly chair. You have never seen an assumption of competence slip so quickly and so far. I shunted, careened, and failed to steer at crucial steering-appropriate moments, such as “corners” and “the entire fucking game”.

In the reflection of the screen, I could see the developers glancing at each other, and I tried to laugh, but the noises I made was shrill and strangled. It was a howl of anguish.

I gave that game a psychotically enthusiastic write-up, knowing that I had lost any right to criticise an entire genre for the rest of my career. Racing games: I am sorry.

swirl-mdTHE NON-STRAIGHT

I’m sorry to every non-straight, non-conforming person who read my writing. I was given a voice, and I’m not sure I used it effectively.

I’m gay, for what it’s worth. I’ve come out so many times now that it’s easy to assume everyone knows. I’ve had the pleasure of watching women’s and gay issues become more discussed in this industry, and I’ve been excited to see transgender topics getting more and more sunlight. The writing of righteous, belittled and angry people has humbled and enlightened me.

But I rarely added my own voice. Even something as pitiful as gendered pronouns felt like a bold political choice. For a while, I basically did what Nintendo did with Tamodachi Life: made gay people – more specifically, a gay person, hello – a little more invisible.

Not in my day to day life, of course: I was out and perfectly happy amongst the open-minded folk of games journalism. But it’s too easy to forget that audience of straight young adults who might have benefited from having to think “Oh. So he’s… OK.” And more importantly, it’s too easy to forget the non-straight children who might have clutched desperately at any reassurance I could have offered.

It’s too easy to forget, with a brain tamed by age, what a fragile wreck I used to be. How at 10 years old, I realised I was thinking too much about the wrong people, and made the conscious, rational decision to hide those feelings until there was something sexy I could do about it. And how the daily ratcheting  tension of pretence, would make me intense, erratic, and frequently hateful.

Video game magazines were a genuine release for me in those years. I formed imaginary relationships with the outline drawings of Julian Rignall and Gary Penn. Before that, I engaged in one-way correspondence with the actually imaginary Lloyd Mangram. I looked up the home of my favourite magazines in our family’s AA Road Atlas.

Ludlow, Shropshire.

The nonsense words were a lullaby to me, a reassuring whisper that there was something else. I will never visit Ludlow, Shropshire, because I suspect it won’t be the crystal city of sexual fantasy that I still really want it to be.

I gave bigotry a rough time, sure, but I never flew any flags. I’ve abused the privilege of passing for straight  too often, and for every struggling child who didn’t get from me what I could have offered, I’m genuinely sorry.

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THAT PR I LAUGHED AT

During a demo of a profoundly average game, a PR who used to be a journalist told me that the game wasn’t going to change the world. Recognising the words from my own previews, I barked a sharp little laugh, and it dawned on me that the generous language of the preview wasn’t something I’d invented. It was something I’d absorbed, that had sunk into me like a vapid ghost. Like the time I noticed 72 was the “out of hundred” equivalent of the famously non-committal “seven out of ten”, calibrated from 70 to seem extra scienctific.

I was pointed to an issue of Sega Power3, where this observation had been made years previously. Only their number was 73. I spent my career playing catch-up with what everyone else knew. I’m sorry that I briefly had the audacity to think I’d done or noticed something original4.

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YOUNG WRITERS

I’m sorry to the young, passionate, and politically alive writers. The young men and women who watched as an absurd bloke throttled the last coins out of his hobby, occupying a position that they could have used for good.

I’ve always tried my hardest to avoid responsibility. That’s not a juvenile humblebrag: Peter Pan isn’t a role model, he’s a smug immortal prick. It’s not cool to be as childish as I am. It keeps you happy, but…

Let me elaborate: some people tell me that they cry at movies when they’re on a plane – that a combination of air pressure, and the idea that they could be being observed in the peripheral vision of a stranger, judged by a man who’s watching Family Guy, just makes them weep uncontrollably.

I have a similar thing, but instead of crying, it’s laughing. And instead of watching movies on a plane, it’s doing a fart in a public toilet. You may have noticed this is the second time I’ve mentioned farting in public toilets in a talk that’s ostensibly about video games. It’s a real go-to, for me.

You can’t really giggle ironically. So farting in public toilets must be really funny, or I wouldn’t be giggling. There’s only one thing funnier. Allow me to elaborate again:

My first trip in the games industry was to Austria, to see the reveal of a European role-playing game called Gothic 3. Something honestly wonderful happened in Austria. You see, Austrian toilets are different. There’s a little dry shelf, presumably to allow for a good medical rummage before your doings get irretreivably slooshed away.

I wasn’t anticipating – nobody could have anticipated – that my body would weave, in that Austrian toilet, a long solid that perched on that shelf, before actually leaving my, for want of a better word, anus.

And so, connected briefly to the porcelain by a bumbilical cord, I thought “what next? Do I stand up and carry on?” A reflex spasm stole that decision from me, and the treacherously snipped cord toppled forward, and found a new resting place, propped against my balls. I shrieked, laughed at my shriek, and spent a full minute muffling my own mouth as joyful tears shot out of my face. Then I waited another full five minutes to be sure that no-one who heard me would see me leave the cubicle.

You’re probably thinking, why is he telling us this story? Well, it’s an apology to my editor at the time, Jamie Sefton, who I put in the position of having to ask me to remove this story from my preview of Gothic 3. Apparently, 300-word shitball asides weren’t “house style” or “relevant”.

The legendary magazine that is PC Zone would go on to close, four years later. I’m not saying that story would have saved it. I’m saying we can never truly know.

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YOU

I’d like to apologise to you again, for that story, which probably killed any memory of any worthy goodwill I may have built up with all that stuff about being gay.

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MYSELF

I’d like to sneak in a quick indulgent apology to 25 year old me. My video games career started with PC Zone in 2006, but my first opportunity to write for that magazine actually came seven years earlier. Thanks to websites I’d written and contributed to, I was invited to send in a sample review, by a man who would go on to become Charlie Brooker.

This was ridiculous. I’d never been paid for my words before. And what descended on me in those following weeks of opportunity was a chill. Not a “reduce speed by 60%” Cone of Cold, but a full paralysing Frost Nova.

The chill of failure by another man’s hand. Oh, I’m happy failing over here, through my own laziness and inertia. But failing after actually trying? Failure that exists outside your own flagellating tumble-drier of a skull? That kind of heroic failure is for a different, highly successful group of people.

I never sent that review.

From what I can tell from the stories I’ve heard since, told by men who look like they’ve lost something wonderful, I missed true glory. I’ve not seen a truly decadent press event5. None of my colleagues have succumbed to drug-driven nudity in a Monte Carlo ballroom6. My Spore review didn’t retrospectively earn me the services of a sex worker. My career has remained entirely free of strip clubs. And yeah, press events in strip clubs are a repulsive sexist symbol of what a reprehensible dick-sodden boys club this industry can be, but… it’s nice to be invited.

This regret mostly explains why I’m here tonight. When I was asked, I felt that same nervous morbid fist of ice clutch at my gut. I’m feeling it now, and I’ll feel it until this talk is over. But at least I’ve eventually learned, through an even greater fear of missing out, to tell that chill to go fuck itself.

If this was a Doctor Who episode, and I was Donna Noble, doing this talk would right that old wrong, and former me would send that review. At the end of this reading I should get catapulted back to my true timeline, where I do join PC Zone in 1999, *I* invent New Games Journalism, and rip apart the atoms of the universe by scoring System Shock 2 103 per cent.

dark-brown-flourish-border-line-mdTHE FUTURE

Well, I’ve made my apologies, and I choose to believe that I’ve secured your forgiveness.

I like to think I’ve learned from my mistakes, and I’ll try to put them all to good use in my new career as a publican.

It’s a real ale pub, so I’ve got to convince my punters I know about ale. That’s easy – I’m an established charlatan, as we’ve seen from that Codemasters fiasco. And I survived for years on the Official Xbox Magazine, and never once spoke my true feelings about Halo7.

All that endless chat about listening to your community:  suddenly I’ve got a real, physical community that I can’t not listen to, because they’re drunk and in my house. I’ve got the chance to set the moderation policy. I can do my best to make that pub a welcoming place for everyone.

I can use my new position of privilege to help other people, instead of occupying their seat. Let them use whatever facilities I can offer. Room, equipment, whatever I can reasonably offer. It might not be profitable, but I didn’t get into games journalism to make money. I’m not an idiot. I got into games journalism to make strangers like me. Now I get to meet those strangers.

I know my pub isn’t going to change the world. But changing the world is more responsibility than a man with an ice fist in his gut could ever handle.

I will, however, look into having Austrian toilets installed. Because I want my customers to enjoy themselves as much as I did, that wonderful day.

I hope one day to hear you shrieking in horrified delight from my cubicles8.

Thank you.


  1. This is unfair to the boss I’m talking about, and I suppose, myself. The role was offered honestly, and taken thankfully. I’m basically conjuring self-deprecation. 

  2. My Spore review has been an ongoing joke between me and a few PC Zone readers for a long time, and I worry that the joke of “owning it” has run its course 

  3. According to a One Life Left listener and letter writer, it was in fact Amiga Power. In this exciting off-shoot apology, I will confess to making a serious mis-step in this period of my life - I bought an Atari ST. I’m still prone to overstating the benefits of in-built MIDI ports. 

  4. Oh, the humility! Give it up, Log, you think you’re great and everyone knows it 

  5. Not true. I spent the best part of a week in Monte Carlo for Capcom’s annual showcase event, Captivate. Weirdly, the only game I remember from that event is Dark Void 

  6. Facts deliberately obscured, and Monte Carlo inserted as a subliminal confession to the lie of the previous sentence 

  7. A cheap shot, for which I’m retrospectively ashamed. Two reasons: first, I was never pressured to say “Halo is great”, so I’m inventing a fake tension that backs up the false perception that OXM is somehow built on lies. It isn’t. Secondly, while I get nothing from the Halo franchise, there are many people far better than me who disagree. Kieron Gillen gave Halo 3 a bleeding 10, for Christ’s sake. 

  8. This is pure esprit d’escalier. I didn’t say that line at the end of the talk. It was more like “I hope to see you there”, or something shit like that. I’d gone wobbly, and wanted off the stage. 

Diana
The Script Of The Movie

tiaraSCENE ONE: HOW DIANA AND PRINCE CHARLES MET

DIANA
Howay jugalugs, I bet my tits are bigger than your arse

CHARLES
No way you fancy Nancy, I gots them juicy Windsor boo-tarks.

Charles slaps his ass and juggles his buttocks in a wild infinity loop

DIANA
Fuck off Wales, I’m gonna lay down a monkey on my tits sizing off amply against your muddy pussy*. Drop your kecks and let’s compare

CHARLES
Aight.

ZIP SOUND EFFECT. SOUND EFFECT OF COLLIDING MEATS.

DIANA
I win! Now I get one wish

Diana closes her eyes and makes a wish

CHARLES
Phwoar. Let’s get to Buckingham Palace, where I will put tiaras on your lovely tits what are bigger’n my bum

DIANA
Hooray! That was my wish

SCENE TWO: THE RELATIONSHIP GOES SOUR

CHARLES
Stop crying or I won’t let you wear any more crowns

DIANA
It’s not fair Charles I’m so sad. I just want to be queen, right now

CHARLES
Why don’t you go and make friends with Kenny Everett or something. You were friends with him, weren’t you?

DIANA
I think so. Either him or Freddie Mercury. Let’s just say I was friends with Kenny Everett for the sake of this movie

CHARLES
No wait I think Kenny Everett was friends with Cleo Rocos

DIANA
FUCK OFF CHARLES

SCENE THREE: AT BBC TELEVISION CENTRE

DIANA [upset]
It’s not fair Kenny Everett I just want to be the queen of England at any cost. I mean I will kill everyone I have to, seriously

KENNY EVERETT
Oh Di you wee dinky bagpuss! Come and watch me having sex on a ghost train

DIANA
Kenny! Aren’t you worried about any killer sex diseases?

KENNY EVERETT
Don’t be silly, you freaky blonde piss! All sex diseases are curable. That’s the point!

GHOST TRAIN SOUND EFFECTS

DIANA
Well Kenny if there ever is a killer sex disease you can be sure that I will visit the hospitals and go around touching everyone

KENNY EVERETT
That’s because you’re the kind woman who likes human people. Maybe you are too kind!

DIANA
Ken, I couldn’t begin to tell you how many dicks I’ve got bouncing off my forehead in this place

KENNY EVERETT
You might as well wank a couple off. It’s pitch black in here, no-one’ll know

SCENE FOUR: DIANA MEETS DODI

DIANA
I do love Harrods. It’s really expensi… OW YOU FUCKIN TROD ON MY FOOT YOU RUDE MAN

DODI
Soz babes I was just buying Harrods and the contract is so big I didn’t see you there

DIANA
Well that’s as may be, I’m going to be queen one day so get off my fuckin’ hooves

DIANA STORMS OFF

DODI
She is absolutely beautiful and so pure. Send her a ten quid Harrod’s voucher

SCENE FIVE: CAMILLA MEETS DIANA AT A PARTY

DIANA
Ow my fucking foot! Again! What is it with pricks stepping on my feet today, have I got cunt painted on my face?

CAMILLA
Hello, Diana. I’m Camilla Parker Bowles, and I did it on purpose. I’m going to steal your man and be the queen.

DIANA
ARE YOU FUCK AS LIKE

CAMILLA
I FUCKIN AM

DIANA
I’LL KILL THE SHIT OUT OF YOU

CAMILLA
HERE HAVE AN APPLE

DIANA
THANKS

SCENE FIVE: THINGS GET WORSE WITH CHARLES

DIANA
I am leaving you Charles to go on a car ride with my new boyfriend who sent me a ten quid voucher which is more than you ever gave me

CHARLES
That’s fine, I’ll just keep twiddlin’ Camilla’s nips

DIANA
Whatever like I even care

CHARLES
Before you go, Diana.

DIANA
I’m on my way out I can’t just turn around loads of times I’ll fall over

CHARLES
Give me your royal badge and royal gun

DIANA
Fuck off it man I’m two days from becoming the queen

CHARLES
Your badge and gun, Diana. Don’t make me use the human-corgi hybrids

Diana hands over that stuff Charles asked for

DIANA
This is bullshit

SCENE SIX: IN A CAR IN PARIS

DIANA
How the fuck did we end up in Paris man

DODI
We are going so fast babes so fast in this car like my exotic love for you

DIANA
Dodi, your balls are rock hard. Is that normal?

DODI
Yes. In foreign men the balls go hard not the penis. I am going to stuff them in you like some exotic unheard-of figs

DIANA
OK! but first let’s eat this apple that my nemesis Camilla Parker Bowles gave me

DODI
Enemy apples are the most delicious apples of all where I come from in my country from abroad

THEY EAT THE APPLE. NO-ONE DIES

DIANA
Well that apple was delicious, and not poisoned at all

DODI
In my country where I am from it is customary after an enemy apple to tickle the driver of the car you are in

DIANA
Don’t do tickle the driver Dodi that’s dangerous

DODI
But it is tradition and you said don’t do tickle the driver so that’s really mixed messages

TICKLING SOUNDS

DODI
Tickle tickle tickle!

LAUGHING SOUNDS. CAR CRASH SOUNDS. NATION MOURNING SOUNDS

SCENE SEVEN: CAMILLA IS CROWNED QUEEN OF ENGLAND

CAMILLA
Thanks for making me Queen of England Charles

CHARLES
No probs lady. Sad that Diana carked it but to be honest I like you more anyway.

CAMILLA
Yes! In fact you might say I’m more apple-ealing

CHARLES LOOKS, SHOCKED, TO THE CAMERA AND REALISES WHAT HE HAS DONE

CAMILLA
I am going to kill everyone in England

If you’d like to hear this script performed by four revolting men, subscribe to the Regular Features podcast.

34 Essential Sex Tips:
NEVER DON’T HAVE SEX AGAIN

more

Now that More Magazine has been closed, it falls to enthusiastic amateurs to give teenage ladies their sexy tips.

SHOTGUN!

1/ Cover a part of your body with a serviette. Roughly 75% of the way through your steamy sesh, whip off the serviette and say “there’s another bit for ya“.

2/ Tug at his balls with your teeth, growling. If he asks you to stop, bark enthusiastically like you think it’s a game.

3/ During your horny romp, hold a cup filled with coloured water – and try not to spill a drop!

4/ Initiate an impromptu ding-dong on the conveyor belt at the supermarket checkout. If you’re feeling super naughty, tattoo the barcode for Kellogg’s Honey Nut Crunch onto your buttock. When (if) CRUNCHY NUT FLAKES appears on the display, act like the till has said it out loud, and reply “You can get a cream for that!” then wink at the camera.

5/ Size does matter! If you discover that your fella packs less than fourteen inches, fall into a sullen melancholy, and finish yourself off with a wine bottle.

6/ Pop a clarinet reed into his dickpipe, and play him to completion!

7/ Create a sense of mysterious allure by closing your eyes! Double the compelling mystique by demanding “WHO THE HELL IS THIS?”

8/ Grab a balloon from the family-friendly world cuisine restaurant Giraffe, and allow it deflate into your sodden mum-hoop. Let your lover know you’re ready for sex by allowing the stagnant air to barrel out of your goop in a prolonged, fusty queef!

9/ Introduce a new bit of sexy clothing into the bedroom. Three words: crotchless oilskin sou’westers.

10/ Get retro! Hurl a palmful of centimetre cubes into his face mid-climax, and say “Mister! You’re spunking big pixels into my bidoof

cmcubes

11/ Lie flat on your back, and let him use your body as the location for an exciting Warhammer tabletop skirmish. Don’t ruin it by bouncing your tummy up and down and saying it’s an Earthquake – it’s not funny it’s stupid stop it.

12/ Involve yourself in his fantasies! When he’s having a wank, run in with a bone-chilling battlecry and try to land on his dick!

13/ Learn his intimate secrets by rooting around in his internet history and saying you’ll tell the police if he doesn’t see a psychologist!

14/ Add a little exotic spice into your love life by slapping your hand over your open mouth to make a popping sound, and whispering “Ooga Booga” into his ear when he leans in for a kiss.

15/ Don’t be afraid to laugh in the bedroom – pop a “Family Guy In Your Pocket” key-ring into your vajongloid and generate chuckle convulsions on every thrust of his pee-wee!

Five Quick-Fire Tips for Girls in a Hurry!
1/ Cup the balls and work the shaft
2/ Jam a knuckle into the taint
3/ Thump your forehead against his choad
4/ Wank him off behind a butler
5/ Explode his groin with focussed sunlight

16/ Break some taboos! Finger a strip of raw veal into his arsehole.

17/ Indulge in some kinky power-play by sporting a 10 inch strap-on, and drafting legislation that restricts his free speech in a state of national emergency.

18/ Bored of the bedroom? Add a little archaic flavour to your repertoire by cramming half a dozen wangs into your plap in the scullery. Don’t get your Labi Siffre snagged in the mangle!

19/ No condoms? Slide an empty can of beans into your mouth for a imperfect but effective dental dam.

20/ Why not leave the beans in the tin? It’ll be like he’s tooting some breakfasty guts.

21/ Tired? Let plate tectonics do all the hard work! Lie across your favourite fault line, and wait millenia for the earth’s shifting crust to contort your naked bodies into every sex position known to geography.

22/ Get closer to nature by placing a beetle in your hair.

23/ Try out one of our Positions of the Fortnight! We call this one “A Wanking Pink Guy”


potf

24/ They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. This couldn’t be more wrong! The way to a man’s heart is out of his winkle and onto a tea towel.

25/ A well-placed skateboard can create the sexy illusion that you are floating, gliding, and accelerating down a hill.

26/ Before foreplay, warm a boob on the radiator.

27/ As Fleetwood Mac said: tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies, tell me lies (tell me tell me lies). They would have been alarmed to hear Charles and Eddie sing Would I lie to you baby?, as the implication from the way the question was put was that it was a rhetorical question, and the pre-ordained answer was  an emphatic “no!”

Now imagine Fleetwood Mac’s relief when Meatloaf walks in, singing I Would Lie For You! And then the relief gives way to confusion when he adds (And That’s A Fact). And a couple of seconds later, Fleetwood Mac realised that it wasn’t a paradox at all, and the two statements are very easily reconciled. The moral of the story is: Fleetwood Mac and Meatloaf immediately went on to do it (sex).

28/ Kiss him on the shins, and keep going until he suggests you do something else, or asks you to stop.

29/ Add a bit of European flavour to your lovemaking by whacking snails across a work surface with a boiled sausage.

We can’t let the vital sex tips industry die. Have you got any sizzling sex attacks that you employ on the genitals of your partner? 

Tip 21 courtesy of @misterbrilliant‘s residential sexmastery course

Do You Love America Sir

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TELL ME SIR DO YOU LOVE AMERICA

Yes I love America

I MEAN LIKE REALLY LOVE IT. LIKE, CAN YOU FEEL IT IN YOUR TORSO LIKE AN UNCEASING STORM

I feel it in my heart, I love America

LET ME PUT IT ANOTHER WAY SIR. TELL ME HAVE YOU EVER / EVER REALLY REALLY LOVED / A MERICA

I love America

MOVING ON TO THE NATURE OF YOUR LOVE SIR. IS YOUR LOVE PROUD LIKE A FIERCE AMERICAN EAGLE OR DOES YOUR LOVE MOVE LIKE A TREACHEROUS BALLOON LET SLIP FROM AN AMERICAN CHILD’S HAND

It is my home, I love it.

JUST TO CLARIFY:  THIS LOVE YOU FEEL – IT’S FOR AMERICA, RIGHT? NOT FOR IRAQ. WE HAVE TO BE CLEAR ON THIS

Yes. It is for America.

eagle

 

IF YOU HAD TO BETRAY ONE STATE WHICH STATE WOULD IT BE?

What?

COME ON GUY THERE ARE LIKE FIFTY STATES YOU COULD BETRAY OR BLOW UP ONE ENTIRE STATE AND STILL LOVE 98% OF AMERICA jeff cut this bit out

No.

WOULD YOUR WIFE BETRAY A STATE?

No.

COULD YOU SAY “I’LL ASK HER” REALLY QUICKLY PLEASE, JUST FOR THE CAMERAS, IT’D REALLY HELP

patriot

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT AMERICA

I love it.

SIR, YOU ARE EXTREMELY GOOD AT THIS.

Good at what?

ONE LAST THING, CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT YOUR FAVOURITE AMERICA IS

I love all of America!

EW THAT TECHNICALLY INCLUDES MEXICO

No wait I meant North

YOU LOVE MEXICO OH GOD POO I FEEL SICK WHY DON’T YOU FUCKING GO AND LIVE THERE YOU TURBAN-DICKED COMMUNIST

Five Horses With Ricky Gervais’ Mouth You Must See Before You Die

Ricky-Gervais-on-a-Horse

This is one of the Ricky Gervais horses I was talking about in the title. I have “photoshopped” Ricky into the picture for comparison. Notice the similarity of the mouths.

Ricky-Horse

If you can measure a man’s happiness and success by how wide fucking open his mouth is, Ricky Gervais is as happy and successful as he is constantly reminding us he is, ostensibly as a joke.

Ricky-Horse-5

An alternative explanation is that his mouth has achieved independent sentience, and is in open rebellion against the things it is routinely  forced to say.

Ricky-Horse-3

Two hooting Gervais horses have seen a horse in another field, and are telling him he is jealous.

Ricky-Camel

Ricky Gervais Camel with two successful American camels who not only tolerate his presence, but actively seek it out.

Ricky-Donut

“Your anus is bleeding! Haha! I’m Ricky Gervais”

pegg-ball

Next time! Pool balls with Simon Pegg’s hair, or something like that. Jesus Christ

All The Lovely Mums

Yesterday was Mother’s Day.

If you’re reading this in a country that has phased out mums in favour of a municipal satchel of eggs, then this might be an alien concept to you. It is a day when everyone offers evidence-free and uniformly positive feedback regarding their mums.

WHY THIS IS WRONG
1. If she’s your biological mother, you are basically complimenting 50% of your own DNA. That’s pretty vain.
2. Your parents paid for your entire early life, so by offering them any form of emotional service in return, you are allowing them to make a whore of you. And if they can accept that, perhaps they’re not as “cool” as you’re making them out to be. #justsayin
3. There’s a pretty clear conflict of interests. I write about video games for a living. If my mum was a video game, and I’d be the first to admit that she’s not, people would rightly be furious if they found out I’d given her a ten out of ten, and neglected to mentioned serious technical issues with her. For example, the alarming pop-in (in 1988, when I was having a wank with my eyes closed).

I was appalled – genuinely, revolted – to read this tweet:

My mum is the best! Love you xx

To return to video games, I’m nowhere near the top of the leaderboards for Devil May Cry. And I know how do all the moves. Go on, ask me any move.

[pause]

Yeah, I totally know how to do that one. In fact it makes you look ridiculous that you chose to challenge me on that particular move, because to me, that’s a really obvious one.

But the thing is, I’m a busy man. I pace up and down Oxford Street wheeling my arms, loose and urgent, above my head.  With so many important things to deal with, I will never be able to put in the hours required to get to the top of these leaderboards.

So when you say your mum is the best, you’re pitting your mum against tens of thousands of teenage mums who’ve got nothing better to do with their lives than sit in their bedrooms  being mums, pulling off marathon all-night mothering sessions, and calling each other’s babies fags into their headsets.

Until you come at me with some double-blind test results that have been through rigorous peer review, I’m going to reply “if your mum’s so cool, why can’t she do THIS?” Then I will get onto a trampoline and insist that you stay and watch me while I try to do somersaults, with limited success.

On a more anecdotal level, I know for a fact that your mum’s not the best, because mine is. Lovely mums! Aww. Lovely. Are you a lovely mum? Yes you are.

ACCEPTABLE WAYS TO TELL YOUR MUM YOU LOVE HER

1. Sing an adapted version of “Our House” by Crosby Stills And Nash.

My mum is a very very very nice mum,
With two cats in the yard*,
Life used to be so hard**
Now everything is easy ‘cos of you***

* Feel free to mumble this line, as it doesn’t really refer to mums

** It is important that you do not accidentally point at or otherwise refer to your genitals during the phrase “so hard”. This includes the scenario in which you are  naked and visibly aroused, even if you’re not actively drawing attention to your “junk”.

*** At this stage, drop a bin bag full of laundry onto the draining board, and rummage around in the fridge for something to eat.

2. Attack your dad

Instead of showing humiliating positive emotions, why not make her feel comparatively good about herself, by swinging for your father? It’s a win-win situation.

3. Go to a Bingo night with a meat raffle

This is the one I went for, this year. And guess what? My lovely mum, 30 years a vegetarian, won first and third prizes. That’s gold and bronze meat. Hey, mum! Hold up the meat you don’t really want!

what mums look like with bags of raffled meat

Thanks, mum! Love you! Can I have some of the meat please

Magazine Review: Fruity Chunks

Magazine lovers used to say that you couldn’t take the internet onto the toilet with you. It was the one negative aspect of the internet: that you couldn’t have it resting on your bare thighs, while you allowed a horrific brown version of a meal to slip through a temporarily loosened network of sphincters.

Since technology, people like me – who enjoyed magazines as a child and don’t like changing their minds – have had to come up with new ways to justify ourselves. Personally, I use Fruity Chunks. You simply couldn’t put Fruity Chunks on the internet, and I won’t tolerate any argument, no matter how persuasive or self-evident, to the contrary.

Here it is: the magazine that my friend Daniel made when he was, in his own words, “12 or 13″. It is nothing short of an artefact, and one of the best ten things in the world.

Fruity-Chunks-1

As you can see, Fruity Chunks has the dual privilege of being not only the world’s BEST entertaining mag, but also the world’s only XXX magazine. Any magazine that seeks to take on the sum total of human sexuality – alone! – bears an overwhelming responsibility to deliver the goods. It is a responsibility that Daniel meets, and effortlessly surpasses.

Fruity-Chunks-2 Note the titles that Daniel gives himself. He is not the writer, but the compiler. He is nothing so cheap and disposable as a scribe: he is the curator of a series of powerful sexual snapshots.

As such, and with all the power that being the Managing Director of the world’s only XXX magazine entails, he has no time for an advert on the prized  inside cover. Instead, he takes the opportunity to subvert the notion of labels.

Magritte famously noted that an image of a pipe is not actually a pipe. Magritte was also famously unimpressed by the Mona Lisa, saying “if that were a real Mona Lisa, she would exceed the boundaries of the frame. Clearly this is just some kind of painting.”

But even Magritte would have to admit that this is the first page. Daniel 1 – Magritte 0.

Fruity-Chunks-3-4

Horny people enjoy puzzles just as much as their less frisky counterparts, but with one important difference – they don’t have time to fuck around doing puzzles when there are so many dicks and tits and fannies to put into their faces and mouths and bums. To that end, the crossword has dramatically fewer clues than a regular Crossword, and the sole clue is a massive picture of an engorged vagina surrounded by wiry black pubes. And if the “Word Sleuth” proves too baffling, there’s a subtle colour cipher that you can use to decode the hidden words.

Fruity-Chunks-5Cooking Corner

Here, we discover the secret of Flap Purait, uncovering what it is that lends this perennial favourite its enduring allure. It’s a visceral yet pleasantly fruity mélange: “meaty flaps, dicks, spoof, fruit, cum and banana”.

Having assembled your ingredients, simply “mix it up and eat or drink it”. Is Flap Purait a solid, or a liquid, or a kind of chunky soup compromise? No-one knows.

 



Fruity-Chunks-6The letters page of Fruity Chunks was hosted over its single-issue lifespan by ORGASMA. She deals with the sexual concerns of her readers by printing their letters, and declining to reply.

In fact, her sole input to the page appears to be the headline “SAD”, which – to be fair – is a brilliant summary of the reader’s story.

My boyfriend dropped me when we were having 69 last night just because my cunt looks like this.

Sad indeed – and a tale that all too often goes untold.




Fruity-Chunks-7
Inflatable cunts cost $10,000,000,000. Adjusted for, erm, inflation, that would be over $19,000,000,000 today. Even factoring in the Australian nature of the dollars, that’s a lot of money.

If Daniel had received one single order for an Inflatable Cunt, he would be as rich as the Soros Fund Management Chairman, George Soros. Soros is described by the CommieBlasters website as the man operating the socialist puppet, Barack Obama.

How very different life could have been for Daniel, if Bill Gates had ordered three inflatable cunts.

Fruity-Chunks-8-redactedPersonal Ads

“4 fucking good fux, see moi”. It’s like a aggressive meth-fuelled Miss Piggy is soliciting for sex in the pages of a hand-made magazine.

Lost to the exposure of the scanner bulb is perhaps the best line in the magazine: “See a circumstized cunt – ROYAL SHOW!” You can imagine the Queen getting whiff of a circumstized cunt in the area, rubbing her eyes and chuckling “this I gotta see – get my logo on that shit, this show just got ROYAL”.

 



Fruity-Chunks-9

Art & Craft
I. M. Lezzi’s lemon requires no explanation. Of course a lesbian would send in a picture of a lemon, the big lesbian.

Master B. Ation creates the region of ambiguity in which art lives. Is that a tongue licking the pubes, or a second dick sprouting into a mouth? Either way, that big dick is getting wanked.

Meanwhile, Horny Bitch has been so overcome by the urge to fuck that she’s drawn a man blowing out flies? Or black spunk coming out of a dick. Or something.

 

Fruity-Chunks-9-10

Weekly Fiction: “The Fat Bi”

I sat on the deck chair while he took off his shirt. Lust ran through me. I leaned to the front of the chair and my fat legs poured over. His penis flopped, then upwards like a proud fighter standing to attention. My flabby tits flopped over his head as he thrust in purple warrior in my fruity parlour. His naked hairy body rubbed against me. I was still fully clothed, only my fly undone. Lice jumped from his hairy cock to my hairy chest. My lover suffocated lated that night when he was sucking on my droopy nipples.

Presented with only one comment: Daniel grew up to be a gay man.

Fruity-Chunks-11-12
At this stage, you realise you’re reading something written by a 12 year old again. It’s a bit of a relief.

Fruity-Chunks-14These promises, however sincerely they were offered, were never to be fulfilled.

 

Fruity-Chunks-15Sunraysia Prune Juice is 100% yum, with no additives. Unless you count heavy menstrual flow and a train of faeces as “additives”. Which you shouldn’t.



Fruity-Chunks-16

Make Your Own Mask

Wear this mask, and you can see the world as it is experienced by a woman’s vagina. The hungry men licking their lips and baring their teeth. The ceaseless barrage of dicks bouncing across your face.

Once you have walked a mile with a woman’s vaj strapped on your face, you can truly call yourself an ally of women.



Fruity-Chunks-17
 The lack of a numbering scheme in this dot-to-dot means it could be anything. Judging from the context, I’d hazard that it’s almost certainly a dick.

 

Fruity-Chunks-18

We’re back to Ceci n’est pas un pipe, here. What a massive fucking 12-year-old Magritte actually was.



Fruity-Chunks-19How To Draw

Today we’ll learn how to draw vajs.

The most important thing, when drawing a vaj, is the crucial fifth stage. This is when you add the oversized moles, and crusty black flakes of dry blood. If you see a picture of a vaj that doesn’t include these, then the picture isn’t finished.


And that’s it for Fruity Chunks, the one-shot phenomenon that took one house in Perth by storm, in the early 90s. It seems impossible to imagine, but “The Fat Bi” was written in a world without Suede.

Fruity-Chunks-20

Thank you, Daniel. Thank you for bringing Fruity Chunks to the UK.

One Night With Roger Helmer MEP

Roger Helmer MEP looked out of the hotel window. “It’s raining,” he laughed. His finger was hooked through one of his belt loops. It was scratching at an area close enough to the outline of his toadstool bell-end to drag my gaze towards it. “That’s one in the eye for those global warming buffoons. Warm rain? Whatever next? Hot clouds? It just doesn’t add up.”

He licked his lips with his short tongue. The dampness did nothing to alleviate the light chapping he’d received earlier that day, when his face became briefly stuck in a Dyson Airblade. But the licking was instinctive, and difficult to resist.  “It rained once on a Gay Pride march,” he remembers fondly. “That was a satisfying day. It disproved global warming, as every raincloud does, and it also let homosexuals know what God thought of their so-called human rights”

He rested his forehead against the window, and his top lip retreated across his teeth and towards his nose. He champed thoughtfully on his bottom lip, with a common-sense attitude lacking in so many elected public representatives. Helmer’s natural ease is bewitching, especially when hauling the svelte bulk of his torso into a new position contracts his windpipe, producing an elegant, involuntary hoot.

He licked his lips more aggressively, frustrated. It had been an ugly and entirely unnecessary scene in the Baker Street gents. It began when his $30,000 Breuget watch slipped off his wrist and into the Airblade device, and he had reacted on a compellingly feral level by chasing it in with his face. “My hands were wet, you see,” he explained, raising his palms, without taking his forehead from the window or turning to face me. “What was I supposed to do?” He planted his hands on the window, as though to show the world that his well-meaning intentions were irrelevent.

It is important, before we go on, that you understand that there is no way a human head could fit inside a Dyson Airblade. That Roger Helmer MEP managed it, and remained there for some minutes, speaks to his beguiling stubbornness, and the way he modestly declines to use reality to guide his actions.

Sadly, the stresses of the day had taken their toll on Helmer’s trousers and underwear, which fell to the floor. Clearly happy with the position of his hands and forehead, he tried to shimmy them back up with his hips. The motion, however, caused his penis to swing around in a wild helicoptering motion. It split the air tunefully, like a clarinet reed, creating a mournful minor third with the melodic hooting from his neck.

I have heard it said that all that is necessary for the triumph of evil, is that good men do nothing. Eager not to simply stand by, I approached Helmer, and my attempts to lift his trousers quickly developed into a conversational back and forth with his relentlessly circulating buttocks.


There is a discipline in Wing Chun Kung Fu called Sticky Hands, in which sparring partners fight with their upper body at close quarters, never breaking contact. Helmer’s rear end is a natural and formidable opponent. In fact, the effortlessness with which they predicted and parried my attempts to lift his trousers makes me certain that Roger Helmer MEP’s buttocks are more than passingly familiar with Sticky Hands. Certainly, the thick, appealing mucus that coated my hands and face after two minutes convinced me that Helmer was at least aware of the double entendre.

Helmer looked back at me. His dignified, lipless smile puckered like a highwayman’s pouch, and his eyes darted in opposing directions as he spattered the room with a brilliant, effervescent foam. “I’m leaving the Conservative Party to join the UK Independence Party,” he mouthed, and what followed was nine hours of what I can only describe as room service. I won’t go into detail, but I will tell you this: Roger Helmer MEP is a man who orders dessert at the same time as starters and mains. By which I mean he came in my arse, face and belly button.

If you want to know more about Roger Helmer MEP, please visit his website.

The Human Sex Face

The human orgasm is a member of the following groups:

1) The twelve mucky miracles
2) 239 ways to get rock hard abs and make her scream in bed
3) The seven senses

When The Shamen sang that “Love, sex, and intelligence” were “coming on like a seventh sense”, the seventh sense they were referring to was the human orgasm, a force so primal that it can make a man’s trousers work their own way off, and walk unassisted to the laundry basket. Listen closely to this clipping from their other single, LSI, and hidden sexual sounds might become apparent.

The Seventh Sensegasm

Other songs with hidden sexual messages include:

  • Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s “Relax”, in which Holly Johnson whispers “give us a kiss” in the chorus. In the final chorus, Johnson pulls a shocking bait and switch, by adding “on my bum!”
  • Lieutenant Pigeon’s “Mouldy Old Dough”, which details the loaf-like appearance of a sexy Renaissance buttock.
  • The Pet Shop Boys’ “So Hard”, where Chris Lowe uses musical notes to spell out “A FAG, A BAD DEED, A BEAD ADDED” two minutes after the song has ended. Chris Lowe cannot talk, but it is widely accepted that the “bead” he was referring to was a bead of male ejaculate, or “willy whites”, and it was “added” to a gay man’s tummy.

When humans have orgasms, they shout “I love you” and walk around in circles until someone passes them a towel. And as unique and beautiful as any snowflake is the “sex face”. No two humans pull the same sex face – if you think you’ve seen two the same, one of them was faking it, because you are frigid.

Here are three notable sex faces from history:

You Know You Quantum
Looking at this man, you could be forgiven for thinking he wasn’t having an orgasm at all. In fact, he’s having two! Unfortunately, they are out of phase, and the waves of ecstasy that are coursing through his body have simply cancelled each other out. The human orgasm has the properties of both a wave and a particle, in that it makes you wobble a bit – like a wave – and spunk flies out of your dick, like a particle. Also it’s a bit stringy, isn’t it? Makes you think.Theoretical physics degrees are basically massive games of soggy biscuit.

The Itchycoo Park
When an orgasm is just too beautiful, it is common for both parties to start crying. One might say “sorry did I stub your fanny”, and the other will say “no it’s not that I just glimpsed the infinite and my place in it, and I saw that my suffering was as nothing. Then I thought, well, the suffering of all those Chinese children must be as nothing, too, so fuck it, I WILL get an iPad 3.” Here, we can see Sandra is using her built-in microphone, which she is using to bellow encouraging sexual phrases such as “Fucking Nora” and “Oooooffff”.

The Gentleman’s How Do You Do
This incredibly well-mannered young might seem too close, but it is all part of his unique sex face ritual. In the moments leading up to climax, he says “How do you do!” Then, realising that this isn’t a terribly sexy thing to say, he urgently adds “what you do to me, I wish I knew, if I knew how you do it me, I would do it to you”. When saying the final “you”, he dabs a little dollop of semen onto the tip of his partner’s nose, believing that this will do to her what she is doing to him.

The strongest ever orgasm was the big bang, which happened nine months before all life in the universe began.