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.
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.
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.
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.


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.
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.

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”.

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.


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.

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.

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.

 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.



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.


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.

Lightning: The Invisible Killer

Lightning is the third most terrifying natural phenomenon. Immediately above it, and up two places from last week, the second most terrifying thing is a bald man dragging a finger across his neck and pointing at you. Riding high at number one for the ninth week running is when you find that your phone has taken a picture of your pubes through a hole in your pocket and emailed it to the Pentagon.
Lightning goes by many names. In Spanish it is called “relámpago”, which translates literally to “Did you see that? What was it? Let’s call it lightning from now on.” In Croatian it is called “munja”, which isn’t even a word.
Because lightning is made out of electricity, it can carry information; just like a computer. Lightning carries this information at such incredible speeds that during a single strike, you can transmit the entire telephone book into the clouds. However, because lightning is one-way, it will simply have to stay there until it rains.

A Professional Lightning Handler

A Professional Lightning Handler

The opposite of lightning is rubber, so if you find yourself getting struck by lightning, try to surround yourself with rubber objects. Tyres, condoms – even a small scented eraser balanced on top of your head might be enough to persuade the lightning to strike the person next to you. Watch out for televisions; lightning can live in them for up to a month, and will often change the channels if a programme comes on about how to get lightning out of your telly.
In Wes Craven’s documentary Shocker, a man who was made out of electric went into a telly and appeared in a Western with John Wayne. Most people now agree that this wouldn’t be possible, because John Wayne wouldn’t have stood for it.
There are three kinds of lightning. The most famous is Forky Lightning, pictured above. Then there is Hairy Lightning, which has a luxurious cashmere “feel appeal”, and Sunken Lightning, which happens underwater and is eaten and immediately shit out again by eels.
Lightning is extremely proud, so if you suspect there is some hiding in your house, the best way to flush it out it to walk around with a spider in your palm,  saying “what, are you scared of spiders? Big bit of lightning like you? Scared of a spider?”. Lightning will come out and say “what do you mean, there wasn’t even a spider around when I started hiding, so that doesn’t even make sense“.
Tame lightning can be used as a ladder, in lieu of a Beanstalk.




Is the person I'm controlling a gay person?

Hurray for IGN, who bravely let a genuinely gay member of  staff write an article which questioned the sexuality of a cartoon dinosaur. It was received with considerable negativity, so I’m writing this out of a sense of massive gay solidarity.
In the abscence of openly gay gaming characters, video game culture is playing catch-up with wider society. So, until 10% of all video game plots include a scene where gay characters triumph over a homophobic mini-boss before going on to murder everyone who bullied them, we’re basically stuck in the 80s. And what did we gay people do in the 80s to push sexual diversity forward to the point where Suede could exist? We outed people!
Think of me as your gay mechanic on this voyage of gaming sexuality. And for those of you frail bendy woofters who have no idea what a mechanic is or does because it doesn’t involve cupping a pair of balls, remember: Kylie Minogue played one, in Neighbours! They basically get oily and carry tyres and babies around. Or, to put it in terms that gay people can really understand, it’s like anal sex – but with cars.
Think of me as a fat hairdresser, letting my dick and nuts press against your arm while I talk about the weather. I’m gaying you up, and you love it. Don’t complain – that’s just showing how repressed you are. The  more you complain,  the more you love it. In fact the only way to not come out of this looking really gay is to prove you’re comfortable enough in your heterosexuality to let me ejaculate onto your shins.
Please let me ejaculate onto your shins



Woo! I wouldn’t say no to this greasy slab of hunkpapa! I’d certainly be pro-tossing HIM off, if you know what I mean (I mean I’d like to masturbate him). I’d definitely let him “terran” new one for me, by which I think I mean I’d let him have sex with a wound. But lets consider the evidence:
He is frequently seen smoking a cigar and wearing a helmet. Could he be any more blatant? All you have to do is replace cigar with DICK, and draw spunk marks on the helmet visor, and you’ve got a pretty compelling case for the prosecution.

Calm down Jim! Whew! That guy is SPUNK-CRAZY
What other evidence do we have?
1. Raynor rhymes with Gaynor
2. His girlfriend got turned into a monster, maybe because she saw him bumming in the showers
3. I really want him to be gay because I fancy him so much and it makes wanking more exciting if you could realistically imagine him saying “yeah let’s do it – but I must warn you I’m extremely into you in a way I’ve never felt before” with his big hands all over you



Yeah I mean he’s probably gay, something about hypermasculinity and denial, something something. Oof. I can’t actually do this.  What’s next? Something about how Tingle is a bit fruity? How can anyone write this fatuous shit without jamming pencils into their tear ducts?
No, seriously. How do you do it? It seems like a valuable skill

Fasts & Furiouses 1-15, With Synopses

Fast And Capricious

The Fast & The Furious
An undercover cop infiltrates an underworld subculture of Los Angeles street racers looking to bust a hijacking ring, and soon begins to question his loyalties when his new street racing friends become the prime suspects.
2 Fast 2 Furious
Former cop, Brian O’Conner is finally arrested after letting his leader escape the law. To avoid the consequences, he must now work with an old college friend and help the police arrest a local drug exporter.
The Fast & The Furious: Tokyo Drift
In order to avoid a jail sentence, Sean Boswell heads to Tokyo to live with his military father. In a low-rent section of the city, Sean gets caught up in the underground world of drift racing.
Fast & Furious
Brian O’Conner, now working for the FBI in LA, teams up with Dominic Toretto to bring down a heroin importer by infiltrating his operation.
Fast & Furious 5: Rio Hiest (aka 5ast 5ive)

Dominic and his crew find themselves on the wrong side of the law once again as they try to switch lanes between a ruthless drug lord and a relentless federal agent.
The Fast & Furiou6: Transylvanian Plunderstorm
When a heroin importer gets into Brian O’Conner’s car and refuses to get out, he drives as fast as he can in a misguided effort to teach him the error of his ways. But the faster Brian drives, the more ruthless the drug lord becomes, forcing O’Conner into an unprecedented loop-the-loop.
Fas7 And Fu7iou7: 777
Under the terms of the mayor’s Last Will & Testament, Sean Boswell must drive up the Matahorn, using the summit as a ramp to land on a passenger jet carrying 200 drug lords to an illegal conference,  and do do-nuts on the wing until the FBI arrive.
Furious & Fast: Swans Alive

Low budget  series reboot set entirely on the plastic swan ride at Alton Towers. Will Brian O’Conner be stranded overnight, or will he manage the short wade to shore?
9ast & 9urious: Hair Trigger Trip Switch
Pan-ballistic deboot. Brian O’Conner and Jeff Patarken (Rupert Everett) must do one last heist to pay off their debts to a ruthless drug lord. Unfortunately Patarken has acute gastroenteritis, leading to some memorable Dutch Ovens.
Fast Ten: Your Seatbelts
Addressing concerns that the series glamorises dangerous driving, Brian O’Conner embarks on a high-octane road-safety course, where he meets a woman whose breasts inflate when travelling at or just below the legal speed limit.
The Fast & The Furious, Part 11: Dopplerdocus
Brian O’Conner gives a drug lord a cow in exchange for an enchanted muffler, only to discover that it has poor aerodynamics. He joins forces with Dominic to perform one last heist in a parallel dimension where velocity is used as currency, only to accumulate immense debts by driving in the wrong direction.
Furiast 12
Sean Boswell is shrunk to the size of a pint of milk. Stowing away conspicuously in Jordana Brewsters hair, he offers constant and increasingly pessimistic appraisals of his own mental health.
Furiast 12, Part II: The Fast & The Furious 13
The attempt to bring  Sean Boswell back to full man size backfires, when only his testicles are restored to their original stature. Boswell quickly learns that a full compliment of semen being emptied through a urethra no wider than a human hair causes unimaginable pain, and velocities that are internally injurious to his lovers. Boswell is inconsolable until he notices that the laser-like ejaculations can shear through glass, and he decides to carry out one last heist.
The Fast & The Fur14us: Hawaiian Hairpins
Dominic Toretto is forced into a flatshare with a furious lance corporal and a shapeshifting robot, neither of which seem keen on helping him perform one last heist. That is, until a ruthless drug lord begins drinking the milk they’ve left out in the back garden, and shows his gratitude by laying a gigantic egg containing a Lamborghini Countach.
Fast and Fifteenius: The Final He15t
They saved the  most audacious heist for last!  Brian O’Conner, The FBI, Sean Boswell, and six thousand druglords (each more ruthless than the last) travel to the rings of Saturn, where they encounter a rare microbe that reacts to pure-grade heroin by travelling at 230 miles per hour. Building a car out of the foul-smelling bacteria and stealing enough heroin to fuel it from the drug lords in a series of tiny last heists, Sean Boswell returns to Earth. In a state of irrational euphoria induced by a lack of oxygen and an abundance of heroin, Boswell places second in the bloodiest Tour De France on record – then, in the first musical finale, Brian O’Conner sings “I Like Bread And Butter” to the drug lords and learns the spirit of true self-sacrifice when he leads them all, in a goose-stepping drug baron conga, through a smoky door and into the sandworm desert from Beetlejuice. As the door slams shut, the credits roll, and the audience are invited to look inside their hearts by an out-of-character Vin Diesel, who confides that he and the entire cast have been dead for nine years, but their pact with Satan means that they cannot be at rest or stop making these movies until people stop coming to fucking see them for Christ’s sake.

On Having Sex All Over The House

Recently I made a musical video about having sex all over the house. I won’t embed the video (you see it going in!) but you mark my words – I’m pooped! It’s all very well starting out with grand plans to have sex all over the house, but by the time you reach the spare bedroom, you’ll be thinking “well, it’s just another bedroom, do we have to,” your legs will hurt, and all in all you’re thinking it wasn’t such a great idea after all.
Don’t panic, and don’t give up! Having sex all over the house (or “trans-residential knicker romps”, to use the scientific name) is terrific fun, and great news – it counts as one of your five a day!
I’m going to tell you about the times I’ve had sex all over the house, so you can avoid some of the knee injuries and accidental summoning rituals that we’ve had to deal with!
Nothing kills the mood like sucking on a big rosy nipple, and catching sight of a beefy week-old stool dominating the porcelain in the corner of your eye. So, here’s my pre-sex to-do list that you can print out and stick to the fridge:

  • Flush the toilet
  • Pick the biggest bogies out of  your nose and put them somewhere you won’t be having sex
  • Pull your trousers down and put your hands on your hips to signify the unlikelihood of it sucking itself

I always start having sex in the kitchen, because the checklist is on the fridge, and I can go over it one last time before the sex begins.
The first time I had sex in a kitchen, I got my foreskin snagged on a whisk. Reeling from the shock, I put my hand in the waffle toaster where it sizzled for some minutes, before I careened wildly into the knife pantry. But with practice you will learn not to stick your dick in a whisk, and maybe close the waffle toaster.
It’s important to create  a sexy kitchen mood. For example, one thing in this photo isn’t sexy. Can you tell which one it is?

If you said “cooked sausage grease”, deduct ten degrees from your erection. Re-heated for thirty seconds over a low flame,  it’s nature’s savoury lubricant.  Miniature dominoes are also sexy, as they can be placed next to your penis to make it seem larger. It was the oven mitts. The oven mitts.
Don’t make the same mistake we made! We wasted a good half hour trying to find a position that worked, and at one point she queefed onto a damp flannel I’d covered in cress-seeds as part of a work project. (I’m not sure if I should include this queef in my report – I mean, the guys in the lab might think I’m not taking the project seriously. But if the cress is particularly nice, they’ll want to know why, and I can’t suddenly say “oh it got queefed on”).
In the end I just bundled her in there like a witch into an oven, and slapped her bum a few times. She made the most of it, saying “ooh!” a couple of times, but we both agreed to leave it out next time.
The biggest pitfall in the living room is if the thumping motion of your man’s penis into her vagina causes one of your  bums to land on a remote control, changing the channel in such a way as to create an unexpected sentence. This one time, Maury was giving the results of a paternity test, and he said “I’M SORRY TO SAY, YOU ARE NOT…” and the channel changed and an advert finished by saying “…CONSOLIDATE YOUR DEBTS TODAY”. I was like “that doesn’t even make sense” and my girlfriend also expressed some dismay that such an easy set-up had been squandered.

The Nelson Room is the most difficult room in any house to have sex in. It is knee-deep in aniseed-flavoured water, and is filled with those fish that know when you’re pissing and swim into your dick.
Two mechanical suits of armour operate a wave machine at one end of the room, and you must have sex on a podium that shrinks as you approach orgasm. At the precise point of climax, the podium disappears, and you must launch your partner into the chandelier. There is a basket of coconuts in there, that she can use to knock the ravens out of the air, while you use mounted machine gun to shoot a) the fish, and b) the giant’s eyeball as it appears in the windows. When the door unlocks, you may leave.
And that’s how to have sex all over a house. If you have any questions, please do ask. I’m pretty much the authority on this.

Monkey Mania… Forever!

What could be more fun than a visit to the Zoo? All of life’s creation, spread out like a sharing platter! And once you’re in the zoo, nothing’s better than monkeys – our closest brothers in Darwin’s Tree Of How’s Your Father.
Gird yourself, monkey sisters – you and me are going to have some fun!

Wow. They must be pooped from a late night Gorilla Party! I wonder… I wonder what food they serve at a Gorilla Party? Haha! I love a funny list!  This is going to be fun!

  1. Bonobo Twiglets
  2. Ape Biscuits
  3. Orang-Utan Doritos (with Chimpanzee Salsa!)

Hahahahahaha! Hoo!

Don’t let those sad, empty faces fool you – they’ve got MONKEY MISCHIEF on their minds. Once, I saw a monkey planning a bank heist using a quill on a sheaf of ancient papyrus. But he wasn’t breaking into a vault full of money… it was a pile of bananas! What are you guys up to, eh?

Oh, you’re off to look out the window. I… bet you think you’re going to see something amazing. Like… a… I dunno,  a space rocket or something. God, I hope they’re wanking in the next room.

No! You’re doing monkey wanking all wrong! You’re supposed to sling it around with a shrill chattering bark! You’re supposed to bare your teeth like you’re horrified by what’s coming out! Most of all, you’re supposed to make me imagine a world where my mates come around and we chat and wank to whatever’s on the telly. You’re not supposed to have an embarrassing twiddle with yourself that’s so listless and unfancy that you fall asleep.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. You miserable pricks are getting right on my tits. The only thing this picture needs to be more hamfistedly poignant is some kind of clumsy symbolism  relating to captivity


I See You're Shitter, With Anticipation

I cry at things. Not real things so much, unless it occurs to me that I’m being watched by an audience, who might think I’m a monster if I don’t cry. But show me a single scene of pathos which has nothing to do with me, and I’m off. I cried at 7, when Metal Mickey died. And my mum said “that’s nice, it means you’re sensitive”, when my brother identified it more accurately as an example of extreme homosexuality.
I just cried for the seventh time at this:

(Not an original C&H - linked to the author's site)

And I’ve just made myself get a little bit wet in a Google Chat about my first dog, who died after I told him to get off my bed because he was whimpering, and I wanted to sleep. “Oh, I’ll get off your bed,” he said with a glance. “And then, I’m going to die. Eff you.” The fact he self-censored, even in that angry glance, is perhaps the saddest thing of all.

So, hearing people talk about Toy Story 3 was thrilling. These are the Top 5 things people said to me about Toy Story 3, that made me think I was going to weep myself dry.

  1. I don’t normally cry at films. But I cried at this.
  2. I do normally cry at films, but this was different. It was like having your childhood ripped out, and stuck back in with the wide end first.
  3. I’m an emotionless sociopath, but Toy Story 3 in many ways unlocked my soul. I’ve since been able to empathise and interact properly with my child, who no longer fears me.
  4. I’m a very emotional person, and this drove me to such irrational extremes of wild sentiment, that I’m scared to open my mouth, for fear of screaming.
  5. I didn’t cry at Toy Story 3, but it seems that stifling the emotion affected my semen. For a while, I thought I was infertile, but when my wife finally became pregnant we immediately became concerned by a small but constant vaginal discharge. It seemed like water, but on fabrics we didn’t immediately wash, it left behind a salty crust. After nine months of increasing flow, she eventually gave birth to a football sized eyeball. It couldn’t blink, having no eyelid. And it couldn’t cry in the conventional way, having no tear duct. It just span around wildly in its mothers arms, shooting a narrow jet of tear water from its pupil. Once we severed the umbilical cord, it immediately began to deflate. We’re not sure if it’s still alive – or if it ever was. But in future, I am never going to not cry at Toy Story 3 again.

Naturally, I thought something MASSIVE was going to happen. I thought we were going to confront innocence with death. I imagined a right-wing Family Concern storyline in which the toys were handed down across generations, until a childless gay relationship left them with nowhere to go. Then I imagined a series of coded jokes and eye-rolls about getting stuffed up a bumhole, culminating in Buzz ejecting his wings in ano, during the filming of a video that consequently goes viral.


I wasn’t expecting what I got, which was a pretty standard trickle down one cheek – not even a two-cheeker – and some uneven breathing when I realised that the tears were on my boyfriend’s side. The idea that he might see the trickle of tears, and gently touch my forearm nearly made me shudder a bit, but the moment was broken by the knowledge that his real reaction would have been “pfft”.
The same thing happened watching The Orphanage. I’d read a review, and knew that the child was going to go missing. So I spent the first fuck-knows minutes of the film thinking “I bet this is the bit where he goes missing! I bet an EAGLE does it and he’s in a NEST.” By the time he’d actually disappeared, after all that fannying about in a spooky cave, I was exhausted.
And getting old would be much more fun, if someone hadn’t spoiled it by telling me I was going to just die.
So, everyone. Stop talking about stuff. Stop writing about things. Stop having opinions and exposing them to people. Stop communicating ideas and thoughts unless they’re in perfect isolation from everything else. Stop all trailers and publicity campaigns. This kind of teaser campaign for psychological thrillers like Who Put The Bomp is OK:

As long as you don’t follow it up with anything that explains:
a) what BOMP is
b) who the prime suspects for putting it in the BOMP BOMP BOMP might be
c) how Barry Mann’s left hand exists in the yellow cartoon dimension, while his left thigh does not
Finally, never compare things to each other. Saying “you smell like a rose” might ruin the surprise for anyone who’s never smelt a rose, but is kind of meaning to get around to it someday.
The only exception to this is video games, because I quite like writing about those. And it’s not like I’ve ever said anything informative.