Introductory Pamphlet to Bournville Students’ Rugby Club

Hello. You are reading this exclusive leaflet because you have made it through the rigorous and arduous selection process for my cult: the Bournville Students’ Rugby Club. I am writing this leaflet from my Daddy’s flat in Dubai. I am not wearing any clothes because I am fixated in an infantile state of mind whereby nudity still fascinates me and never fails to make me laugh. Without further ado, I invite you to read the introductory pamphlet.

Initiation Ceremony

Initiations are a vitally important part of the BSRC experience. It will begin by meeting at 9am – in the morning – at my grandparents’ house in Kings Norton. On arrival, you will be expected to do a shot, shot, shot!!! of my dog’s piss. Then you will made to do thirty press-ups whilst said dog, Tarquin, aggressively fucks your leg having been deliberately led into a dangerous state of arousal. After that, you will be expected to watch an episode of “Deal or no Deal”. Every time Noel Edmonds swishes his golden hair and says “hello”, “and”, “how”, “are”, “you”, “deal”, “or”, “no”, “deal”, “is”, “it” or “metamorphosis”, you will have to allow me to place my entirely bald bollocks on your head so you will them wear like a little hat and drink a bottle of red wine and a pint of balsamic vinegar which Mummy has very kindly let me use.

The grand finale of the initiation involves my grandfather. Old Pops, as you will be required to address him, is unfortunately incontinent. However, I have turned this into a positive for the purposes of the Ceremony.In the build-up, Old Pops has been fed on a diet consisting solely of fig rolls, chicken madras and vindaloo. I have then blocked his arse with a large champagne cork. During the course of the day I will release the cork, allowing a deposit of Old Pops’ excrement to cascade out like Niagara Falls. You will then be forced to wipe it up. Best of luck guys!

Post-Initiation Ceremony Celebrations

Having been initiated into the BSRC, all lucky members will be invited to celebrate. The Celebration will commence at my parents’ house in Bournville at 7pm. We will begin by eating some party rings, playing a furious game of apple bobbing and drinking a dirty pint of vodka, rum, beer, cider, prosecco, absinthe, camel semen, grappa, gin, champagne, whisky, ale, tequila and duck egg. Having enjoyed your dirty pint you and all other members will be given your official BSRC regalia which is a long, hooded white cloak.

Once kitted out, we will do some chanting beginning with: “We all love BSRC”, “BSRC is the best”, “If you love BSRC clap your hands” and finishing with a light-hearted rendition of “I want to brutally murder the members of rival rugby club Students of Bournville Rugby Club.”

After this fun, still in full gear, we will board a bus into Birmingham City Centre for the main set-piece of the celebration. Once in town, we will capture a homeless man and knock him unconscious with some Official BSRC Rohypnol. He will then be transported to the candlelit stone table I have had erected in the middle of Cadbury’s World. I will then plunge a ceremonial, bejewelled dagger into his heart. All present BSRC members will be required to drink a pint of his blood whilst I, your leader, master and dark overlord, will eat his heart.

Thus, the Post-Initiation Ceremony will be brought to a close. I hope we can all enjoy an evening of harmless, relaxed banter!

Week schedule

Once you have become a fully-fledged member of BSRC, there is a weekly schedule to adhere to. It is as follows:

Monday

Group therapy session where we talk about our darkest and most secret feelings.

Tuesday

Mass game of kerplunk. Riotous, rowdy and revered, to have the best possible time don’t bring your girlfriend!

Wednesday

The busiest day of the week, Wednesday begins with a hard-fought victory (fingers and webbed feet crossed!) over a rival Rugby Club. Twice a year we play the SoBRC which are always rambunctious  affairs.

In the evening we go to the zoo and look at all the pretty animals and remind ourselves of the wonder of nature and evolution. We then drink, drink and drink some more, before going to the public toilets in the Bullring, affectionately called Loo Bar, and do some chanting whilst trying to cop-off with the tasty toilet attendants who are known to be right slags.

Thursday

Recovery from last night!

Friday

To celebrate the end of the working week, we get utterly destroyed in a Wetherspoon’s and behave like consummate gentlemen by vomiting, chanting and taking off as many of our clothes as possible.

Saturday

Group trip to the swimming baths and then an early night watching X-Factor.

Sunday

To cap off a hectic week there is a compulsory (topless) group Skype session where we recount the weeks events.

BSRC Official Terminology and phrases

Finally, to ease your integration into the BSRC here are a few handy terms to familiarise yourself with.

Slag – A woman who has ever had sex.

True gent – A man who has ever had sex.

Fag – A homosexual. Anyone suspected of homosexuality will be severely punished by being forced to fellate me which I will not enjoy.

Debauchery – A type of blue cheese.

Poly - Short for polygon.

Knuckles – Things that we drag on the floor.

Conclusion

That is all. I hope you enjoy your year in the BSRC!

When My Friend’s Girlfriend’s Phone Got Stolen

Thursday last week, a rather large group of friends and I went careering down the Kilburn High Road to an establishment that was doing two for one cocktails. It’s a great deal and they taste simply wonderful. At one point in the evening, a balding gentleman sat down on the table next to us  and began repeatedly asking, quite insistently: “Is this seating taken?” We all nodded in approval, too caught up in the warm, fuzzy feeling of tipsiness and atmospheric lighting.

It is the 21st Century after all, so we soon got that irresistible urge to document the evening in case we forgot; or more likely, so we could say crassly to everyone else we know “Hey, look, we have a life! Look how great this is!” As such, we asked the aforementioned gentleman to take a photo of us. He, as most people in that situation would do, obliged. Through a forced smile and that faint feeling of intrusion you have when taking photos of strangers (when they’ve asked of course, not just for the laugh) he snapped a few of us. The poses were mixed, with some going for Pout, others for Having Loads of Fun, and most settling on just Smile. They were, on the whole, nice.

Soon after this glamorous photo shot, it dawned on the girlfriend of my friend that she had lost her phone and that this was an Emergency. As is often the case, we split into two groups: one opting for sitting around and tapping surfaces pretending like they’re looking and the other actually looking. After five minutes of fruitless scurrying the balding fellow sloped off (I imagine you see where this is going) but the looking group were rooting around too intently to notice. Luckily, another friend noticed said suspicious sloping and alerted us all.

“He has it! I saw it in his back pocket.”

At this point, a deathly silence befell the table as it dawned on us what we must do. We had to confront the balding man, who was now transformed into a 6 foot 4 inch, heavily muscled cage fighter.  Three other friends and I looked at each other right in the eye and resolved ourselves to the manly task ahead. We were going to reprimand him; we were going to stop him escaping and we were going to say: “Hey you! You nefarious man, you deadly trickster, our friend wants her phone back and if you don’t give it back then we can’t be held accountable for our actions!”

So, like a pack of highly trained SAS agents, we moved out.

“I have a visual on the suspect” I said.

“What’s the ETA?” a friend replied.

“About two seconds. He’s at the bar.” came my curt, efficient, gruff response.

We got to the man, and for some reason unbeknown to me, I stood slightly in his personal space and said to him: “Erm, excuse me, yeah, hi, do you have my friend’s phone?”

“No I don’t” he said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Yeah you do, we saw it in your back pocket” said another friend.

“I don’t have it” he said. Things were getting tense and  the suspect and I could see the whites of one another’s eyes. As this staring match was taking place, one of the team slipped back behind his back and began to make a phone call gesture. It was an unbelievable bit of quick thinking; he was urging me to call the stolen phone so it would light up and provide us with incriminating evidence. Taking my friend’s advice, I reached for my phone and drew it out quick as a flash. I went into my contacts, found the number and pressed “Dial”. My palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy. Fortunately, seeing as I live away from home, none of my Mum’s spaghetti was on my jumper.

The phone rang and unsurprisingly his back pocket began to vibrate and light up. The team moved in. One of my friends snatched the iPhone cover off the phone, waving it over his head triumphantly like a big bear that has caught a delicious salmon whilst another friend took the actual phone itself. There were, if I remember correctly, four of us and the man knew he was surrounded and as far as he knew any resistance would be futile. Unfortunately for him, little did he know that we were mild mannered fellows and if there had been a fight we would have quite literally soiled ourselves. At this point, I leaned over to the barman and said: “Can you remove him? He stole our friend’s phone and now we have it” and the barman obliged, scooting the man away before we had our revenge (which would’ve consisted of us asking for his address so we could send him an exceptionally long and passive aggressive letter).

We returned to our table victorious; four men who had stared death in the face and death had blinked first. Very surprisingly, hyperbole began to fly around left, right and centre. Quite quickly we were calling ourselves the “A Team” and before we knew it the man had actually had four knives, an Uzi and a grenade. One of the team even had to battle through a pack of rabid dogs to reach him at the bar! Who knew? It was a victory that we all relished, and a story we will take to our graves.

It was also the most painfully British reprimanding that has ever taken place.Image

 

Victory!

Why I’m Rooting For World War Three

As you all well know, or at least should know, there is a serious political crisis engulfing Ukraine at the minute. To compound an already precarious situation, everyone’s favourite implacable, unscrupulous world leader, Vladimir Putin, decided to send the troops into the Crimea region of Ukraine. Whilst everyone around me was baffled, perplexed and worried about what the consequences of this could be, I was rejoicing!

“Go on Vlad, you can do it! Be unreasonable, please be unreasonable. We’ve talked about this Vlad, we’ve talked about this. You can do it!”

Before my dear readers come at me with the pitchforks for being a massive warmonger, please allow me to explain myself, because once I have we’ll all be rooting for War! A very compelling pattern has emerged. In order to write a classic novel, that will be remembered long after my death, I need to go to War and acquire myself some serious psychological scars. Orwell, Bulgakov, Hemingway, Vonnegut, Tolkein all went to war and some, such as Hemingway and Vonnegut were explicitly inspired, whilst in others the shadow of war can be felt in their work. And when it comes to female authors, two of the best, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, had lifelong battles with depression, so knew all about suffering.

So, as you can see World War Three is really quite necessary for me as a would-be-writer, and to deny me this is so selfish. Quite frankly I’m getting sick and tired of all these light skirmishes and suggestive posturing. I need me some war on a global scale; complete and utter turmoil. Of course, I need to survive it, and hopefully heroically. But, World War Three does need to happen, and these bloody politicians, with their talk of reconciliation and “keeping upheaval to a minimum” are getting on my nerves. Channel your inner Adolf Vlad (not that you need to); harness the power of Napoleon Francois; David draw on Winston; Barack be empowered by Truman.

I think the politicians have been so selfish since 1945. If the Cold War had become the Hot War, who knows what amazing literary creations would’ve been spawned from the swamp (is that you Alex Turner?) of world-wide desolation. I’ve tried my hardest to psychologically scar myself for the benefit of my writing, but it’s just not enough. I need to see my friend get blown up in front of me, like Bulgakov, or perhaps hear the mindless slaughter of thousands of people by fire bombing, like Vonnegut. I at least need to have some form of serious, life-threatening (but not terminal) injury that leaves me bedbound and contemplating life and death, like Hemingway. Unfortunately, cracking my head open on my garden steps because I didn’t do my Velcro strap up at the age of four doesn’t count, even if I do tell people my Dad could see my skull (it is with great resignation I confess that this isn’t true).

And so, back to Ukraine. Vladimir, if you have any sort of appreciation for the arts, and the cultural health of humanity, then please do your utmost to make this conflict escalate. Barack, like wise; you follow Vladimir’s lead and retaliate, perhaps militarily, leaving the outcome in no-doubt. Once France, Germany and the UK get involved we’ll finally get what we (I) want: World War Three. At this point I will enlist into some sort of slightly dangerous service, and let the literary genius flow. Yay!

On a more serious note isn’t it one of life’s most haunting and bittersweet ironies, that suffering and pain produces the most beautiful works of art? When humans are hammered, squashed, shot at, and murdered, it is then when some secret, gorgeous parts of their soul creaks open and produces pure lasting beauty. When people are at their lowest ebb, it is then that something truly stunning is created, and something the rest of us benefit from immensely. We benefit from something that wouldn’t have happened without sheer suffering. Read, for example, Mother Night by Vonnegut. A truly moving novel of great scope and invention, but would it have happened without the horrors of World War Two and Dresden? Perhaps not. The politicians can fuck around and endanger millions of life, rest assured that some creative type somewhere is going to attempt to make sense of it all, and probably really movingly. What a beautiful, contradictory, delicious, disgusting irony that is.

A Perfect Day

Yesterday I had a perfect day, a taste of utopia, and I’m going to tell you all about it. Shall we?

It started with a groan; and some sodden underwear and that is the best way to start the day. I hastily put my grundies in the washing machine and scuttled to the shower to wash off the excesses of shame, self-loathing and mini-me’s. After I did this I ambled back to my room and put on my favourite cream suit. Whenever I wear the cream suit, good things happen to me.

Now wearing my cream suit I had a bowl of wheeto’s and psyched myself up for the day. “Come on Fionny, today’s the day the teddy bear’s had their picnic, and you’re a big teddy bear who will be eating from the picnic of success” I said to myself whilst vigorously rubbing my left knee. I put on my favourite feel-good song, Wait and Bleed by Slipknot, to get myself ready for the day. In case you’re wondering I don’t often put my fingers into my eye as I feel pain on a regular basis – like when I stubbed my toe running out of my neighbours back garden after a spot of ‘bird watching’.

I left and shortly arrived at the tube station, hastening onto the tube whilst everyone was still trying to get off and immediately copped an eyeful of some top totty. Oh baby, she had jugs like the Carpathian Mountains. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, and it wasn’t until her boyfriend said to me “Look mate, can you take your roving eyes elsewhere, you’re making my girlfriend feel uncomfortable” to which I responded in parseltongue, forcing another passenger to intervene and usher me off the tube, that I eventually tore my eyes away from the jugs. Oh Daddy like jugs doesn’t he? Yes he does.

On arrival at university I darted to the library and found a nice, secluded spot in a dark corner. It’s so pleasant sitting in the library for extended periods of time as you get to see the absolute conveyor belt of totty that mills through like sexy, vacuous cattle. Whenever some quim sits in my vicinity I enjoy growling softly under my breath and raising and lowering my eyebrows very quickly. Some people have labelled this type of behaviour ‘creepy’ but I think a real man should be able to make his intentions known without feeling bad about it.

Today I was checking out some holiday snaps on Facebook whilst in the library – I believe they were in the album entitled “Thailand ‘13” – and was admiring one particularly succulent piece of meat when said juicy piece of meat has only gone and plonked herself down opposite me! Seizing this opportunity like a crocodile seizes an unsuspecting, but very nutritious wildebeest, I went back to my personal favourite picture (she’s regally resplendent in a red bikini and must’ve been a bit cold which makes the picture all the more eye-catching) and spun my laptop screen into her eye line.

At first she didn’t actually notice my presence (I am unremarkable looking, despite the cream suit) but eventually the incessant clearing of my throat and frantic scratching of my face got her attention. On registering her own voluptuous self, juxtaposed next to my lolling, steak-like tongue she gave me the most inviting look I’ve received. It said: “You are a cretinous piece of shit and if you weren’t so pathetic, flaccid and skinny I’d call the police”. Then she got up and seductively sashayed away, shooting me another one of those looks over her shoulder, clearly inviting me to partake in God knows what activities with her, but unfortunately I had too much work to do so had to let her down.

At about 8 o’clock, after many hours of reading, and many, many unasked for erections, I got the tube home. I put my headphones in full blast and blared out all the lyrics to Blurred Lines by Robin Thick, Candy Shop by 50 Sense(less) and Smack My Bitch Up by Mozart (I think).

Once arriving home I watched four of the latest episodes of backroom casting couch. If you haven’t already seen it, I thoroughly recommend you do so. It’s the suspense and noble deceit of the thoughtful plotline that keeps me coming back. After that I wound myself down by rubbing both my knees. I start off slowly and quite sensually, until I speed it up gradually, eventually reaching a manic crescendo of knee rubbing and parseltongue.  Very relaxing.

It was now getting late, and time was knocking on the door of 11pm so I took my suit off, scrubbed my teeth and got into bed knowing no dream I had could compare to the day I had experienced. It had everything I could want. Image

Heavenly.

Corridors Of Power

Instalment One.

In a leafy suburb outside of the cosmopolitan and exciting city of London there is a mental health hospital. St Peter’s Royal Hospital is the official name, but the inhabitants of the quiet suburb know it merely as “Pete’s”.

St Peter’s is full of a number of colourful characters, but on this particularlyy bright Saturday afternoon, three new inhabitants were brought in, and these three were quite the remarkable triumvirate.

Let’s begin, firstly, with the self-appointed ringleader. His name is Dafydd Cameroon, and every now and then would speak with an outrageously bad welsh accent. He was adamant that his Mother was Welsh and his Father was Cameroonian, and as such, that elucidated the origins of his rather unique name. Yet, it was quite clear from his Union Jack socks, and inbred English aristocratic features that his nationality was English and he was merely a very confused and deluded man. Dafydd was slimey, tottering and had a face that gleamed like rubber, lacking any discernible or strong features. He was without any jawline, cheekbones or chin of note. On the surface, he was amicable enough, yet underneath the pleasant and polite façade resided a dark, volcanic anger that threatened to boil over at the slightest thing. His biggest source of irritation was when people accidentally got his name wrong.

“Hello David, come right this way, your bed is wait….”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE CALL ME DAVID AGAIN YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH” he exploded on his first day at St Peter’s. The nurse was visibly taken aback, but wrote a note on his chart: ‘don’t call David; gets angry by this – wonder why (child abuse??)’

However, after this rather surprising outburst, Dafydd resorted back to type, telling the nurse over and over again that he knew a black man. The nurse was black herself, and found his insistence that he knew “a delightful black man, you’d really like him, he looks quite like you” at best annoying, and at worst rather insulting.

The second in the triumvirate was an odd man. A very odd man indeed. He walked stooped like a cat would if it stood on its hind legs and appeared to have at least a very crooked vertebrate. Some days, his ungainly and stooping gait gave the impression that he had no backbone at all. His name was Nick Cloggs, and he had watery blue eyes nestled away amongst folds of skin. His face seemed to have collapsed into itself, and his mouth glistened with spittle, yet was slow to smile. When he did smile, it looked very forced and merely created the impression that Nick was battling with sever constipation. His skin was sallow and his hair was floppy, pompous and stuck up like a toilet brush. His eyes were perpetually disappointed. Nick professed to have an intense love of Cloggs, and would often be found to be saying “Look, I’m sorry guys, but I just fucking love Cloggs, ok? They’re just so fucking durable, I promise that if you give me money I’ll buy you the best Cloggs your heart can desire”

However, recently he had taken to wearing Clark’s, the very same shoes that Dafydd wore, but still insisted Cloggs were “just the fucking best”. He could be seen to look down at the Clark’s on his feet in a resigned manner, and if one listened carefully he could be heard to say “I’m sorry” over and over again.

The third member of this puzzling gang walked slightly behind Nick and Dafydd and attempted, but failed quite miserably, to exude an air of aloof, nonplussed, superiority. He walked behind the two in the same way a young teenager would walk behind his uncool, embarrassing parents, trying to pretend he wasn’t with them, but always staying close enough so as not to feel lost. Every now and then, Nick or Dafydd would spin round hurling delightful combinations of words in the man’s direction such as “fucking hell Ed, what’s that wooden thing you’re carrying” and “hurry the fuck up Ed”.

His name is Ed Broadband. Ed spent large chunks of his day rabbiting on about different Broadband services, and had extensive knowledge on all the competing providers. BT was “too expensive” whilst TalkTalk was “too slow”, Sky was “too capitalist” whilst Plusnet was “not capitalist enough”. Dafydd often said to Nick behind Ed’s back his favourite provider was definitely Virgin Media as “he’s definitely a fucking Virgin Nick, look at his shite hair”. Nick would sigh, chuckle and then look at the floor. As of yet, Ed had yet to confirm his favourite provider, but had instead compiled large and extensive lists of all the flaws of each main provider.

Ed was tall, gawky and had a face that inspired indifference. His hair was the type one would casually ruffle in a condescending way, and had the charisma of a box of crackers. Under his arm, he would have with him at all times a wooden pallet, and would often hop onto it to deliver awe-inspiring speeches. Most recently, he clambered onto the pallet to argue his point that “although Tubes are faster, I believe we should get the bus to the British Museum as it’s too hot on the tube and I get sweat patches. I’m just a regular guy, like the rest of you, and like the rest of Britain, I get sweat patches because I’m a regular bloke, like other blokes in Britain who likes getting the bus sometimes”. However, Dafydd kicked the pallet from underneath him and muttered “no one gives a shit Ed”.

The three of them were quite the remarkable triumvirate indeed.

Bernard’s Watch(ing you), Episode 4

(Episode 1, 2, 3 and linked)

They were all sat around in Karl’s huge room. “What shall we do tonight?” Charlotte asked.

“Moonies?” inquired Bernard.

“Fuck Moonies, it’s a Friday you twat” said Tia Maria. Bernard was quite upset by that response, he was just trying to fit in and he didn’t think he looked much like a female genitalia. Bernard withdrew into his shell. I am a strong, independent man he reassured himself. I am an intrepid warrior; I am like Genghis Khan. I am Genghis Khan.

“I have an idea” began Karl. Oh I bet you do, Bernard thought to himself, I bet it’s going to be really bloody good and Charlotte will want to marry you and then you’ll build a boat together called Felicity.

“I was speaking to one of my old pals who’s now at SOAS. There’s a really cool reggae bar in Brixton called Jamm, I think we should go”.

There was a general atmosphere of approval from the group. Xi ‘Jacques’ Wan, as usual, just manically nodded her head like a squirrel who has just done 8 lines of coke and drank 2 red bulls. Tia Maria looked generally nonplussed, but he always looks like that because he’s from The North. He reminded Bernard of one of the Urak Hai. Charlotte looked like she had literally had an orgasm. It was sickening. I wonder how she will respond when I eventually manage to trick her into bed with me, Bernard thought. ‘Bernard you are my big bear’ he wanted her to say. Bernard began growling softly under his breath.

It was 12am and they were in the Brixton Jamm. Bernard wasn’t sure what was going on; there were lots of people who had obviously got some sort of memo that meant they had to dress the same so as to trick everyone. What tricksters! All the girls were wearing denim shorts with an assortment of blouses. They all had their hair in buns. All the boys had the same facial expression, one of casual supremacy, and were wearing tight fitting jeans with oversized check shirts. Bernard was a wearing a suit. The others had warned him that it wasn’t one of those places, but Bernard had worn it regardless. It’s good to look smart, Bernard thought to himself rubbing his knee.

“Hey Bernard” Chalotte said to him, her beefy breath washing over him luxuriously “we’re going to have a weed, do you want some?”

Bernard most certainly did not want any. He’d heard horror tales from his mum about people who had a weed and their head had fallen off. “Yeah sure!” said Bernard, straining like an Olympian to feign enthusiasm.

They went outside, and sat on the steps of housing estate. Bernard was very nervous. An American, named Chad was with them; he was rolling the weed for them. Bernard assumed they had bought it off him. This had Karl’s handiwork written all over it. Once the man had made the weed stick, they began smoking it. “3 DP?” said Tia Maria, and they all agreed. What on earth does ‘3 DP’ stand for, Bernard thought. Bernard had a considerable amount of weed, in a vain attempt to impress Charlotte. She was too busy laughing to herself to notice. It was a strange sensation Bernard was experiencing. He felt like the whole world had slowed down, everything was very fuzzy and faintly amusing. His legs were wobbly and his head blurred. The American, Chad, looked a bit worse for wear, primarily because he had bought 2 large bags of Dorito’s, was now eating them and getting crumbs all over his fingers, chin and clothes. He was also ugly on biblical levels.

Bernard began to feel a bit queasy. The world had come to an absolute standstill, he felt like Doctor Who with total mastery of the space/time continuum. However, he could feel bile beginning to rise up in his stomach. He retched, put his head over the railings running along the sides of the steps and began to violently throw up with an admirable efficiency. Bernard was far too high to worry about Charlotte at this point, and besides, everyone throws up from time to time.  Then, a low, mournful and sonorous sound began to emanate from him. It was very loud and lasted at least 4 seconds. At first Bernard thought he had begun humming his favourite Dean Martin song, but then he realised he was actually farting very loudly. He was throwing up and farting at the same time. Now he began to worry about Charlotte. They were laughing like a group of hyenas and Bernard continued to fart loudly. He couldn’t control it. Why is this happening to me? Bernard thought. Why do the God’s forsake me so, what have I done to deserve this? He let out three more loud farts, each more mournful and sonorous than the last. The others couldn’t control themselves, Tia Maria had fallen over he was laughing so much and Charlotte had snorted. Like a pig.

In the taxi home they didn’t stop laughing. Chad was still with them, which was odd. Bernard had only one thing to console him; they didn’t know that during the chaotic combination of vomit, farting and laughing, a very sizable amount of poo had actually crept out like a reluctant mole coming up to the sunlight. At least they don’t know that, Bernard thought to himself, rubbing his knee.

5 Top Tips To GUARANTEE You’ll Have Loads of Sex, And I Mean Fucking Loads (FOR MEN!)

After many nights observing the British male in his natural habitat, lurking in the dark corners of dancefloors in London, Birmingham, Manchester and beyond, I have complied the five steps to ensure you mate.

Man

This is a British male. Beautiful isn’t he?

Follow these rules and you will be guaranteed some copulation with the prey.

Hunt

The hunt is on.

Leer

This is the arguably the most important step in our honourable quest. Girls, from my experience, absolutely love being leered at by large groups of males. If they didn’t, then large groups of males wouldn’t insist on doing it? Right?

But anyway, a good leer is a form of art. None of this ‘bedroom eyes’, ‘love at first sight’ bullshit; you need to undress the lucky lady with your eyes. Make her feel the objectification. Make her imagine the soft touch of your clammy hand clumsily trying to take her bra off (otherwise known as The Enemy). A well administered leer will set you well on your way to entrance into Sexland. I want to see those eyes googling, mouth hanging open and tongue lolling out. This is of paramount importance.

Shower her in compliments

This is a very subtle step. Once you have identified your Cinderalla then you need to shuffle awkwardly towards her on the dancefloor (top tip: have a fellow predator with you). Then stand within earshot and say any of the following (if you have a friend say it to him, if not, say it to yourself very loudly. It still works):

“Mate she’d get it” (romantic)

“Look at the tits on ‘er” (observational)

“Cor” (animalistic)

“Phwoar” (cultured)

Once she’s overheard you saying these, then she’ll know you’re interested. And she will be too.

Grab her tits and/or arse

This goes hand in hand with #2. Having hovered in her general vicinity showering her in compliments, or doing your mating cry, you then have to augment this with a measured and skilled thrust of your hand.

Girls are a complex creature and they like to pretend they don’t like being touched, but they love it really. Trust me on this one. So, thrust your hand out and get any piece of flesh you can get your grubby, sticky mitts on. If you can’t reach the Dynamic Duo (tits and arse. Cor!) then simply grab her wrist. A careful, precise yank will be needed though. I’m sure you can manage that though.

.He knows

He knows.

Repeat “The Mantra”

This step is vital. It is the assist before the goal. The exquisitely threaded through ball that splits the defence in two, for the onrushing striker to slot home (football metaphor; MAN!). This, my friends (or subjects, it’s up to you) is The Mantra.

As you may know, the representative of all men, Robin Thicke, produced an amazing song called Blurred Lines recently. In this song there is the following refrain repeated:

I know you want it
I know you want it
I know you want it

So, as you’re preparing to go in for the kill whisper softly under your breath ‘I know she wants it, I know she wants it, I KNOW SHE WANTS IT, SHE MUST WANT IT’ until you get yourself into an absolutely manic frenzy. I want to see you frothing at the mouth, eyes rolled back into your head, screaming at the top of your voice. This will get you psyched up ready for the final move. You have to be like this bloke in order to succeed:

uruk hai

He’s moving in.

The Final Approach

This is very simple. Go and talk; by now she’s got nowhere to run. I’ll give you a past example of a successful endeavour of my own.

Me: “Hello”

Fit Bird (phwoar!): “Hello”

Me: “Um, right, yes, I just thought I’d let you know that you’d get it”

Fit Bird: “Sorry, but get what exactly?”

Me: “Well, my penis”

Fit Bird: “I don’t understand…”

Me: “I’m giving you my penis. It’s a treat.”

Fit Bird: “Oh I see now, well, that’s a very kind offer”

Me: “So how about it?”

Fit Bird: “Hmm, to be honest I didn’t really fancy you, but you have such an exquisite way with words that I’m going to take you up on the kind offer”

Me: “Excellent”

Fit Bird: “Where would you like to give it to me then? I’m quite impatient. You are so sexy, I love the way you stand too close to me and stare really intensely at my breasts when I’m talking. I just want to have sex now”

Me: “Shall we? This dancefloor is very romantic, and I shan’t be long”

And then we copulated. True story people. Follow my golden rules and you’ll be having many experiences like my own.

You’re welcome.