Ode to my satchel

As a would-be-writer, what is more apt?
Then to have as a bag a nice leather satch?
It makes me look rather smart,
There is one problem: it smells of fart.

I wear my satchel with pride and joy,
There stands a man where once was a boy.
A brilliant vehicle for books and my phone,
But when I wear it there is always a groan.

I used to thrust my head in the sand,
I couldn’t accept it, you must understand.
But like a fox who’s wearing a thong,
I knew deep down that something was wrong.

One day, eventually, I had to give in,
Gossip heard above big city din.
I’m on a bus, behind, sit two young girls,
One with straight hair, one with curls.

“Saturday, did Sandra kiss Barry?” they ask,
My face becoming a very bored mask.
“I’m really not sure, but something stinks”
I look at my satchel and it leers and winks.

My satchel was treated in camel piss,
It makes it look great but here’s the twist:
My satch smells of arse and stinks out my room,
But I love it so much I endure the fume.

What shall I do? Shall I throw it away?
My mind says yes but my heart says nay.
I love it, I love it, I can’t let it go,
You say otherwise you’re a lifelong foe.

This is a tale of conflicted love,
The satchel was crafted by the Lord Above.
Yes, it reeks, but it looks great with my mac,
And the same cannot be said of an old rusksack.

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!

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.

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.

Really Interesting and Lovely Things I Saw on a Run Today, Part 2

As I mentioned in another post a few months ago (yes, that’s a long time. I’m sorry but I’m just inconsistent, I promise to get better) I have begun the act of running which is a form of exercise (those words in italics are the original Latin spellings) and have vowed to inform you of all the interesting shit I see whilst plodding and spluttering around.

Yesterday I went for a very intense run indeed, featuring lots of really fast running but then some slow running.

Really Interesting and Lovely Things I Saw on a Run Today:

The ghost of my dead grandfather.

Wow, that’s a bit macabre isn’t it? How on earth did that happen? Well, as I mentioned this was a very intense run and I didn’t have enough to drink, unfortunately. So after about 20 minutes I began to become dehydrated, and then I began to hallucinate. And there he was. I’ve never actually met my grandfather as he died before I was born so don’t know what he looks like. But it was definitely him; he was old, wearing a hi-vis North Face cagoule (as they were very popular during WW2) and was walking a ghost dog that was barking and trying to sniff my arse.

It was definitely him. I’m sure of it.

Ghost

Thought(s) For The Evening

Do racists see the irony in the fact that they all love curry? Every single racist person I’ve ever met have loved a beer and a curry. Do they see it? Do they?

Do I see the irony in the fact that in my attempt to deride racists, I made a sweeping generalisation, in the same way that they do? Do I see it? Do I?Image

I bet all of these fuckers love a curry.