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.

Bernard’s Watch(ing you), Episode 3

(You can find Episode one here, and Episode two here)

Bernard watched attentively as his lecturer explained what the course would be about. He glanced about searching for Charlotte amongst the herd of dozing students. He couldn’t see her anywhere. Bernard looked to his left and appraised the slumped student on his laptop. He was flitting lazily between Facebook and Guardian Sport. There was also a window opened called LiveJasmine.com. I like flowers too mused Bernard. What a silly way to spend his time, Bernard thought to himself as he furiously typed every single word the lecturer said. His fingers moved swiftly and deftly and the sound he was emanating was like a hoard of locusts.

The lecturer gazed out at the audience “Any questions?” he asked. Bernard’s arm shot up like an unwanted erection in year 10.

“At what point will we be doing Marx’s critique of the capitalist structure and his dialectical theory of history?” Bernard asked, knowing that his question showcased his stupendous genius.

“Week 17” came the blunt reply. The lecturer’s eyes were blank. Why wasn’t he staring at me with admiration and hope, thought Bernard, surely my question illustrated my intelligence, surely he wants to nurture me and make me his protégé?

“You may be dismissed” he said as students streamed past Bernard. Bernard was expecting someone to congratulate him on his brazen question but it was not to be. He could merely overhear innocuous conversations: “Did you see that girl at the front?” said one sexually frustrated teen to another. “Man, I was so fucked last night; I had 10 pints” said one liar to another. “My daddy works for Goldman Sachs” said one twat to another.

Bernard began to reflect on his time at school as he trudged out of the lecture hall on his own. He could still hear the accusatory jibes ringing in his head. “George Bernard Shawsese” they had called him, for his religious obsession, borderline addiction, of the works of Martin Scorsese. Bernard had vowed that at university he was going to drop the ‘George’ from his name, and be known only as ‘Bernard’. It had a nice ring to it and made him feel like a bear. He had considered introducing himself as Bernardé but then he realised he was neither French nor handsome enough to pull off such an audacious name. Bernard it would be.

“Shall we head back?” a recognisably alluring voice cooed. Charlotte stood behind him; he could almost feel her deliciously stale breath warming his neck. She needs a glass of water, swooned Bernard feeling his heart batter against his chest like a bird on LSD.

“Yes, we shall” replied Bernard, whilst frantically trying to quash the evolving bulge in his crotch through his hand in his pocket. Luckily Bernard was wearing his favourite tight-fitting ‘Game of Thrones’ y-fronts and the bulge was thoroughly nipped in the bud. Bernard and Charlotte began the short walk back to halls. She languidly began to link his arm. I feel like Snoopedy Dog, Bernard thought to himself.

The walk back was great, thought Bernard as he reclined in his room. They talked about some really important things; whether the world exists or maybe we’re just brains in a vat; perhaps Marx was right, but his timing was just wrong; is it possible to do a truly selfless act? All sorts of enlightening things that no one had ever talked about before.

When Bernard and Charlotte got home they went to dinner at halls together. It was simply awful; some sort of curry that had goat in it – a goat! -, tasteless rice, all pleasantly topped off with a flourish with a block of sponge coated in lobulated ‘custard’ which Bernard was sure the cook had spat out. But the awfulness of the dinner was made redundant by Charlotte’s transcendental presence. She had such an ease within herself; when someone asked a question she averted her eyes and shifted her feet, when a boy said hello she spluttered like a dying fish, when Bernard told her he liked her hair she scratched at it awkwardly like a starving mouse. Just how I like girls, he thought rubbing his knee.

Bernard returned to his room to do some reading for his class in a week’s time. Bernard liked to seek solace in his academic articles. His brain was expanding like the broken condom that brought him into this life.

It was a Tuesday night and Tia Maria, Xi ‘Jacques’ Wan and Karl were all going to a pubbing house. A house of pub called ‘The Rocket’. Bernard immediately thought of astronauts and the fragility and inanity of human life when he heard the name; he has no control over his soaring philosophical thoughts. Bernard had thought this a great idea; apparently it was a pound a pint! I only need 3 quid to have a great night Bernard thought smugly rubbing his knee.

And a great night he did until it ended acrimoniously with Bernard calling Karl a ‘pseudo-intellect’. Bernard deeply regretted this slight. He had never said anything quite so scathing before, and it weighed heavily on his conscience like Mrs Crocker’s leering breasts weigh heavily in his darkest dreams.

Bernard’s Watch(ing you), Part 1

Episode 1

The M5 stretched gloriously out in front of Bernard. Not only was he appreciative of the grey artistry, but today the M5 was more than just a modern architectural masterpiece; it was an opportunity. Today was Bernard’s moving in day at the prestigious London School of Economics and Political Science. Today, Bernard was diving headfirst into an intellectual world of discussion and high powered debate. I am going to simply flourish, Bernard thought to himself. He caught his reflection in the wing-view mirror. Looking back at him was an enigmatic, brooding political philosopher to be. His hair was sufficiently messed up, but in a good way. It said, look at me, I don’t care how my hair looks because my hair is sat atop a brain so magnificently analytical that even my hair can’t contain itself. Bernard’s dad looked at Bernard outside the corner of his eye. Christ, he thought, I hope he gets a shag at this university.

School had been difficult to Bernard. An awkward looking child with long gawky legs and sinewy arms, he had the gait of one who knew that their penis was just a bit too small. He was awful at sport, and the only thing he did excel at he was mocked for; academia. Just the word sent a warm tingle through his body. This feeling must surely be better than sex, Bernard thought to himself with the assuredness of one who has seen but one pair of breasts. That was when Mrs Crocker’s blouse fell down in History class to reveal two veined monstrosity’s that burrowed deep into Bernard’s innocent soul. That incident had troubled Bernard greatly. Yes, school had been hard for Bernard, but university would be different. Bernard simply couldn’t wait.

“Do you need a hand with that dusty old suitcase?” asked a spritely young American in a pinstripe suit as Bernard clambered out of his battered old Megane with a wheeze. The “that” sounded like an elongated vowel to Bernard, he simply despised the Southern drawl that these Southerners have picked up from the gutters of American populist literature. “Why are you wearing that dusty old suit?” was Bernard’s response. His quick rapport was followed by a warm feeling that spread into a smug grin. This feeling, he thought, was akin only to the delectable feeling of urinating underwater.

It was evening time and Bernard had only met his 5 flatmates. The first person was the laconic American who had left a bitter taste in Bernard’s mouth. Will they all wear pin-striped suits he thought desolately? The next boy was decked out in jeans, white pumps and an awfully tight-fitting Hollister top. Perched upon his head was the most hair gel Bernard had ever seen. He insisted that Bernard call him Tia Maria, after his favourite liquor. Xi Wan was the third; a softly spoken Malaysian girl who went by the name of Jacques. Fourthly there was Charlotte who transported Bernard into an infinity pool of rosewater. Her small brown eyes seemed to look deep into his soul past what he previously thought was an impermeably philosophical armoury, mainly because he’d never locked eyes with a girl before, not since Mrs Crocker. Although her brown hair was unwashed and tangled, her skin pasty, her cheeks sallow and her lips the antithesis of voluptuous, Bernard saw in her what he had never seen in any other girl. Potential. The anticipation that proceeded the introductory pleasantries nearly killed Bernard. Thankfully, her first words boded well for Bernard’s dreams. “A bit of light chick lit” she jeered gesturing at Bernard’s copy of Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War. Bernard’s legs gave way.

When the mists of burning sexual frustration cleared, a face he didn’t recognise clattered into view. “Hello, my name is George Bernard Shaw, I’m studying Politics and Philosophy, my favourite book is Machiavelli’s Discources on Livy, it’s much better than The Prince don’t you think? I’m from Ireland, I got straight A’s at A level; no I didn’t go to private school” gushed Bernard’s well-versed introductory speech.

The face responded with a cursory shrug of graceful shoulders “I’m Karl Popper. I did go to private school. I personally think Discources on Livy was a bloated piece of literature. It is far surpassed by the sharpness of The Prince, and the ambivalence of the book that has so stimulated discussion, don’t you think?” Bernard was speechless. An equal, he exhaled internally. Someone who can match my intellectual prowess, someone I can journey with. Of course, this jubilance did not manifest itself in Bernard’s actions. He remained cool and composed.

“Interesting” said Bernard, as his door swung behind him with a resonating clang.

It was 4am in the early morning, the latest Bernard had ever been awake. He had lost his dignity on the dance floor of Tiger Tiger. Two shots of vodka, followed by 2 cans of cider. What was he thinking? Bernard was sure he had seen Tia Maria drinking at least 8 cans of beer over the course of the evening of debauchery. Bernard looked into the mirror of his room. A bleary eyed, wobbling 18 year old stared blankly back at him. I hope I didn’t look this when me and Charlotte dissected the social structure of Western society, Bernard worried to himself.

Bernard concluded that he was drunk. This was not what he had been expecting.

Generation Self

Recent data collected by The Guardian has suggested that this fine generation is more self-interested and less community minded than those generations that preceded us. The data does not lie. It is correct. We don’t give a shit about anything other than ourselves, and you know what, that’s really nice. Who cares about other people? Not us! Who cares about poverty? Not us! Who cares about climate change? Not us! This is so liberating and fantastic I just want to go and celebrate. But not with my friends or anything, no, that would be too community minded; I’m going to go and get pissed on my own and buy a suit on eBay to wear to Tesco’s so everyone thinks I’m going into banking. I am going into banking. Banking is really brilliant. It’s like playing Monopoly, but with real money, so it’s way more exciting.

The survey suggests that we don’t care about our neighbours as much as the ‘baby boomers’ or ‘generation x’ used to. And this is a bad thing? How is my utility maximised from ‘hey Barbara how are you’ or some other innocuous pleasantries? It’s not! If it was ‘hey Barbara, do you want to have sex’ then my utility would be maximised if the reply is yes. It is obvious that Barbara was very attractive as a younger woman. But it’s not so forget it. We have to ask about the weather or, how they are and they won’t have sex with us like that. It takes effort. I don’t care how you are Barbara, I truly, truly don’t. There is nothing quantifiably good about talking to neighbours, or even building up a relationship with them, so why bother? It’s pointless, I’d be better off talking to myself, because then I can say nice things.

“Hey Fionn, how are you?”

“I’m good man, I really like your coat mate, it’s beautiful”

“Oh thanks man, I like your face it’s really nice”.

Now that is maximising my utility isn’t it. Not only have I been told I have a lovely coat, but also a lovely little face. What could be bad about that? Seriously? Nothing. Nothing about that is bad. My utility is maximised and so is my ego. Bingo.

The results of the survey also suggest that we don’t care about the wider British community and society. For example, apparently our generation has no love for the NHS. And too right! Who bloody cares about the people in hospital? Unless it’s me in hospital (which won’t ever happen because I’m invincible), or maybe a family member, and at a push a good friend, then I might care a bit. But it’s not. I don’t know these people, why should I care if people are suffering and dying and what not. It’s not affecting me in any way personally. The NHS is so archaic. Looking after those in society who can’t afford to themselves? Oh give me a break you pontificating fools. I mean literally that is just silly. It’s just ridiculous. Let them die, let them die, let them die.

Another thing we’re being berated for is that apparently we don’t care about the welfare state, and we’re not as proud of it as we used to be. Yes. And? Your point? The welfare state is just a monumental waste of money. I think it’s quite clear and evident that if you’re stupid enough to need you know, support, be it financial or any other kind, and from the government then it is your own fault. That is obvious to me. I mean, why the fuck should my taxes go (I don’t pay any taxes but if I did it would be an outrage) to some pauper who needs money for her kids or something ridiculous like that. It’s not my problem!

No, my problem is whether I should spend my hard-earned student loan that I earned by filling out this really arduous and intellectually challenging form, which really took ages, like the best part of an afternoon (fucking hell!), on the following: a) booze; b) drugs; c) clothes to make me look fantastic; d) clothes that make me really fucking gorgeous; e) prostitutes; f) the new iPhone; g) hats. I think it goes without saying that all these things are very, very pressing. So, when I’ve got such big massive issues on my mind, then why would I want to give my hard earned future money (I’m going into banking remember so I’ll have loads of money that is really hard to earn because you have to like fiddle figures and stuff) to some fucking poor person? Do they even have really nice hats? No, they don’t. And that alone is enough to let them fester in their horrible little council flats. Why, oh why, am I expected to somehow endorse and be proud of this farcical ‘welfare state’ that looks after people and gives benefits. Why?

Generation Self is not a criticism. You’ve really just got to look after number one. Look after yourself. And we do that. And you know what, it’s really, really nice and we love it. The most important thing in life is you, and everyone else can go fuck themselves. I’m off to play Fifa. It’s great.