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


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.


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

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


The hunt is on.


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), 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.