Having had a relatively severe falling-out with the local Dungeons and Dragons society, I was forced to leave the country, for fear of a Level 15 Necrophiliac casting a spell on me. As everyone knows, Dungeons and Dragons enthusiasts are allergic to sunlight; so, having consulted my Dora the Explorer atlas, I realised that the logical destination was the exotic land of Spain, where I knew I could not be followed. To my complete horror, when I arrived in Spain, the local tribesmen’s English was utterly appalling. Obviously, I had not bothered to learn Spanish, because, as a British person, I am already speaking the correct language. I have already drafted a brief, four hundred page letter to the king of

Taking a break from looking at my neighbour through her window with my night-vision goggles, I was horrified to turn and see a mouse standing in the doorway of my lounge. The hideous beast’s fiery eyes locked onto mine, the sheer malevolent hatred emanating from them nearly caused me to burst into flames where I sat. The monster began thundering across the room, causing the room to shake as if a nearby washing machine was on a spin cycle. It’s teeth flashed like sabres in the darkened room, it’s murderous intent was clear – it was coming for me! As the fluffy, two inch death-machine hurtled towards me, I did what any man in my position would do and promptly soiled

Late one night, while sewing sequins to my new vigilante super hero outfit, I was flicking entirely randomly between TV channels when a girl appeared on screen dancing with no clothes on. I was understandably concerned that she had not noticed that her clothes had fallen off, so I immediately called the number on screen.  Thirty seconds and a £25 phone call later, I had established that, in fact, the girl knew that she had no clothes on. However, she informed me that she liked my sense of humour and I sounded super sexy on the phone, so she would like to meet. For a mere £60 an hour! This was far less than people usually charge me to spend

You know, I’m getting really tired of people calling me shallow. Just because I like fluffy pink things and don’t understand long sentences, doesn’t mean that I’m an air-head. Books and the news are boring, everyone knows that, so I mean, OMG, don’t judge me for not paying attention. I read my favourite footballers’ Tweets, so it’s not like I don’t know what’s going on in the world. I really like footballers. This one time, I wanked-off Eric Cantona behind the recycling bins at Lidl. I didn’t realise he had such a strong Geordie accent, but he had a t-shirt with his name on the back, so it must have been him. It felt super dirty because there were loads

As every socially-dysfunctional Sea Monkey enthusiast knows, Christmas time is a veritable minefield of potentially awkward incidents throughout the workplace. Every year, I manage to navigate these situations with the competence of the Titanic tip-toeing it’s way through an iceberg-based obstacle course. Essentially, the final two weeks of December involve me pinballing from one restraining-order-inducing situation to another. Personally, I blame Jesus – if he hadn’t had his birthday on Christmas day, I wouldn’t have to endure this ritual humiliation every year. The first dilema is always whether or not to make inappropriate sexual advances towards my boss at the Christmas party, as I believe that that is what you are supposed to do at this time of year. Despite the

As everyone knows, it is fast approaching Christmas day, the time of year when we celebrate the original biblical terminator, Jesus Christ’s, birthday. These celebrations however, do little more than mask the sheer terror that we are forced to endure every year. It is a terror which many of us reefuse to acknowledge. I am of course referring to the jolly red fear-machine, Santa Clause. For the majority of the year, I suffer with terrible insomnia, on account of the pending home invasion which I experience every Christmas eve. For the past 37 years, I have woken on Christmas morning to find my home in utter chaos – unidentified, suspicious packages from floor to ceiling; each one potentially a ticking time

The coalition government today announced a controversial new scheme designed to bailout the UKs crippled hairdressing industry. The scheme, which will cost the UK taxpayer billions, is set to be rolled out next year. The industry, which was previously regarded as cut above the rest, has fallen on hard times due to the complete and utter disregard for client requests, coupled with the sale of products which were too complex for the general public. It is intended, amongst other objectives, to educate the UK’s mathematically challenged barnet sculptors in the mystical art of calculating fractions. It is hoped that this will allow the discerning gent to safely ask for “a quarter off”, without fear of complete annihilation of his painstakingly cultivated

Thanks Good Housekeeping (if that really is your name) for the recommendation to add a sequin to my crotchless Sponge Bob Square Pants swimming trunks ensemble. While (as you rightly pointed out) the addition of the sequin did not kill me, it has resulted in serious injury and mental trauma. As well as incredible style. Having spent the usual twenty minutes squeezing myself into the trunks, I then began attaching the sequin. Two days later; with so much loose thread about my person that I looked like a kidnap victim of the popular celebrity and talk-show host Spider Man; I had succeeded in attaching the sequin. However, I had sadly also sewn myself to myself. And sofa. While I had planned

Like many men on the underground weasel-boxing scene, I have to supplement my prize-fighting income with a fully paid job. Imagine my horror when, on a day when we were permitted to wear our own clothing, I was permanently sent home from work due to my attire. Having spent over a year making the outfit; it was safe to say, I was downright dis-pleased (apologies to any readers who were offended by my uncharacteristically foul language there). I turned up late to work, as I normally do, believing that the dress down day would be the perfect opportunity to involve my colleagues in my hobby and demonstrate my exceptional talent for cross-stitch. My latest creation (and the offending outfit) from The

Operation Yewtree has captured it’s latest perpetrator, investigators are delighted to reveal. The suspect cannot be named due to legal implications, so every effort will be made not to reveal the culprit’s identity. Our lawyers have advised that referring to him (or her) as Donald D is deemed to be too obvious, so he (or she) will be referred to as Mr D Duck for the remainder of the article; in order to maintain their anonymity. They will also be referred to as “he”, however, readers should be aware that this could be another layer in the elaborate ploy to keep their identity secret. Mr D Duck first came to investigator’s attention when he regularly turned up to work as a