My Holidays So Far

Here in Britain, high school has finished but college has not yet begun. It’s holiday time; Kleenex consumption is through the roof and my bed is gaining a near-permanent imprint of my body.

Mankind, the greatest of the apes, is really good at two things: eating and shagging (as such, I consider myself something of an exemplar of the human race). However, doing other things in order to quell the gnawing sense of boredom that inevitably afflicts anyone stuck in their room for several weeks is a task for which evolution did not prepare us.
This article is a look at the ways I’ve failed to cope with boredom and loneliness these past few weeks. I don’t have a lot to do, especially since my girlfriend recently buggered off to another country, so I’m going through a sort-of sexual cold turkey. That sounds like a novelty sex toy, but it really isn’t very fun.

I firstly went to a place called Devon. It’s a rural, seaside place, where it seems the entire population has been infected with a virus that makes them utterly retarded; it’s like a special needs version of I am Legend. There’s an average of 5 brain cells per square mile in Devon, as a brief chat with any of the hideous, inbred locals will reveal. The place I was staying was situated near a town called Westward Ho!. No, I didn’t add that exclamation mark. Some fatuous dotard decided that it would be a good idea to put an exclamation mark in the name of a town. Exclamation marks are my least favourite type of punctuation. Bloody hell.
While I was staying there, I witnessed a guy pissing quite nonchalantly off the side of a boat, and also watched my step-uncle bludgeon a sea bass to death. Somehow, I feel that chugging along in a motorboat with my arse vibrating like a high-speed dildo wasn’t made any better by having fish guts splattered across my lifejacket.

So, narrowly escaping the Retard Apocalypse, I headed back to civilisation, the comfort of my PC and the wonderful realm of dancing naked ladies known as the internet. Settling back into my hectic masturbation schedule, I returned to the mundane repetitiveness of life in my bedroom. Thankfully, my parents have never caught me masturbating… I imagine that situation would be like a Nazi patrol finding a family of Jews hiding in a cupboard.

If there’s one pointless thing that I always fall into the trap of participating in, it’s going to theme parks. Queuing for hours in order to have my guts turned inside-out for 30 seconds is not, when considered with a modicum of intelligence, a very good idea, so I found myself questioning my own reasoning faculties when I agreed to go to Thorpe Park.
Queuing is in itself a very painful experience; while I bring shame to my British heritage by expressing my dislike of queues, I think one has to accept that queuing is especially awful when you’re surrounded by disgusting freaks. And believe me, such people travel in large packs to Thorpe Park; it was as if Jeremy Kyle’s audience had been released for a day trip.

So, it would seem that the eradication of boredom is an endeavour that’s doomed to fail; even temporary release from its miseries comes at a price, whether that’s fending off armies of goat-groping goons or waiting in line with a hellishly hideous horde of horribly horrendous humans. It gives quite a bit of free time in which to think up some unnecessary alliterative phrases, though.

Some people go to extreme lengths to entertain themselves, such as throwing a cat in a wheelie bin. There’s been a lot of outrage over Mary Bale’s recent news story, but I think that woman may well have invented a fantastic new sport. After I’ve finished writing this, I’m going to assemble a crack team of cat-catchers, and try to fill up as many wheelie bins in a day as I can. If you’d like to join the team, or you’d just be willing to donate some more wanking tissues for me, email bangell153@yahoo.co.uk. Please note that you will require at least 5 years of experience of doing random shit that pops into your head, as well as either a written recommendation or CCTV footage of you lackadaisically flinging cats around.



You won’t be so chirpy when Mary Bale gets her hands on you, motherfucker.

Once again, I reach the conclusion of an article realising that there is no point. There is no point to this article and there is no point to life. But let me reassure you, dear readers; I do not intend to leave you on such a negative note. Far be it from me to spread further misery in this already-wretched world. Take hope, for I bring good tidings: I’ll be serving up more of this bullcrap next week.
Now, let’s fuck with some kittens.

P.S. For those who missed it before, check out The Paedophile Chronicles trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWCfNCCG9rw