There’s nothing more satisfying than forming a relationship with a salesman. It’s like rubbing yourself off against a human transaction. Because I’ve done most things that are thrilling and sexually enticing, I spend nine days in advertising, during which I came up with most of the slogans you’ll have heard in your life, such as “Kiss the Tandy” and “NOT PANDA PLOPS, PANDA POPS”. Here’s just a few of my incredible slogans that have made shareholders across the world instant billionaires.

MY TOP 6 ADVERTISING SLOGANS THAT CHANGED THE WORLD

WALNUT WHIP : “It’s got a nut on - and so will you, after you finger this fucker into your mush”

GANESH : “I know you don’t be steppin’ on this bad mother’s trunk, stone cold”

HOUSES : “No there isn’t a scullery, what are you, Edwardian or something”

THE POPULAR NINTENDO WII MACHINE : “Mine organs have beheld the wyrd illusion factorie ycleped thee Nintendo Wii, and my mum loves the Tennis like billy-o”

COFFEE : “Buy six coffees, and we’ll pamper a spastic”

BRITISH GAS : “British Gas puts the Gas Board into Smorgasboard.”

It was only a matter of time before the advertising department in the company I work for saw my incredible talent and <del>stole</del> incorporated one of my slogans into an item of hooded clotheswear. Check this out, fuckbuddies!

Behold, my addition to the world of PC gaming merchandise - “In The Absence Of Sexier Hobbies Or Bands I Like, I Wear PC Games Clothing”.

I am the advertiser. I just sold you.

Hi there. I’m a film star now, after sporting my ultra-modern beard in this internet video. I didn’t have that much to do with it, apart from reading stuff out and that, but anyway, it’s me, and I’m blogging it.

VideoJug: How To Survive A Zombie Apocalypse

Nyah, He-Man, you broke my staff again.

After a completely fabricated report from The People that Ian Huntley was on Facebook, the human race reacted with the revulsion you’d expect. Luckily, Facebook provides all of its users with immensely powerful tools for changing the world to exactly how it should be, without any noticeable delay.

Here’s ten posts from the GET HUNTLEY OFF FACEBOOK discussion group, which is one of the most successful groups around, because Huntley isn’t on Facebook. Can you tell which six posts are rabidly sincere, and the four which were posted by post-modern, meta-lolling internet wags?

1. personally i think people like this sick shit should have there hands and cocks cut off for everyone to see what they are plus they could never do it again! his prison life is fantatstic

2. Ian shouldnt be allowed to Sing!! all there should be in his cell is a bed, an alarm for if he starts Singing, and a machine to cut off his cock. He shoudlkt be allowed to sing

3. What needs to be done is;
* Prisons need to be Prisons not Hotels!
* Inmates All need Castrating!
* Sentences need to be Long and Brutal!
It worked before the 60’s after All the Fucking Hippies made the Country Sex Mad and now look at the State of the Nation well it’s getting as bad if not worse than the Lower of the Species in Africa!

4. If you cut his hands off, he’d just spear young girls to death with his stumps. Because I am anti-death penalty, I think the only solution is to remove both of this demon seed’s arms and legs, and replace them with bags full of smoke. I’d like to see this bastard kill people with bags of smoke for arms.

5. It seems that our twisted little fuck Huntley has signed to play for Margate FC (Ryman Premier Division) this season without the club or the community knowing about the danger he poses to the children, the town and oposing players. I think we should boycott Margate FC! until they sack the sick outside half. I for one will not be buying the club’s away jersey as planned. make yourself known to the sicko’s who signed this bastard and tell them what you think!

6. We here on the south coast of England wish the maggot filled fly infested vomit soaked urine drinking puss bucket of scum Ian Huntley all the very worst. We truly hope that Ian Huntley sufferers eternal headaches , toothaches , backaches , neck aches ,angina , gangrene ,and a very very very slow death in agony from every known cancer of every organ in his pathetic, weedy, wimpy, vile demonic corpse. Here are the sounds of athiest communist miners in hell. THESE ARE REAL.

7. I would like to see Ian’s hands cut off. At least Sutcliffe killed guilty whores.

8. Because of the human right acts saying all human beings should be treated they way they are being treated…. thus letting nonces prowl over the internet on the innocence, criminals living the life of luxery in prison and terrorist and extrimist to destroy our home kill our loved ones and reign terror on the good people of this country.

9. Prison seems to be like a luxury hotel! They should be locked up in tiny cells, with several people!

10. ian huntley should die is when he alive and being covered in petrol and burned alive and so should maxine carr

Answers to this year’s Real Or Hardly will be posted in the comments. In the meantime, here’s two screengrabs which I like, one of which is also a clue! The first topic is called

ian huntley and others alike him should have there hands and cocks cut off!

That was a lot of fun. But not as much fun as this topic, which is called, simply

“huntlel”

SERIOUSLY HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET IAN HUNTLEL OFF FACEBOOK IF NOBODY TAKES THE FACT HE IS ON FACEBOOK SERIOUSLY? I don’t CARE that he isn’t on Facebook. I WANT HIM OFF FACEBOOK. I don’t care about the fact that I’m generally against everything Muslims do - I WANT HIS CHILD-TOUCHING HANDS CHOPPED OFF. I want all the children he is talking to be warned in assembly that when he gets out of prison his is going to TOUCH THEIR PENSIONERS’ BOSOMS

Hello! Here is my happy story about bicycles, dwarves, and Richard Archer from Hard-Fi. It’s in three chapters!

CHAPTER ONE
BICYCLES

I have bought a bicycle. Having a bicycle is brilliant, even if you can’t just put your legs in the air and go forward by yelping enthusiastically. It’s exercise, it’s saving me money, it’s all the best things in the world and I can’t shriek at a high enough pitch to express my love for my new bicycle. I’ve only got one problem with my new bicycle - it’s too small, and I hate it.

I knew it was going to be too small, from the moment the 5′6″ sales assistant looked me up and down, and said “I’ll put you down for the twenty inch frame. That’s what I ride, and we’re the same height.”

I’m six feet tall, give or take OK TAKE half an inch. I’m a full penis taller than this guy. But you can’t say to a tiny fella “excuse me, knee-high superguy, wake up and smell the congenital defect - you’re a tiddler”. I dated someone who was 5′8″ once, and he’d have a spaz attack if you prefaced any insult with the word “little”. I can only imagine how someone two inches more miniscule - and substantially deluded about his own height - would react if I rested my chin on his head and told him he was like a dinky toy version of a real man. He’d probably hop from foot to foot and shake his pea-sized fist at me.

Partly to prevent this humiliating situation, and partly because I’m convinced he’s a biter, I console myself with the idea that I can just put the seat up myself. Turns out, right, I’m so fat it goes down again while I cycle. Lol! Fat people. In retrospect, though, I think I made the right decision. Cycling with my knees bumping against my chest is a small price to pay for the dignity of a man who isn’t as tall as he thinks he is.

The theme I will be taking from Chapter One to Chapter Two is “a simmering strangeness around short people”.

CHAPTER TWO
DWARVES

A genuine dwarf came into the office, yesterday. He was promoting a Lord of the Rings game, under the pretence that he was a Hobbit.

As a professional dwarf, he’s completely aware of his position. And when I say his position, I mean his position as a man who’s as sexless to women as a disabled gay. Far from discouraging him, he realises that this means he can abuse his position as honorary child by groping the bums of ladies. No well-groomed lady will shriek in horror at the leering advances of a dwarf. Instead, they will laugh, and say “oh, you! You’ve seen what we do and you’re copying us!”

So, this sex pest mini-man is perfectly aware of, and profiting from, his shortness. It should, in theory, be perfectly acceptable for me to go up to him and say “can I have a photo of you riding me like a horse, please?” He must get cunts like me coming up to him with this kind of shit all the time.

TOP FIVE REQUESTS MADE OF PROFESSIONAL DWARF

1. Can you ride me like a horse please, like I am a big proud horse
2. Can I knock on your overhanging forehead please, I want to see whether it’s like a block of wood or an aquarium
3. Please can I stand you on the handle-end of a fork, then slam my hand on the stabbling end, and you go flying through the air
4. Can I see your teeth please, I want to see if you’re adapted for an omnivorous lifestyle
5. Get your cocktail sausage hands off my tits please, this stopped being charming some minutes ago and I can see your erection

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I got up a few times and moved backwards and forwards, but I got nowhere near actually saying “ride me” to a dwarf. Annoyingly, this is because I respect people in real life, getting my kicks instead from being a dick on the internet.

The problem is, this leaves me without a photo of me being ridden like a horse by a dwarf dressed as a Hobbit. Which I really, really, wanted. God, I can’t explain how much I want that photo.

The theme I will be taking from Chapter Two to Chapter Three is “lost opportunities, and a lingering preoccupation with being ridden like a horse”.

CHAPTER THREE
RICHARD ARCHER FROM HARD-FI

I’ve met Richard Archer from Hard-Fi before, when he was in less popular bands like Contempo, Parachute, Transitional XHTML, Richard Archer And The Randy Binmen, and the extremely unpopular Jewstabber. He’s a friend of a friend, but I’ve always been a bit too dazzled by him to ever say anything other than “OH WOW A SONG ARE YOU GAY”. This was certainly the first time I’d met him since he became an international superstar, and toast-chomping spokesperson for the underclasses, or whatever it is the NME thinks he is.

Because I’m concentrating on not saying anything too obvious, my brain turns into an ale-fuelled tumble dryer. He’s not being a prick at all, like I’d expected. Like, pretty much, I demand of my reputedly-cunt celebrities.  He’s responding to questions without holding court, and being unassuming, modest and aware of the madness - but all I’m really thinking for two hours is “I wonder if he’ll let me take a photo of him riding me like a horse”.

He’s got more to lose than a dwarf dressed as a Hobbit, who - it could easily be argued - has nothing to lose but a life of punishing introspection and sex offences. Richard Archer’s enough of a celebrity, and any photo of him riding me like a horse is going to look so much like doggy-style sauciness that it might compromise his position as an available lady’s man.

Driven by the lost opportunity of the morning, where I swore to myself I’d never not ask someone to ride me like a horse ever again, I asked him if he would do this one favour for me. Did he comply? HOW, SIR, DO YOU LIKE THESE APPLES?

Richard Archer from Hard-Fi, thank you for riding me like a horse. And may I take this opportunity to reassure any of his fans that it isn’t going in. It’s just sort of sliding around the small of my back. OH SHUT UP LOG

Hi there, Jennifans!

As you all know, my life is amazing, and I have three bags full of crazy fun with every mouthful. However, that’s not to say that my daily life isn’t an agonizing catalogue of loss and regret. It’s because I love so much, and so intensely - the only equivalent I can think of, based on what I’ve been doing in the last twenty minutes - is that my love is an EMP bomb. Sure, it knocks out all the electronics and causes chaos, and sure, it’ll damage any friendly security bots you’ve hacked into; but it lets you open that door. The door to love.

The video is briefly unavailable, thanks to a bunch of humourless cunts who think more of their own legal rights than they do of my rights to dick about on the internet. In the spirit of good will, I’m going to get the video hosted elsewhere, but until I manage that, here’s an H1 fuck you to the cunts in the comments section.

FUCK YOU, CUNTS.

Rosy Rockets is a bucket of inspiration.
Raz is a pixel genius.
I had an argument with an old woman who claimed my dad was fucking my sister in law.

I never thought these things would come together, but they have.

First, read the post about Irene, because it sets up the whole story. It’s also one of those good posts that makes me wonder where my writing mojo may have fucked off to. Make sure you listen to the sound file, for optimum “getting it”.

Then, click play on what Raz and Rosy did, below. It’s fucking brilliant. Absolutely requires sound.

1. Click on the image above, which is a link to a legible version of it.

2. Print the menu out, and take it to any of the family-friendly pub food chains.

3. Demand any of the items on your menu at the bar. Remember to make a note of your table number.

4. When they say it is not on the menu, say “don’t tell me it is not on the menu, I’ve got the menu right here in my hands, and I can assure you that it is very much on it”.

5. Begin a life-changing law suit based on the disappointment of your child, and children everywhere.

FACE 9: THIS IS BETWEEN YOU AND ME
Now, you have won my trust. I’m going to give you a tiny box. I want you to take this box into a mysterious cave, and place it on a dais, or plinth. If you are there at the prescribed time, a shaft of sunlight will enter the antechamber; you should guide this light into the serpent’s ruby eye (not the emerald!). If you do this, you will unlock the final room, which contains the wretched mulligatawny of my vestigial soul. Bring it back to me, and if you come back past the corner shop, get me a can of Top Deck and some Skittles please.

FACE 10: OH SHIT, NOW YOU DONE IT
Mother of piss! That’s the emerald eye! Did my expression in Face 9 not convey the full gravity of my instructions? I’m afraid you have activated the ancient defence mechanisms of this Peruvian tomb, and a terror more deadly than the world has known is about to erupt from the long-dormant volcano. Can you feel it, Jeremy? Can you feel the evil? It’s delicious, isn’t it? So naughty. It makes me want to put on some new socks and paddle in sick. That’s how naughty it makes me feel. Oh, Jeremy, your face is a picture. Can you see what it is, yet?
FACE 11: NOW YOU MUST FACE ME IN COMBAT
That’s right, it’s me! I’m Jimmy Carr. The worldly body that has entertained you ridiculous humans with jokes such as “if we’re all God’s children, what’s so special about Jesus” was, in fact, just a projection of my eternal, malevolent soul. My weakened spirit form was cursed to tell only the truth, so I was forced to search long and hard for a red-green colour-blind fan of my comedy who might venture into the forbidden chamber and accidentally unlock my soul by shining the sunlight into the emerald, not the ruby! Yes, it is a little involved, but that’s the idle games of the immortals for you. The laughter ends now, sweet Jeremy, for I am reborn! Put ‘em up, shitbag. I’ll bite you a new cunt.

FACE 12: YOUR FLAILING ATTEMPTS AT KARATE BEMUSE ME
What… what are you doing? You think that by hopping from leg to leg, and making small circles with your fists, you are fighting me? I am a million cubits of air, solid with hate! You think that I will show you mercy, because of your tenacious attitude and unflappable spirit of can-do? You underestimate me; I am Jimmy Carr. I invented cigarettes, and drippy willies. I am the man who stands, hands on hips, over the fallen bodies of geriatric women whose shopping carts picked up a bit too much speed on a hill. I’m financially astute. I’m a billion bee-stings on a million bell-ends. That said, you do look adorable like that. Come on, hop into my top pocket, and we’ll go to Halfords. I need a new D-lock for my Chopper. Do you remember Choppers?

Whatever next? Will the final four faces of Jimmy Carr carry on this story, or the one in the last episode? Or will it unify the two strands in a shocking twist that’ll have you gasping for respite? Find out in Part Three of… The Sixteen Faces Of Jimmy Carr.

Pictures taken from jimmycarr.net - probably the most unfinished fansite ever to write itself into the wikipedia entry for Jimmy Carr.

Russell sits in his chair. He looks around, whistling, and takes a sip out of his coffee. He smacks his lips a couple of times, and looks confused. He points his finger into the air, before flying it around like an aeroplane, and bringing it down on his intercom button.

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
Yes, sir?

RUSSELL T DAVIES
Oh, thank you Jenny. I don’t mean to be a bother, but this coffee… is it gay? It’s just that I asked for gay coffee. And this coffee… well, I can’t tell what it is, to be honest.

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
It’s the gayest I could find. The problem is that coffee doesn’t really have a sexuality, sir.

RUSSELL T DAVIES
Doesn’t it? How tedious. In that case, just pop it into an anus and I’ll drink it from a straw.

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
Right away, Mr Davies.

Russell whistles happily to himself. A flicker of concern shows on his face, and he presses the intercom button again, this time a little more urgently.

RUSSELL T DAVIES
Jenny?

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
Yes, Mr Davies?

RUSSELL T DAVIES
You will make sure that’s a male anus, won’t you?

PA TO MR RUSSELL T DAVIES
Of course, sir.

RUSSELL T DAVIES
Lovely, thanks.

Russell T Davies pats his head and rubs his tummy at the same time, laughing to himself. He is the happiest man in the world.

Can anyone beat my black, homeless dwarf for a minority super-niche? I found him outside Elephant & Castle station, and because I’m such an amazing minority myself - it ain’t easy bein’ this pretty, you jealous bitches - I knew we’d get along. We talked about how much money the council threw at us, the arts funding we’d applied for, and the dozens of other brazen and limitless demands we make on the average hard-working taxpayer.

Then we laughed, and laughed, and laughed. A stupid member of the silent majority stopped, and asked us what was so funny. We just looked at each other and started laughing again!

MINORITY WATCH
Hi. I’m Richard Littlejohn. I’m not racist, but I do think there should be stricter controls on the foreign things I’m forced to see. Have you found a multiple-minority who might be making your house less desirable to a heroic WW2 veteran? Perhaps an Indian family actually tried to buy your house, in an attempt to disgust you into leaving Britain once and for all, like I did.

Tell me your shocking stories of minorities just walking around like they own the place, and I’ll GO FUCKING MENTAL AND LEAVE THE COUNTRY AGAIN. Where will I end up? That depends on YOU!