ABOUT: Looks like several dogs standing on each other's shoulders and wearing a coat in an attempt to get into a cinema to watch a film about a bum that's come to life.
Looks like what would happen if the moon lost its job and started sleeping rough around Milton Keynes and stealing suits from outside the British Heart Foundation charity shop. Called black people "flag waving piccaninnies with watermelon smiles and said they were thick compared with "orientals"and accused the president of Turkey of fucking a goat. Basically says the sort of stuff your Grandad would say if you thwacked him around the head with a dildo until he got brain damage.
NAME: Michael Gove
ABOUT: Looks like a man who's taken off his space helmet on Mars and has seconds left to live. A man so devoid of integrity that he doesn't even have any in or around his own chin. A man who looks like a haunted ventriloquist dummy that's been carved out of a turnip by a paedophile. Michael Gove looks like he's had his face cut off by a serial killer and then used as a sort of mitt to extract honey from a bee hive before having it carelessly tossed back onto his skull by someone in a hurry. Jogs around London like someone who's just killed, fucked and eaten (in that order) a woman in a local park. After his time as Education Secretary, he's now less popular with teachers than chicken pox and headline.
NAME: Dominic Raab
ABOUT: Looks like someone in the middle of a compound nervous breakdown who's stapled a bunch of wafer thin ham onto their own head before going on a rampage in a South London train station armed with a machete. Says that the average food bank user is taking the piss, feminists are obnoxious bigots and that the NHS is a childish wish list. The sort of shit he comes out with makes you wonder if his forehead is a prosthetic mass of putty placed there to cover up his fucking horns. Even his name looks like it's probably some sort of anagram of an ancient, malevolent demon from Mesopotamia.
NAME: Jeremy Hunt
ABOUT: A man who's done so much damage to the National Health Service he makes Dr Harold Shipman look like Florence Nightingale. A man who looks like he'd rohypnol his closest friends at a dinner party and sell their organs on the back market. His wry, smug, smile looks like it should be accompanied by the sound of a high court judge lambasting him for his lack of remorse at the end of harrowing and disturbing court case. Hunt is a man who is referred to as Jeremy Cunt every single time his name is mentioned on the news due to the sheer power of word association and unconscious, Freudian, impulses.
ABOUT: A man with a perfectly round head who's skull will presumably one day be displayed in Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum causing future anthropologists to even question its authenticity. A man who stands with such a wide power stance, in an attempt to evoke authority, that he looks like he's just had a fire extinguisher pushed up his arse by a bear. He's constantly voted for tougher immigration and benefit cuts like some sort of cunt, despite recognising that those people threatened with deportation could have been his parents. He's kicked down more ladders than a fucking scaffolder.
ABOUT: he looks like a drawing of Postman Pat that's been scratched into the side of a spinning Jenny by a Victorian chimney sweep. And not in a good way. He looks like a 19th Century steam engine salesman who spends his evenings drowning children in the lake at the bottom of his garden and reciting incantations from Aleister Crowley's Satanic Bible. He looks like what might happen if Adolf Hitler was ever reincarnated in the form of the Windows 95 'helpful paperclip' and sent back 200 years through a wormhole to campaign against the abolition of the slave trade. The kind of simpering, hat-wringing simpletons who support Jacob-Rees-Mogg are the types of people who camp outside Buckingham Palace for 3 days, crying and waving their Union Jack flags whilst awaiting the arrival of a royal baby, whilst back in their bedsit - littered with Sprite bottle containing their own piss - the eviction notices continue to rain through the letterbox. Unaware of the irony and devoid of hope. These are the worst humans in the world. Evolved, miraculously from the types of people who ran into gunfire during the Crimean War because a man with a handlebar moustache who went to Cambridge told them to. Fucking hell.
Came third in the Gaviscon Cup last year. Been running well on soft ground and has spent the entire year eating bees. Put everything you own on it unless you're fucking stupid, I would.
THE KNACKERED RADIATOR
Trainer: Finbar O'Toolbox
Been on good form lately. Runs sideways like a crab like something you might see in your worst nightmare, but don't let that put you off. Apparently, the jockey plans to ride this horse "on the inside", which involves climbing into the beast via the anus and wearing the hind legs like a pair of trousers. Never been done before but apparently well within the rules. Could be an interesting punt.
Trainer: Harry O'Speedwagon
His mother ran so fast at the 2004 derby that she burst into flames and vanished and reappeared at the finishing line peppered with bullet holes before crumbling into dust. An unfortunate demise but you don't often see speeds like that outside of quantum physics.
LEATHER GROIN MASSAGE
Trainer: Sir Findus Crispy Pancakes
Broke both his front legs and died at the start of the year but plans on running in ghost form. Will be able to run through the fences which will save him time but will be relying on everyone believing that he even exists. Might be an interesting contender.
SLUG PELLET MEDLEY
Trainer: Padraig O'Battlequest
The trainer has alluded to the fact that Slug Pellet Medley might be wearing a little fake moustache and two pairs of jogging bottoms for a laugh. Might be a funny idea but it won't help him win on the day.
MICHAEL BARRYMORE'S CHLORINATED DEATH PUDDLE
Trainer: Ardal O'Dardleradar
Sometimes stops halfway around the course to nibble at the grass so the team would do very well to make sure he's nice and full up on sausages, bovril, luncheon meat, Cajun spiced chicken strippers, blancmange and Cadburys Creme Eggs before the starting pistol.
Fun fact: This horse once killed a child by kicking it in the head.
YOU ARE A OLD MAN NOW
Trainer: Ronan O'Fingerblast
A really, really, really, fast horse. Faster than like a mouse or man on a bike. Stinks though. A really smelly horse. The Jockey fucking stinks of piss as well. No one likes this horse. Or the fucking jockey. Honestly just the worst gang of cunts you can think of. I hope they both fall over and fucking die.
THE JAPANESE RETARD
Trainer: Dermot O'Dermotodermatologist
Due to a corporate tie-in with a popular chocolate manufacturer this horse is actually a zebra which apparently falls within the rules of entry due to some kind of equine loophole. Slow as fuck. Doesn't stand a chance. Daft little legs. Bringing the entire sport into disrepute. Good name though. Also the jockey is fit as arseholes.
BLIND IAN'S FASCIST PIGGY BANK
Trainer: Bishop Brendan O'Breadbasket
This horse has got horse cancer so it probably won't win.
Trainer: Keenan O'O'Estrogen
Ran nicely in the Fray Bentos Steeplechase in Harrogate last summer. Loves Jesus. He once had sex with his own Grandad which is a shame but he's a lovely horse and his trainer is a real character.
He's unlikely to do well at The National this year though since his testicles have ballooned in size and now it looks like he's dragging two Fiat Cincquecentos around in a tarpaulin. They really are just SO big it's hard to explain. It's actually cruel keeping him alive. There's a petition on the internet with almost 35'000 signatures in favour of having him shot in the head with a bolt gun just to put him out of his fucking misery.
First and foremost it's important to find someone who is/isn't up for it (sex). This could be just about anyone; your wife / boyfriend / slut / dog / neighbour's dog.
•Approach your target (try not to refer to them as a 'target'). Strike up conversation but be sure to keep it erotic. Tell her/him/it that he/she/it looks 'fuckable' (use the word 'fuckable' as often as possible). Make some more crude remarks. Smile. If it feels appropriate then do that little hand gesture where you make a circle with two fingers and then poke at it with an extended digit.
•Once you're certain that this person doesn't work for the Metropolitan Police then it's time to drag them back to your luxury hotel room / caravan / disgusting corner.
•Set the mood. Mince around the place lighting candles and laughing. Remember this is supposed to be fun.
•Ask your lover if they'd like to put some music on. If they didn't bring any music then shout at them. Force them to sing. Make them dance. Create an uncomfortable atmosphere before apologising profusely for your dreadful behaviour.
•CHAMPAGNE! (apologise for not having any Champagne)
•Ask / force your lover to wash. (If you're also covered in soilthen it might be a good idea to join them in the shower). This can be a great opportunity to try out a bit of 'foreplay'. Kiss his/her neck. Fondle their ears. Stick your fingers up his/her bum.
•Return to the bedroom. If your partner seems frightened / disorientated then help them to remove all of their clothes. They'll be all wet now after that shower. Perhaps your partner is in the early stages of hypothermia. That would explain the far away look in their eyes. Keep talking to them. Say things like "I can't wait to see your penis" or "I'm still well up for a bit of slap 'n' tickle if you are". Stroke their hair.
•Climb into the bed / nest / bin and let the sex commence. Go absolutely mental. Do whatever comes into your head. Shout, scream, applaud, laugh, spit and fire jets of milk out of your nose. Act like you've been possessed by some kind of bonkers sex demon.
•Have a little sleep.
•Repeat this process as many times as you like until your knob or fanny hurts / the authorities arrive.
•Apologise to your lover for a) Making them cry, and b) Giving them aids.
•Kick them out into the cold
•Enjoy the rest of the afternoon and give yourself a big pat on the back.
I wake up and take the PH balance of my own urine and log it on a spreadsheet. I then write down my dreams onto the side of a Chinese lantern in Sanskrit and release it out of my window so that my ora can re-engage with nature. I watch from my balcony as it floats over Hyde Park raining invisible orbs of my own cosmic resonance onto the city I love. 5.30am I make a goji berry Nespresso in a tagine made from Himalayan rock salt that I bought in the kasbahs of Marraskesh and spend 5 minutes imaging where I'd like to be in five years' time. I then make a small nest in my wardrobe out of lemongrass and turmeric, inside which I practice 10 to 15 minutes of 'Ashwanzi Horse Yoga'. The darkness brings down my potassium levels and the turmeric stains the carpet.
I spend 10 minutes every morning enjoying a bit of 'Owl Time'. This involves strapping on a beak that I've carved out of mango wood and then perching on the edge of my bath, squawking and defecating. Owls are my spirit animal and sharing an owl experience with the universe on a daily basis allows me to connect with the cosmos. The process also allows me to sweat out surplus amounts of phosphorus and mitochondria. I imagine that I'm choking up owl pellets which contain the mummified faces of everyone who's been mean to me over the last few weeks.
I shower using natural products as the chemicals found in shampoo and shower gels can be toxic. Also, as tap water contains fluorides and toxic metal salts, I don't even use that. I stand naked in the shower washing myself with air and simulating a shower experience which gets my head in the game.
I remove my I-phone and MacBook Air from a lead-lined sarcophagus that I keep under my bed to protect me from 'Electromagnetic Horseflies'.
I send an email to myself telling me how good I am at everything and sign off by inviting myself to a party which I reply to by saying I'm too busy, which actually helps the social side of my brain grow. I call it my Social Brain Gym'
I drink a mug of honey and throw it straight back up into the kitchen sink, choking as the sticky, amber, columns block my airways. Vomitting up honey is sort of like being sick in slow motion and makes you think that you're going to actually die. I find that a near death experience every morning grounds me and helps me realise how precious life can be.
Breakfast. A spoonful of coconut oil, some chaga mushroom powder - great for the immune system - a little bit of frog spawn, colostrum, arsenic and collagen. I drink dog's milk becauseit's low in myxotoxins and then I have a spoonful of Calpol so that I can connect through time with my infant self and tell him that he doesn't need to be scared of Grandad for much longer.
I introduce the tip of a banana to my anus and allow it to soak in some of the vitamins and potassiums and then I bury the rest of the banana in a pot on my balcony which contains a bonsai tree and avocado plant. The balcony has absolutely fab views of Marble Arch.
I walk to work chewing grass like a cow which prevents toxic air entering my bloodstream and also helps me develop a second stomach which might come in useful if I were to ever get cancer.
Instead of listening to music on my commute I turn on my MammalPod, a device that looks like an iPod with headphones but instead of playing music it blows spores, moulds and fungus inside my head which gives me super energies and helps me focus at work. Doctors say if I keep using it I could go deaf or even die within the year.
When I arrive at the office I challenge every member of the team - 25 in total- to a knife fight. This asserts dominance and puts my head into 'Jungle Mode'.
I have a Frappuccino and wash it down with 2kgs of Ayahuaska which helps me concentrate on work for 30 minutes before I enter a nightmarish and terrifying fugue-like state in which I experience hallucinogenic visions of tree demons. The team spend the next 2 hours trying to prevent me from jumping out of the 135th floor of The Gherkin until lunch.
I have a 'Light Lunch' which involves sitting at my desk shining a torch into my own mouth for 10 minutes. I bite and nibble at the rays emitting from my LED Maglite which detoxifies by body and contains all the same nutrients found in a crab salad.
I then blog. My lunchtime blog has almost 17 followers and involves me talking - in a sort of stream of consciousness - about what I think happens when we die.
I spend the rest of lunch flicking frozen peas at the microwave and muttering to myself about Hanuman, the Hindu Monkey God.
I take off my shoes for the rest of the day so that my energy can connect with the planet's core.
I drink 12 gallons of water just in time to stave off the early stages of dehydration. I keep all my water in a tank with an electric eel. The electric pulses add crystallinebiorhythms to the water which make me invincible to any weaponsbuilt on Earth.
I then have a Kit Kat.
I work for the rest of the day redirecting traffic from redundant websites to clickbait articles online.
I usually have a meeting with the boss in which I beg him not to fire me before doing another 30 minutes of yoga in the middle of the office floor to bring down my heart rate and prepare me for the commute home.
On the way home I eat out of date yoghurts which introduce bacteria into my body. I go home and cry and shit blood.
I go to the gym. My local gym is called 'The Gun Factory' and is actually a replica of a 1930's, Sheffield, steel foundry. As I lift red hot gurders on chains I drink isotonicsoup drinks and keep my energy up with raw chicken wings marinated in Ezekial Beans and Chia Seeds.
I go back to my flat and drink CBD oil - derived from cannabis but doesn't make you high- and shine infrared lasers into my head whilst I paint the faces of people who have had a big impact on my day onto my toes and thank them all for coming with me on today's journey.
I lock my phone devices away and do 5 minutes of mental Taekwondo where I picture myself fighting in my mind's eye.
I drink a shot of semen extracted from a shark and put on the sound of bullfrogs on my 'Bang And Olufsen Surround Sound Music System' which takes me back to the week I spent in the mangroves with Jason.
I put on my 'Lucid Dreaming Device' which flashes a red light into my eyes every time I have a dream about Grandad so that I can wake up and avoid the night terrors, and then it's off to sleep, ready to take on another day as the biggest cunt in the entire world.
Called 'Camel Girl' because of the way her legs bent backwards apparently. She worked in a circus in Tennessee around about 1886.
I think unless you've got a hump on your back then you shouldn't really be messing about with the word camel. I'd probably have gone with 'Labrador Girl' or 'Crab Legs' or something like that.
She's got a face like a smacked arse but I suppose you would as well if you had to get about on your hands in the late 18 hundreds when everyone was still luzzing buckets of their own tod out onto the pavement.
Imagine her crawling into your window at night. That would be properly shit wouldn't it?
2: STEPHAN BIBROWSKI - LIONEL THE LION-FACED MAN
My first thought here is, why's he bothering to comb it? In terms of looking good and impressing the ladies, combing your own nose falls very firmly into the category of pissing in the wind.
His Mum fucked him off when he was baby apparently so he joined the circus in England and New York in the 1890s. Apparently he was a very well educated and gentle man, despitelooking like a vision you might have if you inserted an entire sheet of LSD into your own eyeballs and broke into Sesame Street at night with your next door neighbour's dog.
3: WANG - THE HUMAN UNICORN
It can't be a coincidence that his given name is 'Wang' can it? I've got to be honest that if I had a kid with a massive erect penis sticking out of his head then I'd probably go with something like that as well for a name. I don't know why they've bothered giving him the 'unicorn' thing as a nickname. Wang does the job just fine. I showed this picture to Martin Clunes and he said he'd like to rub baby oil over the horn thing and then try to squeeze a lemon over the bell end bit at the top. Honestly don't know what the fuck is wrong with that man.
4: JOSEPHINE CLOFFULIA - THE BEARDED WOMAN OF GENEVA Fucking hell. Look at this bong-eyed bombshell. She's got it all going on. Brave topping it all off with 90's curtains as well. She looks like what might happen if you poured a pint of hot piss into one of those crime, photo-fit, computers and it spazzed out and came up with this. I know you've got to be careful these days about gender issues but there's absolutely no fucking way this is a woman. 5: MYRTLE CORBIN - THE FOUR LEGGED GIRL FROM TEXAS Absorbed her twin in the womb and ended up with two little legs sticking out of her bits. From the twin's point of view it doesn't get much worse than that. Anyway, she joined a circus and made an absolute killing. The only thing you really need to know about her other than the fact she's got fanny legs is that she had 5 kids. 5 fucking kids. Her husband must have been absolutely insane. As soon as you display any interest in having sex with a pair of withered legs that are sticking out of someone's vagina I reckon you need to be locked up ASAP in my book. 6: JUAN BAPTISTA DOS SANTOS - THE MAN WITH TWO PENISES Unlike the others on the list Juan didn't want to join a circus which properly pissed them all off because they'd have been dining out for fucking years on the mental shit that was going on with his downstairs mixup. So he had two wangers sitting there and three ball bags and then God thought "actually I might stick another little leg down there as well" as if it wasn't all bonkers enough. He's basically a batshit crazy, sex machine man, and he knew it. His extra knacker sacks meant he could just keep going and apparently he once had it off with a French sideshow entertainer called Blanche Dumas who also had an extra leg and shit loads of cock sockets. If anyone had filmed that shit it'd make David Cronenberg look like fucking Beatrix Potter 7 - EDWARD POSNET - THE MERMAN OF MILTON KEYNES Born in Milton Kenyes in 1833, over 100 years before Milton Keynes even existed, the second son of Ernie and Philomena Posnet, Edward was born a perfectly normal little boy apart from the fact that he had a fish tail, the face of a demon and a massive, pendulous pair of tits. By the age of 6, he spent much of his life swimming around the local waterways and feasting on coots, mallards and kingfishers, which he would catch using a Supersoaker 5000 that he'd modified to fire poisoned darts. He stopped going to school at the age of about 10 because he would lick the other children with his leathery tongue and whisper predictions of their impending deaths into their ears when the teacher wasn't looking. He was never wrong and many of the children did indeed take their own lives almost exactly to the moment that Edward had predicted. Edward was also a star striker on the school football team although details about this are sketchy and presumably not at all true. Edward eventually joined a circus where he was killed, pickled and displayed in an oak display case. He can still be seen on display in the Milton Keynes Central Station branch of Pizza Express and rumour has it that if you touch his nipple and make a wish then you'll disappear for a few seconds before reappearing as a screaming old man and bursting into a cloud of dust. In 2010 this was proved to be true and Pizza Express have since promised to keep a closer eye on their customers interfering with the wall-mounted, fossilised, abomination to God.
8 - ISAAC SPRAGUE - THE SKELETON MAN Obviouslywe've got Victoria Beckham these days so this isn't that amazing, but back in 1841 this was quite something. Apparently normal until twelve then all his fat muscles just fucked off. A real kick in the teeth for anyone who doesn't want to have to live in a Victorian Circus and then die. Most people I'd have thought. 9 - GRACE MCDANIELS - THE MULE FACED LADY
She doesn't really look like a mule. I honestly don't know if you can be more offensive than that to a horse. Me and my mate Simon Famish (a badger) once saw a horse that looked a bit like this I suppose, but that was because Simon had just booted a wasp's nest into the cunt's face because the horse had kept saying that badgers all had fat arses because they let farmers bum them in exchange for biscuits. In Simon's case this was in fact true but the horse should have known when to leave it. Anyway, Grace had kids as well which is mad. I don't want to be out of order so I'm going to give her a compliment sandwich. a)I like how her mouth looks like a hamburger b) She's going to give me the sort of nightmares where I wake up crying blood tonight I reckon c) That's a nice dress
9 - EDWARD MORDAKE Edward was born with a face on the back of head. The face couldn't eat or speak and they thought it might be blind, but it would sneer and scowl when Edward was happy and would laugh and smile when Edward was sad. Edward asked the doctors to cut the cunt off because it used to whisper things to him at night that "one would only speak about in hell" but the doctors said they thought it was funny so they wouldn't do it. It would probably be quite annoying having someone strapped to the back of your skull if you liked them, but Edward thought this guy was an absolute fuck lord so he must have found it well annoying. If you look at the picture you can see that he gave him a little haircut though and he obviously hasn't ever heard of a hat. I'd have grown my hair like Lil Wayne and bought a beanie made out of lead, but perhaps when you have a demon living just behind your own ears, it's best to just meet him halfway for a quiet life. Anyway Edward begged for them to smash this wanker's face in "lest it whisper to me in the grave" but everyone had become accustomed to the demon now and used to enjoy giving it snouts and flicking monkey nuts into its eyes when Edward was down 'Spoons. Edward did himself in at the age of 23. The face went on to become Secretery Of State For Education, Michael Gove.