Wednesday, 23 September 2009


3. I can’t even trust him when he is asleep

Had successfully managed to get my boyfriend home and into bed – a significant achievement considering when he is wasted this is literally as difficult as getting a dog to piss without cocking his leg or licking your elbow. Good. Baby sleeps.

Anyway, I wake up a couple of hours later, and realise my Big Baby is not next to me. Shit. Is he being sick? Has he passed out over the loo? I got dressed – no sign of Big Baby in loo. Shit. Maybe he is getting water? Hungry? Not in kitchen. Shit. Right, erm, living room?



Asleep, sprawled across the sofa, in my parent’s house – naked. Lovely.

All these examples are when he is drunk, indeed my boyfriend most certainly excels at being a dick when he is wasted, but he is also pretty good when sober. I introduced him to about ten of my friends as my boyfriend and he looks at me, says with a completely straight face “I’m not your boyfriend” and runs out of the house. Dick. He is also constantly trying to humiliate me publicly, for example loudly telling me he is gay and it’s all over in the busy checkout queue in Tescos.

My boyfriend is a dick.



Why my boyfriend is a dick

Some boyfriends are indisputably dicks because they beat and cheat their girlfriends. Other guys are dicks because they do plain stupid oh-my-god-is-this-guy-really-my-boyfriend stuff. So don’t panic reader, this is not a frighteningly candid and uncomfortable confession about my abusive boyfriend ruining my life. My boyfriend is just a bit of a silly twat.

1. Our romantic mini break
Right, so we have been seeing each other for a few weeks and decide it would be nice to spend the night in Brighton. My romantic picture perfect expectations for the weekend, and I guess for our relationship, were abruptly thwarted when he burped in my face, laughed and ran off, leaving me alone and embarrassed at the bar.

My boyfriend (who wasn’t even quite my boyfriend yet) is a dick.

Sure, we had a nice time. We sat on the beach drinking beer and throwing stones, wandered round Brighton hand in hand, sat on our sea view balcony listening to music, went for dinner. All good, until we go to a pub and babycakes decides to get absolutely shit faced.

He must have downed about twelve pints (surely not that much, but thanks for the flattery, Ed.) before he burped in my face; I had to literally carry him back to our hotel before he fell face first into the bed. Perfect.
I’ll spare you the gory details and him the embarrassment, (“the fact that you are trying to initiate it by prodding me up the arse with your dick suggests that yes, you were right before, you are definitely too drunk to have sex”), but it all got pretty messy and I went to sleep alone as he was slumped over our ensuite toilet. Awesome.

“Sorry babe, I was just really nervous”

Well his “nervous” excuse was all very endearing until he got absolutely shit faced and acted like a dick on several occasions after this.

2. He nearly killed me
My boyfriend is actually pretty funny when he is shit faced. This particular night he has been working at the pub but somehow, managed to get completely wasted. (Well it was a beer festival, Ed.)

I always think drunk people look a lot like babies, staggering around and laughing uncontrollably at basic and often not very funny things. My boyfriend wobbled towards me like a cute little baby just learning to walk, smiling the stupidest smile. Gurgled kisses me all over my face, silly dance, inane wiggled hips. With piss poor pissed Spanish, he unknowingly introduced me to a Galician woman as his daughter before smiling and giving me a massive snog. I am loving enough to appreciate the amusing side of this, so all quite funny.

Unfortunately, the drunken baby then stupidly decided to lift me over his shoulder. Don’t get me wrong, I am not hugely over-weight or anything (therefore usually particularly easy to lift), but considering the trouble he was having standing up this was obviously a fucking stupid idea. Not funny. Suddenly it is like he has literally hurled me head first into a fire extinguisher. Luckily the pub manager caught me but if he hadn’t I am pretty sure that my boyfriend would have killed me.

Oh, and he nearly killed me and found it hysterical. Everyone else in the pub obviously hadn’t quite realised that my boyfriend is a dick. They all looked at him in disbelief, kept asking if he realised that he had nearly killed me, and he was just bent over giggling uncontrollably. For ages.*

*To be honest I was laughing pretty hard too, and in a slapstick way it was very very funny. But still, he found it a bit too funny. Dick.

Friday, 4 September 2009


Since it’s not halloween any time soon, here’s something about witches. Ladies will be glad to know that it is no longer punishable by death to have your imp or familiar suckle your third nipple, but in 1645 - things was different. Witchcraft supposedly existed to tempt man and defy God, and has existed in its various forms since well before the dawn of Christianity, and one can imagine that the two didn’t get on hugely well. The recorded persecution of witches had actually been in decline in the thirty years leading up to 1645, but then a certain Matthew Hopkins bestowed upon himself the totally unofficial title of Witch Finder General, and went on a two year terror trip through Essex and Suffolk. Many witches were hanged, but for what exactly? 

I do wonder whether witch finding in general was just a catastrophic failure on man’s part to understand the earliest suffragettes, but either way the idea of some black magic virago used to have people defiling their britches all over Europe. About three hundred years after the St Osyth Trials of 1582, an Essex man inadvertently exhumed two of the executed witches in his garden to find that each had their arms and thighs riveted together by the executioner lest they had decided to escape their graves and brew a Charybdis of mischief. I mean really

But what caused the blind frenzied panic that led to so many prosecutions of witches between 1645-7? It seemed that Hopkins had a large cauldron full of shit himself, which he was particularly adept at stirring. These witches weren’t actually that bad by European standards anyway - they didn’t fly or partake in perverted orgies. But there was one thing, and given the instability of the time after the Civil War mixed with the braying stupidity of terrified bumpkins, Hopkins pounced on it. 

Suspected witches all had their own imps, which could be in the form of dogs, cats, mice, spiders, toads, crows, hornets, moles, whatever. Supposedly they could be sent on malevolent missions, such as wrecking the bread at a bakery (only someone that followed Satan himself could imagine conjuring such evil). This delightful conjecture extends to suggest that they could however be used for other things, as I have found out. 

Margaret Landish confessed on the 6th of May 1645 that “lying sick by the fireside in her own house, something came up to her body and sucked on her privy parts and much pained and tormented her.” Landish claimed that if it was an imp then it must have been sent by Susan Cock. No shit. A witness actually claimed that this was a regular occurrence. Erm, right. More likely story - her husband walks in, sees her being licked out by the cat, and denounces her in disgust. 

This isn’t an isolated incident however. Joyce Bonds had two imps like mice, who apparently crawled into her bed and suckled her, whilst Anne Cooper had three black imps called Wynhoe, Jeso and Panu, “which suckled on the lower parts of her body.” Jane Cooper had a frog named Frog that killed two children, and Mary Johnson pushed her rat through a door to kill a baby, but my favourite is Margaret Moore, who kept a rat in her drawers. (Surely all women do that? Ed.) She often sent the rat to do her evil bidding, and her rat was said to give off “such an extreme and offensive stink” that nearby people were “scarce able to endure” it. Other infamous imps included Vinegar Tom the greyhound, Elemauzer, Pyewacket and Grizel Greedigut, names that, declared Hopkins - “no mortal could invent.” 



A short letter from a man that fell in trouble on his travels. 
Arite cunts, I'm OK and having a good time, nothing's gone wrong yet. Except for today. So far this trip I've felt that my anatomy has been in perfectly good working order but today, God proved me wrong in all of his almightyful glory. As I said, I've been feeling fine and so, sometime after lunch, I felt thad I needed a shit. OK so it had the rumblings of a biggie, but for someone like this man here that's nothing to worry about.
So, I approached the bogs with a slight swagger in my step - the strut of a cockerel who knows he's the dog's bollocks and likes to flaunt it. This attitude was, however, to become my undoing. A fall from greatness. I entered the toilets at precisely 6 minutes past 4 and casually lent against the wall to check myself out in the mirror, as one does with looks like mine. After looking into the mirror for what seemed like minutes but was probably hours I turned to start my predatory stalk to the toilet door, casually farting to anounce the Great One's approach to all the cockroaches that were probably waiting under the bogseat to ambush the weary traveller...
...BLOODY HELLFIRE, CHRIST, CHRIST ON HIS CROSS SURROUNDED BY ALL THE BLOODY SAINTS! I'm not going to lie, to my shocked amazement I had followed through. Big style. And shocked amazement it was for someone who had honed his bowel control on the battlefields of India, the swamps of northern Thailand and the deadliest kebab in Cardiff. I finished the ordeal off whilst sitting on the toilet and a messier occurence I have never known.
However, the ordeal had only just begun because, as we all know, toilet paper can only help so much, especially when you can't even flush it, and I knew I had to make it to the showers or accept surrender and almost certain doom. So, with my pants round my ankles I peered out of the bog and checked that the coast was clear. It was, and I started my great journey across the vast corridor. It looked like something from the March of the Penguins and to my shock and horror, right at the point that I was waddling over no-man's land one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen walked into the bathroom and my dignity and arrogance plummeted to lower than my grandma's tits. Saving what was left of my tattered dignity, I stumbled into the shower and the rest, as they say is history. 



Here at Jealousy one of our staff recently read an album review that he said was so uselessly researched and written that “a pissed kid” could of writ it better.” So to look back on some of our favourite albums of the past year, here is a pissed kid. We met nine year old Daniel by the duck pond at Platt Fields Park and started him on a three litre bottle of White Lightning. After half an hour and with Daniel already beginning to look quite drunk, we began the interview. 

Late of the Pier/Fantasy Black Channel 
TOL: Hi Daniel.
Daniel: I feel really sick.
TOL: Don’t worry it’s all part of growing up and being a big boy. 
Daniel: Ok. This sounds funny but I like it. They all look silly. Is your head meant to feel like this? Mummy always shouts at Daddy when he drinks because he does it all the time. But he calls her a stupid cow because he says she is a headache. But she doesn’t look like a cow. Haha I feel so funny. I think Daddy’s right. 
TOL: Why?
Daniel: Because if Mummy drank this she would lighten up. 
TOL: Right. Well do you like it? Do you think you could dance a lot to it?
Daniel: No. It’s like the monsters from Doctor Who. Can we do the next one?

Crystal Castles/Crystal Castles
Daniel: My cousin has this really old thing called a games boy or something but it’s rubbish and the graphics are so bad. This sounds like that. Are they really old? My PSP is better.
TOL: They’ve been around a couple of years, but have lost the sense of underground mystery they used to have when they first started out because they became really popular with a lot of big kids and are not so cool anymore. 
Daniel: Oh like Yu Gi Oh cards. We had them at school, me and my friends, and then everyone liked them so they got gay. I don’t think this counts as music though if it’s from a game. Can I go toilet pleeeease?
Metallica/Death Magnetic
TOL: Don’t you think the album cover looks a bit like a hairy vagina? 
Daniel: I don’t know what that is.
TOL: I didn’t think so. When you’re older booze will help you get it. 
Daniel: You’re weird. These guys are really angry, my sister likes this kind of stuff, she’s fat and got braces and wears black all the time. Loser. Can I lie down? I’ve got a really bad tummy and you just keep playing me wank music. 
TOL: Woah. Where did you hear that word? Well do you like any music?
Daniel: Yes, 50 Cent. And Razorlight. They’re both mainly popular with kids my age I think. I’m bored and you guys are pooheads. 

At this point Daniel ran off to the playground and was violently sick all over the curly-wurly slide. The interview had to be cut short. 



No.1: how Renaissance paintings influence football today

One of the most important yet largely forgotten aspects of Renaissance art is the powerful influence it still manages to wield in modern popular culture. One of the most famous physical allusions of recent times was during Chelsea’s victory over Liverpool in the Champions League last season. Abandoning typical methods of goal celebration, some of the Chelsea team opted for the more cultured approach: their interpretation of Beato Angelico’s Deposition of Christ (1432-1434). Lampard, the goal scorer, portrays Christ, whilst Drogba and Carvalho act as Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea. It is fantastic to see football players taking the time in such a crucial match to display the strong artistic bonds between early Renaissance Italy and the Beatiful game. 

In fact, countless goal celebrations would not exist without the help of such homage to antiquarian ideas and methods in the early fifteenth century. Some of the more notable ones include the popular ‘rock the baby’ routine and ‘the robot.’ The former has its roots in the many depictions of the nativity, whilst Peter Crouch’s robot dance is particularly reminiscent of a well documented event in 1492 when the statue of John the Baptist at Orsanmichele came temporarily to life and awkwardly travelled to Santa Maria Novella and back. Obafemi Martins’ trademark backflips are allegedly identical to those performed by the cripple healed in the Masaccio and Masolino frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel (a fresco which was short lived, having been painted over due to spatial limitations). 

It simply could not be easier to spot the many traits footballers and football fans owe to the period. Tottenham Hotspur fans are renowned for uncannily resembling the damned from Michelangelo’s The Last Judgement for instance. Try it yourself at home and why not take a football with you next time you visit the National Gallery? 


brushing your teeth with DISCO

When you're pretty sure someone's gone and C'd in your K. Fcuk. And that's funny for many reasons, fashion or otherwise. 
Fucking hell this rocks. Just dance with myself for two hours in front of the mirror brushing my teeth. It's fucking cool man........nnnn aman mana  mananama amananamamanam. I reckon someone accidentally left a bit a you know what in my you know what. Stand up against the wall because that?s where the mirror is and that's where the other room is FUCKER! WOO! Fuck knows, I just shouted wooooooo! Down my sink like it's 1999. It's partay tyme I tell ya. What the fer da sher is my toothpaste? Wooo! Fluoride probably, it's the shit you stuffed up your nose that matters. What was it? Woooooooooo!
I turn around and my own room is a tip, full of the articles of my shitty life but then you look into the mirror and there is that w-w-w-w-w-w-woooooooo-GUY! Mr Can DO! FESTA! FESTA! Giorgio Moroder toothpaste moustache. WOO! Fuckin, whoever thought Italo-Disco and brushing my teeth made such a fucking prime perfection couple??? Well whodathoughtit? ShitIfuckinspeltthatright! Wooo!
My toothbrush was like see through purple (pretty disco anyway) but now it's see through with sparkly bits, like a fucking disco ball in your mouth motherFUCKer! IT'S THE SWEARING AND THE CAPITALS THAT LETS YOU KNOW I'M WOOOOO!
I can't remember even what I'm doing. I'm not allowed to look back you see? By who? Me. Got to go out soon, imposisviorv. Impossible. I felt a blip. But ingore it and it goes away? How can you write this you can't it's coming out and I'm not thinking. Not looking at the keys jst my finfgers fodning the worj, \\
Right Party.
Oh how could I forget, I know at the end I'll feel shit and low and !(I'll put a ! because at this point I can't think of the third word - it's a mixture of these - desperate, unmotivated, nothing to look forward to, ashamed, upset, wanking, bored, anyway.  Look no close bracket. Ha! That's what a trip's like. You get an open bracket - WOOOOOO! But then no close bracket.
Shit I'm desperately hanging on to my high here, and arguing with my head. Shit I have to think.
Thank-yousergesantiagomegaMIX! The open bracket is the beginning of the trip, you know you're not boring normal anymore, and we're/they're off. When I say u say we say they say make some NOIISE! What the fuck is this § ? But there is no close. I hate the close. It is never definite and never the same, I hate it, but there is no close. So you can't have afuckingnother bracket. I don't want to be the one that doles 'em out.
Fuck have I shat myself?

Better check.

Okay again then. The bracket. Alright then so we've established that a trip starts with a (
I didn't put a full stop there because that would be a bit paradoxical.
Just by the way, totally off subject - I reckon you know something's wrong when you're fucked and you look back on things you did sober and frown, annoyed with yourself. Shouldn't it be the other way round? And then you know it's even worse when you just laugh it off. Like this. a. ahaha. aHAHAha. aHAAAAAAAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAA.
Okay I'll admit you do get a ) but not just like that. It has to develop. You have to recover, you can't just drink all the time can you? No, your body has to process it. So you'll know you have a ) when you're totally sober and normal. Usually it's best to assume that you won't get one without any sleep after your first bracket, so wait a day. Maybe two. Or if you're fucking with reeaaaaally trippy stuff then it could be days weeks months or yeaaaars...
And then once you've got your ), sit on it for a little while until get the opportunity for a (


As far as drinking is concerned, I'm sorry, but nothing ain't got shit on the proper fucking British boozer. I see office fags on the high streets drinking some fancy fucking Czech, Mexican or Chinese beer because it's fucking foreign and fucking exotic, but guess what - it's still shit, and has nothing on ale, or in simple language for any lager drinking nancy boys out there - real beer. As for anything else, which girl wants to fuck a guy that drinks cocktails? Fucking bum boys I tell you. Will be the downfall of the Empire.
Anyway, in a proper fucking London fucking pub, everyone's got their pub names. I shit you not son, past and present customers at the pub I work at include Mad Frank, Pervy John, John the Fireplace, Antiques Ken, Mark and Stuart, and my personal favourite Evil Stare Guy (he's Belgian). A while back we had the pleasure of barring (that means banishing out unwanted wankers you fags) Pervy John, who was a first class cunt. As we sit back and remember him, here are some of his classic phrases:

Pervy John (to barman): So which one of your sisters would look better on the end of my cock?

Pervy John (to barmaid): So when do I get to inseminate all over your tits?
(Doesn't even make proper fucking sense).

Pervy John (to me for fuck's sake): You know, if you were wearing girls' clothes I could probably knock one out over you.


Walking backstage at the Ruby Lounge I was nervous - I'd heard a lot about the Trills' tour antics but I didn't expect anything like this. As I poked my head through the dressing room door I had to duck a flying vodka bottle that smashed on the wall where my head had been. 'Oh fuck, sorry!' says wild-eyed front-woman Tallulah Brown. 'You looked just like my ex, I told him to stay the fuck away.' She's sitting in the corner scratching 'Boyz Suck' into her guitar with a razor-blade, somehow I don?t feel welcome here. The rest of the band - Lawson, Bërman and D'Arby - lounge about sneeringly. Bërman is screaming something down the phone at some poor roadie that?s lost a set of guitar picks, Lawson is doing shots and D'Arby is spinning round the chamber of a .38 very menacingly. Again, somehow I don't feel welcome here, but I'll try and conduct the interview anyway...

Jealousy Magazine: So how did you guys come to meet?
Alicia Lawson: What fucking business is it of yours, dickhead?
JM: Well I?m the interviewer.
Imogen Bërman: Interviewer schminterviewer, fuck you.
Tallulah Brown: You're just jealous.
JM: Erm...What are the main messages your band tries to get across?
TB: Firstly fuck you, and secondly just love and peace man, love and peace.
Seraphina D'Arby And just to get fucked up man, rock n roll, that's what it's all about you know?
JM: Right, so you've become known now for trouble at quite a few venues across the UK, are you having trouble trying to find gigs?
TB: What are you trying to say, fucker?
AL: Look, yeah we know we have this rep, but sometimes its good. I mean, we've got the Burnham-on-Sea and Weston-super-Mare Death Angels riding with us on the second leg of the tour, it looks pretty fierce when you see us all cruise into town.
And fierce they are. On tour this year the band have been riding Harleys across the country with their gear following behind in a minibus. The interview couldn't progress any further after that because everything just descended into violence. More glass was smashed, and Alicia had got up to vomit in the corner. In the band?s own words, if the Vagabond Trills are coming a town near you - 'watch the fuck out!'