The weekend came, the weekend left.
I got plastered of my face, much is the same.
My sober mind mocks and jeers at my drunken self.
I wake up and feel the shame, knowing that I’ve played the same game again.
The pointless mess of getting fucked and spent.
Pure moments of bliss to dissolve reality and it’s stress.
Why does it always come to this?
The moment of the hangover is the time of clear thought.
God if you’re there, please give me the strength.
To start over fresh, and leave this cycle of sex, drink, sin and death.
But the weekend is coming! The weekend is here!
No time to think, just time to live.
Live for the moment, so lets get fucked!
And start once again this addictive cycle of hell.
God help us all.
Please pass this message on to the appropriate characteristics in your bar.
“Of course I don’t have any chewing gum”
I actually do you degenerate, but I know you’re too fucking stupid to realize that I’m going to lie to your face to get in.
So there’s no point asking me in case you didn’t notice.
Ask me about guns or drugs or something maybe next time I might actually tell you.
Why have you got so much attitude for?
You’re not that buff.
You come to Rococo because you know there’s a thousand men who are going to move to you and so that you can tell them to fuck off and carry on doing your hip moving bullshit.
Men are coming up to you because they think you are a slag because you dress like one. They don’t know that you’re out just for the attention like I do.
They’d move to an elephant in Rococo. What kind of a kick do you get from such low class attention?
Don’t give attitude when you get the attention that you came out for, or otherwise wear some clothes.
In summary, stop being an attention seeking whore.
Sorry, Bruv, for stepping on your shoe and distracting you away from your male gang bang.
I was pushed by another male gang bang.
My sincere apologies though. I didn’t mean to disrespect you and I genuinely hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.
I understand that you have no job, no future and no Gcse’s because you’re too stupid, and that you have loads of excuses for being such a fucking waste of a human being. So you want to feel that at least some one in this world shows you respect when they accidentally abuse your precious River Island shoes.
But on the plus side, these Rococo attention whores actually seem to like your style. You won’t get none but they’ll let you buy them a rose and take a picture with them.
You might find your wifey in there. They seem about as stupid as you. I’m sure you must have some really interesting conversations together in the smoking area.
I would also like to apologize that you will have difficultly reading this message and so my good friend Diary Of A Badman has kindly agreed to relay this message to you in terminology that you understand.
Apologies once again, and I hope you and the attention whore live happily ever after in Rococo heaven.
Photo Via JD Hancock
From working in the toilets of a club, I have found that most boys, lads, or groups of men universally follow the following process in their epic night out.
8:00 – 10:00 pm
Scenario: Drinks at the house.
Primary Aim: Convince each other that the probabilities of bringing a woman home tonight are extremely high, based on highly acclaimed evidence such as Jersey Shore.
1) Drink as much as possible in the shortest amount of time to provide enough confidence to approach women.
2) Congratulate each other on being one of the lads.
3) Discuss the last woman they had sexual intercourse with.
11:00 pm-12:00 am
Scenario: Enter club. At the bar.
Aim: Purchase alcohol to allow the opportunity to speak to each other at a bar whilst avoiding appearing homosexual and to achieve the following verbal conversation and agreeement.
Lad A: “She’s fit.”
Lad B: “She’s fitter.”
Lad A: “We’ll definitely find them when we are a bit more drunk“
Lad B: “I can’t wait.”
12:00 – 1:30 am
Aim: Prepare for chatting up women
Before the effects of alcohol wears off, desperateness sets it. Having drunk, pissed, danced with each other and spent the majority of their weeks salary, it is now time to achieve the purpose of the night: to take a woman home.
Any female will do, because at this point, success is the only option.
“Hey, what’s your name”.
“Can I buy you a drink “
My feet hurt from wearing heels all night.
I want to go home.
My best friend is throwing up in the toilets and I can’t leave her because she’s my best friend. Friends forever.
F””” off. You’re too late. What time do you call this.
After one rejection, the man ego has diminished. It is now time to retire and congratulate each other on how an evening can be so enjoyable without women.
End of Night
At The Club…
I stand perched on the bar,my eyes fixated on a group of targets.
A sweet seductress bird flies by.
Elegantly dressed and with a charming smile, she glides past, feeling the stares of the passers by.
I stand focused, willing her to look my way, to give me that one moment.
For the moment I have her eye, she’s practically mine.
I sweep close, touch my hand on her waist, take the scent of her neck and walk past her.
She glares, confused at her loss. She knows from my eye and she wonders why.
I have her where I want her, I smell her desire and it is only a matter of time before she forsakes all of her power.
Let those who are sheep be there to do the chasing.
I am the player and my heart is raging.
Ready to take my strike, my body is poised, awaiting the moment I can claim my one prize.
The second eye is coming, oh so close!
Let there be sight! I’m there, almost!
She looks down at the floor, eyes slowly unveil, glancing up at me, they whisper:
“Take Me, Master”.
Photo Via wallace39
Whilst working in the men’s toilets in a club in Leicester square, I overheard Mr Rugby Lad talking to a man who he described as “football scum”…
They were discussing the following well known quote:
“football is a gentleman’s game played by ruffians, and rugby is a ruffians game played by gentlemen”
This is what Mr rugby lad had to say:
Hello you football scum,
I am Mr rugby lad, and I have a message for you pansies who fall over every time you kick a football.
You are not playing like gentlemen. A gentlemen would respect his opponents tackle rather than fake a fowl.
Rugby is played by gentleman. It is an amazing feeling when you take down another man by rubbing your head tight against his ass, squeezing your hands around his tightly muscled quads and making him submit to you on the floor. This is something you ruffians would never understand.
Another favorite position is at the back of the scrum, when we get to rub our elbows close to the gentlemen to our rights testicle sac. The trust we show each other with such intimate parts shows what kind of people we are…
The fact that we rugby lads are gentlemen, unlike you football hooligans, stems from our privileged positions at boys only private schools, where rugby is universally taught along with other gentlemen activities such as sword fighting and how to continuously extend your neck at 90 degrees to “hold your head high”.
We act like gentlemen in all aspects of life, not just when we are jumping on each other, or playing “soggy biscuit”.
For example, one of our favourite games is “who can drink the most before throwing up and then drink his own puke.” We act like gentlemen by showing great respect to the usually extremely overweight pre-alcoholic winner of this competition, and we regard him as our trusted leader.
We also differ from you football hooligans as we play a number of team development and building exercises, like spending many evenings sitting together naked and singing songs to each other. This has importance for two main reasons.
1. It is extremely important that we get to know each others anatomy really well, to ensure correct placement of hands during scrum.
2. It makes the less privileged men such as yourselves feel jealous that they can not join in with a naked group of men and sing songs.
3. As we sing and stare at each others genitalia, woman feel intrigued enough to find out what the fuss is about, as shown here:
In Summary footy fanatics, to be gentlemen like us would be difficult for you. But, when the times are tough, you’ve just got to swallow it whole and move on to the next one.
And remember, at the end of the day, it’s all just banter!
So no hard feelings,
Mr rugby lad
As I enter the club, I have only one objective. To hunt.
My reason for going shopping, finding nice clothes, wearing nice clothes, taking a cab and paying to enter this crowded room with loud music is not to stand at the bar communicating with males with a drink in my hand. No. What losers. Their mere presence is an insult to me, to know that I have to pay the same amount to be in the same vicinity as these mindless sheep who think that their night consisting of waddle dancing within a circle of men with their best shirts on is their concept of “fun.”
No. I am a wolf, and I’m here for my meal.
And for you men who have come out to look after and keep an eye out for your group of “best female friend circle”, don’t test me. You vermin are the people who disturb my sleep at night. Not because I worry that you may slightly delay my inevitable entrance into the insides of your female friends, but because you are lying to the world: You are not really a man. Your female friends severed your testicles off and strung them up to their waist belt so they can give them a little *squeeze* when they want some-one to buy their drinks.
Stay the hell out of my way.
And for you ladies, don’t fear me. I am the reason for you spending all that time to get ready and look so gorgeous. I love, adore and think of you all day. Your beauty astounds me and to me, is living proof that the world was created. It is a shame that these pathetic sheep men can’t see how stunning you are. You are my irresistible sweet lust and it is within my natural instinct to find, charm and seduce you.
I desire you.