Philosophy in turmoil following newly discovered Cartesian principle

By Tangleberry Waldorf-Salad

The discovery of a new manuscript by Rene Descartes has stunned philosophers worldwide and threatens to undermine four hundred years of progress.

The previously unknown document, Meditationes de secondo philosophia, was found by builders restoring the fire-ravaged Notre Dame cathedral and contains an update to the Descartes’ famous maxim ‘I think, therefore I am’, written in his own hand.

“The Cartesian first principle of cogito ergo sum has been accepted as a key element of philosophical investigation,” said Engelbert P. Wittgenfunk of the Ffossip Society of Philosophy.

“We were therefore stunned to find, scribbled in the margins of Meditationes, an entirely new but indubitably genuine new maxim Sed quid ego novi te, or, in English ‘I know you are but what am I?’ ”

“It shows that even in his later years Decartes was busy refining his ideas of foundational knowledge and rationalist methodology and provides us with another phenomenological question with which to wrestle.”

Professor Wittgenfunk added that philosophers across the world were busy trying to find a definition for the words “I”, “Know”, “You”, “Are”, “But, “What” and “Am”, after which analysis could proceed to the next stage.

 

Previous finds

In 2005 builders working on a public toilet in Frankfurt dug up the partially rotted manuscript of Phanomelogie de Geistes which under further inspection was confirmed to be a new version of Georg Wilhelm Freidrich Hegel’s 1807 work Phenomenology of Spirit. In the margins, in an unknown hand, was scrawled Man muss genauso sein um es zu verstehen.

For the last fifteen years, scholars have been arguing as to how to interpret the words. They were eventually provisionally decoded as ‘it takes one to know one’ by the 2020 Council of Philosophers.

Perhaps the most famous of all example is an inscription on a seemingly innocuous set of scraps of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Originally seen as separate and unintelligible possible test pen strokes, the breakthrough came in 1961 when researchers repositioned the scraps to reveal a new teaching on self-worth.

“תפסיק להכות את עצמך. למה אתה מכה בעצמך?” was translated after decades of debate as “Stop hitting yourself. Why are you hitting yourself?” and attributed tentatively as an addendum to the Sermon on the Mount.

The Motherfuckers

I let the Motherfuckers come through.

I might as well admit that.

I didn’t mean to.

But.

I would apologise if I thought there was any point.

 

To explain:

This apartment. Ha. Apartment! Hardly big enough to justify that name. A single, tiny room in which to sleep, eat, whatever. Somehow someone sometime had managed to squeeze a bed in. And you could half-open the door to get in and out, if you were a scrawny undernush like me. There was a table so you could look out the window and cry. It wasn’t legal to open it, and it was painted shut anyway. But it was a window. A possibility. A portal.

Two spiderwebs out the door was the kitchen/bathroom. A shower/sink/toilet unit, and a cooker, with the two separated by a rancid plastic curtain. No window. Size of a cupboard it was. A small one. It was horrible. But I didn’t chowit much – tried not to anyway. Pabulum was a sort of wan green or it was lens-lasering blue. People said the blue tasted better but fuck me it looked the same on the way out as it did on the way in. Cold, warm, fried, whatever. Likesay, I didn’t scrap much foodwise.

The apartment had an advantage: there was a blind on the window, which you could draw down. It still let in most of the grey, dying gloom of the day, but it also muffled the screams, the broken bottles, the sirens, the fighting, the rampaging, the burning, and the foulness. That was my soundtrack to sleep. A symphony of sickness. At least it covered up the scratching of the rats, I suppose.

When I was younger, and they still tell this to the kids, I always believed that one day the smog would clear and that the choking death would disappear, and we’d throw away the Hazmasks and there would be… well. It was impossible to imagine anything other than the insipid filth of the daybyday. At least, now I can’t do it. Maybe I did once. Maybe I believed in colourbrush, in breathgood. Nap. Nap. Nap.

 

Enough. It was enough. It was at least somewhere and I fucking kicked enough homeless out the way each day to get to work and back home. Locks, locks, locks. Spiced out their grapplers anyway, they were fuckall but jellybrains. Maybe that was better. But somehow I never fell. Not even now the Motherfuckers are here.

I kept this bit til now because you don’t know who’s watching so you have to assume everyone is, always. But the apartment also had a ladder on the wall. A red, rusting one, leading to some kind of crawlspace attic. Locked, locked, locked. Course it was. I tried it most days for a bit. But it wouldn’t budge. Not for a scratchy little angler like me. I was so tired most of the time I could barely make it home anyway so after a while I stopped trying and forgot about it. I had better things to occupy me, like a highly-illegal Oxydet. Fuck knows why they were illegal. Everything seemed to be. So you assumed everything was too. You get the picture.

It was said that if you hit an Oxybubble, if you just managed to capture one, you could not only be maskless but it tasted good. Imagine that. Tasting the air. On purpose! I always thought it was an urban myth, even when I was angling. I will keep trying. Sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps me going in this unrelenting nothingness, this ugly souplife. Wading through the effluent hours trying not to fall in because you don’t die when you drown, you just drown forever. Some people liked it, according to another story. That moment of scrabbling to the very bottom of your lungs for anything at all. Anything to keep you alive one moment longer. Perpetually in that state. Ecstatically on the verge of expiring in prime pain. The drowners. They were no use either: fucking cop-outs.

So I angled and I forgot about everything else and I got scrawnier and scrawnier and pallid and transparent until eventually I sort of flopped down and decided that this was the day I’d probably die and so be it. I was looking forward to it, and the hunger in my belly was a welcome stab toward the ultimate, and the burning in my lungs was my hand-holding doula, and my eyes crossed and the room span and split in two and as I was about to let go I knew how to open the trapdoor, because that was split into two as well and I could slide in between the worlds and so I did and.

Pardon my swear but GOSH

G
O
S
H

I was sitting in a restaurant, a restaurant like the rumours, ornate wooden furnishings and pictures on the walls. Holy smokes. A man, who looked a lot like an ant dressed in a dinner suit, approached. I urined a bit. Warm it was. The mant brought me a cup which steamed and I clawed at my face because I had no mask on at all and I held my breath until I couldn’t anymore and the air was so sweet so sweet so sweet and my mind expanded to fill the world and the cup, the cup, the cup was full of what I later found out was called coffee with milk and whatever those things are it was the best thing, the only thing, the ever-thing, I’d ever tasted. Its warmth filled me and engulfed me and hugged me and loved me.

I was restored. And around me others seemed to be restored too. There were a million voices and laughing noises and slurping and belonging, and though I couldn’t understand any of them, that was my overture of awesomeness. My melody of magnificence. Course, aside from the mants and the women that looked like beetles dressed up in leg-frocks everyone else was sort of blurred. Underwater, maybe. But not chokers, and not drowners, and not soupers. Just fuzzy around the edges. What a place!

I finished the coffee. The mant came and took the cup away. I stayed for ages but it wasn’t replaced and the pressure built up and up and up and suddenly there was an enormous POP.

Screams. Stabbings. All manner of fuckery. And that damned mask stuck to my face again. But an added creepy feeling of something just out of the eyeline. Someone, lurking. Someone with the sort of face that popped out in front of you on a ghost train in a cheap funfair. Rictus grin. Eye sockets so deep you sank into them because you saw yourself.

So yeah I admit it.

It was me that let the Motherfuckers in.

They dine, they thrive, they appear

Where there’s

hope.

 

The Universe (click for full size) (lol)

I saw the graphic on the net by a story about something or other but all I could think of was hamburgers so I had to then get up and do this:

Twenty Things you didn't know about Keir

I submitted this one a bit too late.

He’s the dashing, suave leader of the opposition. Famous for his intro song, “He’s here, he’s Keir, get used to it”, Sir Kier Starmer has melted hearts even as he takes the government of the day to task. But there’s more to this dapper gentleman than a sharp suit and a quiff – as we present 20 Things You Didn’t Know About Keir Starmer.

Canny Keir bought the rights to the word ‘forensic’ in 1987 – and gets a 5p royalty every time it is mentioned in articles about him. This year alone he’s made a cool £1.2 Million!

They may be fierce rivals across the ballot box, but Sir Kier and straw-haired comedy scarecrow shagbot Boris Johnson actually have an ancestor in common – Australopithecus, a genus of hominins that existed in Africa about 4 million years ago!

The right honouable Keir has had many high-profile jobs before becoming Labour Leader, including Queen’s Counsel, Director of Public Prosecutions, Head of the Crown Prosecution Service and original model for Mr. Whippy.

Sir Keir couldn’t have wished for a more apt constituency. As a big fan of weirdly blood-tasting tobacco, a lover of canonised holy people and an enthusiast of the digestive system he won his dream job in 2015 with a majority of 27,763… as member of parliament for (Old) Holborn and St. Pancr(e)as!

Had things gone slightly differently, you’d have seen Keir Starmer starring up front for his heroes, Arsenal Football Club. Unluckily, Keir was too shit at footy to get anywhere near being signed.

We know him as Sir Keir, prince of our hearts, but his full name is Keir Rodney Granddad Del-Boy Uncle Albert Starmer – his parents Mabel and Alf were huge fans of Only Fools and Horses.

Ironically, an anagram of the centre-left chief Labourite’s name is ‘Meek red irony tsar’.

With one R left over.

Which you could use to make ‘Mr. Satire Keir’

And if you had an extra ‘I’ he could be ‘Reiki Master’

One of his many business ventures is a building specialist, Keir’s tarmac. The company got the job for the resurfacing of the HS2 high-speed additional motorway runway across to Ireland and is now worth $36 billion.

Sir Keir was born on 2 September 1962 and has a starsign of Virgo. According to the Zodiac, this means he is determined, self-disciplined, analytical, allergicked to fudge, a perfectionist, opinionated and able to jump as high as a two-storey house.

Other famous Virgos include the late Kobe Bryant, the late Michael Jackson, the late Amy Winehouse the mediocre Keanu Reeves, John, the generously proportioned Salma Hayek and the late River Phoenix.

River was considered one of the most promising actors of his generation but died at just 23 outside The Viper Room in Hollywood, from a drug overdose.

His given name was River Jude Bottom.

Famous movies of his include the seminal My Own Private Idaho, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, The Mosquito Coast and Dark Blood, which was filmed in 1993 but not released until 2012.

He is the brother of Joaquin Phoenix, whose portrayal of Johnny Cash in Walk the Line was considered a masterclass in acting, and for which he received a nomination for Best Actor from the Academy Awards committee.

The Academy Awards is better known as The Oscars, although the iconic statuette’s nickname is hotly disputed. Margaret Herrick was the secretary of the Academy in 1931 and is reputed to have said it reminded her of her Uncle, Oscar Pierce.

Alternatively, it may have been named after Bette Davis’ husband, band leader Harmon Oscar Nelson, in 1941.

Although they share a last name and a love of music, Harmon is no relation to Prince Rogers Nelson, who tragically died in 2016, supposedly leaving a vault of thousands of unreleased songs at his studio compound, Paisley Park.

Megan's Trainers

Another one I pitched to a certain comic :)

Meghan’s Trainers

Howdy pals, perky American popstrel Meghan Trainer here!  You might know me from chart topping hits like All About That Bass and, um, well, some other stuff. But did you know that I was mad about trainers? Judging by my bulging postbag so are you readers! Your ‘Lips Are Movin’ so let’s get to it... No trouble! Or possibly No Treble! Whatever it is I sing!

Meghan xxx

Letters

Dear Meghan,

Can you settle a bet please? My friend maintains that it is pronounced ‘adidas’ whilst I am convinced it is actually pronounced ‘adidas.’ But which of us is right? The winner gets to slit the throat of the other’s first-born son.

Quentin Cashpot, Biggles-On-Sea

MEG SEZ: I’m afraid that the general pronunciation is ‘adidas’ so your friend is right. I hope he has a sharp knife!

Dear Meghan,

 I hope you can sort this one out! I say that the trainer company Nike is pronounced ‘nike’ whilst my sister is adamant that it’s ‘nike.’ Whoever is correct will win the right to inject the other with a deadly cocktail of nerve-destroying toxins.

Sarah McWhistle, Bognor

MEG SEZ: You’d both get the syringes ready... because you are both correct! It can be pronounced either way!

Trainer facts

The tiniest pair of trainers of all time were made for world’s smallest man, Calvin Phillips. They were constructed from some Action Man boots that had been melted down with a magnifying glass in order to fit, but were destroyed the same day when Calvin trod in all mouse shit and his mum made him leave them outside the door of his dolls’ house... where the world’s smallest slugs got in to the soles and left the world’s smallest minging pus trails!

Ask a shop assistant for ‘trainers’ in the United States and they’ll tell you to, “Go fuck yaself you goddamn stoopid limey asshole motherfucker.” That’s because over there they’re called ‘sneakers!’

And ‘pavements’ are called ‘sidewalks.’

The world’s most expensive pair of trainers were created by rapper Puffy Diddly Doo, or whatever the fuck he calls himself these days, and they were made out of two enormous Ko-Ih-Noor Diamonds, with pure gold laces and solid silver chewing gum stuck on the bottom. They were bought by Kanye West for his son, Southport Pontins West, for a cool $1,000,000,000,000! The box was made out of papier mache Dead Sea Scrolls and was estimated to be worth the equivalent of sixteen thousand Cristiano Ronaldos stretching to the moon and back!

Air Jordans are possibly the most famous trainers in the world, but they were originally designed not by basketball legend Michael Jordan, but enormo-jugged model Katie Price. They were first intended as special replacements for her plastic tits in case they exploded on a flight to New York, but were re-moulded into trainers after sort-of singer Peter Andre mistook them for car airbags and put them in the blue recycling bin. Each jug-bag created 200 pairs of trainers!

Statistically, you are more likely to win the lottery whilst getting struck by lightning as you are run over by a bus on your way to a hole in one on a golf course where you find a four leaf clover before being hit by an asteroid as you are to get mugged for your trainers.

Contrary to popular belief, Athlete’s foot is not something you can get through exercising your feet muscles, but rather a fungus growing between your toes due to the warm and humid environment of your favourite trainers. Other similar conditions include Tennis Elbow and Cricket Ball.

Kids say the funniest things... about trainers!

Our son Jacob, 4, called me from his bedroom because he ‘couldn’t get his feet in his trainers.’ Oh how we laughed when we found him trying to jam his tootsies into the anuses of Derrick ‘Mr. Motivator’ Evans and Diana ‘The Green Goddess’ Moran. They weren’t best pleased, I can tell you!

Ada Scrotum, Fulchester

I had to laugh the other day when Cassie, my 5 year-old granddaughter, announced that she wanted to be a trainer. It turned out she meant she wanted to construct rail transport vehicles that run along a track to carry passengers and/or cargo. I literally puked my lungs out of my mouth with hilarity when I was left waiting at Hamilton Square for the delayed 14.22 from Hooton, rail replacement bus in operation due to debris on the line at Bebington.

Ethel Warpig, Ffossip

My 11 year old nephew, Charlie, stood up proudly at Sunday dinner and declared, “I love black laces!” Well, the entire family was left on the floor wheezing for breath in giggles when we realised that rather than enjoying the dark coloured cords used to fasten up his trainers, he was a negligee-wearing transvestite who also was a fan of the 1980s pop duo. My husband shat his penis off at the crazy mix-up.

Gretel Handface, West Caernarfon

Trainer chatlines

T*e me up t*ght 0111 280870

I’ve got a h*le in my b*ttom 0111 2689

Polish my le*ther upp*rs 0111 78959

 My eyeh*les are dirty 0111 68962

Sniff my od*r e*ters 0111 785698

 J*sus they st*nk - p*t them in the f*cking w*shing m*chine NOW 0111 86985

The first sign of...

Bugs Bonnie

I occasionally have stuff in the mighty Viz Comic. Of course, there's bits and bobs that don't get in those hallowed pages. Also I got told once that 'I ought to be ashamed of myself for writing for them' by someone who I won't name, but is actually [censored]

ANYWAY here's one that didn't quite make it. I quite like it, nonetheless.

Bugs Bonnie

Hi folks! Former child star Bonnie Langford here – you might know me as an accomplished dancer, perky Doctor Who assistant and Broadway star, whose spirit and optimism has been crushed brutally since I became a regular cast member of the notorious pit of despond and anguish, EastEnders! I’m also a massive fan of insects, viruses and tiny creatures. And judging by the size of my postbag, you guys are bug crazy too! So “bee-hive” yourselves, “wasp” are you waiting for? Let’s talk bugs! “Aphid” you’ll like it!

Bonnie xxx

Dear Bonnie,

I went into a shop yesterday and asked for a Bugg single. Imagine my surprise when the assistant wrapped up an individual insect of the order Hemiptera. I’d been expecting a record by Jake Bugg, the singer, but I’d walked into the pet shop by mistake! Mind you, it sounded better on the stereo anyway.

Aldous Crisip, Holyhead

Hi Bonnie,

I was laid low by a nasty bug the other day – I lost a boxing match to an ant.

Iron Mike Dildo, Aberdeen

Yo Bonnie,

I was shocked to find a wasp crawling on me this morning. Then I realised I was married to Blackie Lawless, the singer of 1980s cock rock band W.A.S.P. and we were having fully consensual sex.

Irene Lawless, New Joinery

Hi Bonnie,

I was shocked when my wife told me to “Hurry up, eat shit and die” this morning. Then I remembered – I am a dung beetle, I work as a colourist at a hair salon (where ‘dye’ is spelt differently), and I needed to eat my breakfast – a ball of faeces – because I was late.

Balsam Termagant, West Hat

Dear Bonnie

I got into a mix-up the other day when my husband said he was off to watch the cricket. I later found him in the garden lying face down and staring at a chirping insect of the family Gryllidae. I laughed so much I ruptured my spleen!

Brangelina Amadeus, Reading-on-Cock

Hi Bonnie,

It was a huge shock to me to find Ant and Dec had visited – until I realised that I lived on a houseboat and a member of the family Formicidae was crawling on the wooden boards that make up the floor. It was that kind of ‘ant on deck’!

Throatette Sump, High-On-Life

Hi Bonnie

I was laid low by a nasty bug the other day – I’d contracted a dose of gonorrhoea!

Glenys Bunt, Frampton-comes-Alive

Dear Bonnie,

I’m such a ninny! When I was out shopping, I thought I’d pick up a tiny, living treat for my lizard – just the one, though, because he’s a chubby little thing. Imagine my surprise when the shop assistant handed over a 7” vinyl record called ‘Lightning Bolt.’ Instead of a single bug, I had asked for a (Jake) Bugg single - I’d walked into HMV by mistake!

Aldous Crisip, Holyhead

Dear Bonnie,

My husband is a keen observer of the summer game involving bats, balls, overs and people dressed in white. I, however, prefer to utilise the stumps as a sexual aid. You could say that whilst he likes watching the cricket, I prefer crotching the wicket! We’re getting a divorce because we’re fundamentally incompatible.

Brangelina Amadeus, Reading-on-Cock

Dear Bonnie

A beetle just came into the house and sat on the telephone. You could say that my phone had been “bugged!” It was doubly ironic as both me and my partner are double agents working for Russia and the United States of America as undercover spies, and inevitably our communications are being monitored by several countries.

Justin and Madonna Assminge, Venezuela

Hi Bonnie,

My mother’s sister is called Ann and she really isn’t a fan of insects from the family Formicidae. I call her my anti-ant Auntie Ann! She rarely laughs as I’m 43 years old and ought to have grown out of it by now.

Caligula Flagon, Brinyvadge-under-Fish

Yo Bonnie,

I got into a bit of a mix-up last week when I covered the floor with flea powder. I had to giggle when I realised I was roadie for Red Hot Chilli Peppers and I’d accidentally poisoned their funksome bassist to death.

Swarfega Rockbile, Jonestown

Dear Bonnie

Why is it that when a grasshopper sheds its skin it’s considered a miracle of nature, and yet when I take my clothes off in the women’s changing rooms in Debenhams I get sent down for indecent exposure? As usual it’s one rule for Orthoptera (sub-order Caelifera) and another for the rest of us.

Brian Vapid, HMP Wrexham

Kids say the funniest things… about bugs

“I’ve found a bug in my programme,” declared my grandson, Bill, the other day. Oh how I laughed when he brandished an FA Cup Final Matchday Magazine with a cockroach crawling over it, rather than having to rewrite lines of computer code to ensure that the whole thing didn’t crash, losing hours of work because of a fucking blue fucking screen at the worst possible fucking time.

Edna Gates, Los Lobos

“I’ve found a bug in my programme,” declared my grandson, Mark, the other day. Oh how I laughed when he got down to rewrite lines of computer code that had exposed the data of a billion people including bank details, address and name of first pet to the world. I’d thought he’d found a cockroach in his FA Cup Final Matchday Magazine! Oh my days, what a palaver!

Edna Zuckerberg, Silicon Valley

My grandson Gregor made me smile yesterday. “Gran, something’s been bugging me all night,” he said. It turned out that instead of having something on his mind nagging at him, he’d been turned into a giant insect in a potent allegory of racism, control, capitalism and the perception of self! What a twat.

Mabel Samsa, Kafka-on-Sea

I had to apologise to my young nephew on his birthday – he’s a keen fan of the 1980s middle-class cod-reggae band The Police, and in particular the band’s bassist. But instead of buying him tickets to see his favourite in concert, I accidentally embroiled him in a deceptive police operation to lure him into committing a crime. I’d got him the wrong kind of Sting! He got 20 years, 10 suspended for good behaviour with 18 months knocked off for time served and I am under constant police surveillance in case of retribution.

Ida Bastard, Wobbleboard

“Come quick,” cried my daughter Emily one hot summer day, “The bees are buzzing in the garden!” I thought that was odd, as I do not have an apiary. Imagine my surprise when I remembered that I was in charge of the Glastonbury festival, and the band The Bees were on top form on the Pyramid stage (Which is technically in my garden as it is on my farmland).

M. Eavis, Gastronomy

Your Bug Jokes About Bands

Send us your best bug jokes about bands – and win £5 worth of insects!

What is a bug’s favourite band?

The Beetles! (The Beatles)

Atrophy Rampant, Lagerville

What is another bug’s favourite band?

The Crickets! (Buddy Holly and The Crickets)

Atrophy Rampant, Lagerville

What is a third bug’s favourite band?

Adam and the Ants!

Atrophy Rampant, Lagerville

Where do punky musical bugs live?

In Hives!! (The Hives)

Atrophy Rampant, Lagerville

What do you call a facility for raising insects of the family Formicidae, if it is ran by beings from another world?

An Alien Ant Farm!

Atrophy Rampant, Lagerville

What do you call a band of singing horses that can fly and go buzz?

The Bee Gees!

Atrophy Rampant, Lagerville

What do you call a 1980s metal band that is technically an arachnid and can do a venomous stang?

The Scorpions!

Atrophy Rampant, Lagerville

What do you call a tiny flying insect that stinks of piss?

Midge Urine! (Midge Ure)

Atrophy Rampant, Lagerville

Mick’s Ticks

Awright me old gardens, Danny Forest Fire ere. It really does my nut in when slags tawk a loada pony abaht yer auld apples n hugs. Sah let’s correct summa them urban smiffs.

URBAN SMIFF: A flea can jump 20 metres.

MICK SAYS: You’re avin a bubbwe ain’tcha? It’s more wike 13 inches orizontally an 7 inches apples an spurtically. Wot rock did they find you undah? TICK FACTOR: 2 outa 5

URBAN SMIFF: Earwigs crawl into your ears when you’re asleep and eat your brain.

MICK SAYS: Do me a favour! They dahn’t even wike bwains! Mind you, there’s a few punters in the Queen Vic where I do wonder, I weally do. TICK FACTOR: 1 outa 5

URBAN SMIFF: The average person eats seven spiders per year.

MICK SAYS: Do ya fink I came dahn on the last boat? Not even remotely apples an blue. TICK FACTOR: 0 outa 5

URBAN SMIFF: Cockroaches are the only animals who could survive a nuclear holocaust.

MICK SAYS: Blimey O’Reilly, if I had a bag of sand evewy time I’d eard this. Look, I ain’t sayin they carn’t, but I ain’t saying they will neiva. It depends ow much apples an fadiation there is, see? TICK FACTOR: 3 outa 5

URBAN SMIFF: Most figs contain the remains of dead wasps.

MICK SAYS: On my life this is true! Yer apples an crosp lays its eggs in a fig, see, but it loses its apples an stings in the process so carn’t fly aht again so it gets its arris stuck. Cah, that’s proper sorry innit.  TICK FACTOR: 5 outa 5

Bug Sex Chat

Uncensored BILF chat – 0200 464 799

My Th*rax Is Vibr*ting – 0200 464 795

Real M*m-S*n Illegal Insect Action – 0200 464 798

I’m Pupat*ng For You – 0200 464 797

I’m in My Nymph St*ge – 0200 464 794

I’ve milli-peed my p*nts, sniff them – 0200 467 522

It’s Swarm In Here, Help Me t*ke Off My Clothes – 0200 464 793

Ringo’s Train Talk – 0200 464 792

Lockdown Ventriloquist

AMWAT: Say no more. There's no need is there?

"Total Sports Management"