LAD CRASHING AT PRE-DRINKS NEEDS TO TOUGHEN THE FUCK UP – The Weekly Rag, Issue 9

By our Student Correspondent.

Barry, Wales – A gaggle of local Lads are being left dismayed after it has become obvious that one of their squad has absolutely no intention of going to the club following the pre-drinks and getting utterly twatted like everybody else.

“Why the fuck is he even here?” says Lawrence Stiles, 21, Full-Time Lad, “What did he think ‘pre’ refers to, ‘drinks before bedtime’? Stupid prick should have brought four cans of camomile, instead of that weak-ass alcopop shit that he’s drinking.”

“I swear to Christ,” concurs Billy ‘The Nose’ Noel, 20, “He was acting all shifty earlier, not throwing out any good club suggestions, like. It’s probably because he’s never been to any!”

“Fuck sake!” he exclaims.

This is not just a misunderstanding. Top fucking experts, who absolutely know their shit, have confirmed in a damning report that the stupid twit is a certified little pussy-bitch who should know better by the age of 22.

“It’s a bloody disgrace, really,” agrees Doctor of Psychology at Oxbridge, Jennifer Devon, 45, “If the ‘#LADSLADSLADS’ are planning to get completely fucking slaughtered and you aren’t up for a cheeky ride on the banter bus, fair enough. But the least you can do is not bring the room down by turning up with your two bottles of WKD and an alarm set for 7am. Basic fucking human decency, that.”

Staff at The Weekly Rag have been kept on high alert following the breaking news of Judas’ betrayal, and are constantly monitoring the situation, awaiting the silly chucklefuck’s inevitable, slow, miserable crawl towards the camp-bed.

And there he fucking goes.

 

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MAN CAN’T CHOOSE BETWEEN SHORTS AND JEANS – The Weekly Rag, Issue 8

By our Weather Correspondent

 

Cardiff, Wales – Earlier today, local man Gareth Phillips was having trouble deciding as to whether the conditions outside warranted putting on a pair of faded jeans or his brand new cargo shorts.

“I took the time to examine the weather carefully,” he said, weighing up the jeans in one hand and the shorts in the other, “yet everything about the temperature and the clouds said that it’s gonna be humid but breezy.”

“How the fuck do you dress for that?” he complained.

 

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A photographer’s attempt to recapture the moment seconds before the fateful choice was made.

 

Mr. Phillips is not alone in his struggle. A recent study showed that an estimated three million people regularly fall victim to the Welsh weather per year.

After much deliberation, and a quick rendition of ‘eeny-meeny-miney-mo’, Mr Phillips eventually settled on the cargo shorts, reasoning with himself that “they should be broken in whilst I have the chance”, and left his flat in Splott to do some shopping. He was halfway down Queen Street when he noticed that it had started picking to rain.

“I was caught, quite literally, with my trousers down,” shuddered Mr. Phillips, taking a sip from his hot chocolate. “It was all that I could think to do to dive into Ann Summers and wait for the storm to pass.”

“I spent the time wondering how cold the women in the pictures would be if they were here,” he confessed.

When approached, Republican Presidential Nominee Donald Trump said, “He should get some of my shorts. I have the best shorts, from the best short people in the world! You don’t get any better than my shorts, but I’m going to make him pay for them.”

 

 

I Have No Wings Yet I Must Fly

So, a couple of weeks ago, I started work on a new short story under the aforementioned title, ‘I Have No Wings Yet I Must Fly’. As a last minute decision, I decided to pitch the idea as my major project for my final year of university, and it was chosen! I didn’t see that coming, and had to throw a script together by the end of the week. The film itself will not be done until like May, although a ‘pilot’ of sorts will be completed in December. Until then, as a sort of preview to the production, and something that will inevitably go into the production folder to give it the illusion of professionalism that simply isn’t present with me, here is the beginning of the short story what I wrote, which I have since translated into a screenplay.

It’s up there, I can just about see it.

When I went in there, into the crooked mansion to see the old woman, I hadn’t really acknowledged it before. Sure, it’d always BEEN there, but there’s something about perception that can make it utterly invisible to the selective eye and the ignorant mind. Of course, it’s just a matter of having your priorities changed, at which point your eyes will open and the previously elusive will, poof! appear out of nowhere. I am having that sensation right now. I’m looking at the night sky.

More specifically, the North Star. Why should I care about that?

I work for a company which specialises in granting last wishes to the dying. Usually it’s pretty simple affair; do-good celebrities to contact or plane flights to book.

This case is not that simple.

I mean, I’m told that she was sound of mind when she wrote it down, the illness hadn’t taken that from her at that point, so where on earth did this request come from? Like, of all the things to want to take to the grave.

She wants to be buried with a piece of the North Star.

I’ve tried asking her about it but to no avail, when she isn’t comatose she tosses and turns as if she were under some tainted affliction of the mind. I have asked the family, all three of them, and they have been of no help. Not one, not the daughter, the son-in law, nor the brother can tell me where such an unusual request may have originated. They were kind enough to let me make use of their telescope, which I currently stare through towards the celestial body in question.

It’s quite the conundrum. I have a job to do, yet I cannot. I have no wings, yet I must fly.  I’m seemingly expected to soar through the galaxy and amongst the constellations, swoop around Orion’s Belt and ride the Big Dipper, before extending my hand and retrieving a slice, freshly cut, from the North Star.

So all I’d have to do is die of asphyxiation, decompression and burning. Simple. Where do I sign up?

My boss has been of like, literally no help. I called her earlier, and all she had to say was, “You have your assignment; see that it gets done.”

Cheers Boss; great job. I’ll be sure to send you the medical bills, as well as my notice of resignation.

I am reminded of the ancient story of Icarus, the boy who had wings. In a surge of overconfidence, he felt it necessary to show off just how capable he could be, to his own downfall. Upon straying too close to the sun, his wings melted and he fell.

Spoiler alert, he died horribly.

There have been no such instances of people with wings since then, yet something about this woman perplexes me. She cries out frequently for her slice of the star, in an almost natural, primal urge, as desperately as one might call out for water or sustenance. She means what she says, but does she know what she’s saying?

I’ve been given free lease of the house to look around as I please tonight. Every hour counts, the Doctors have given her until sunrise. This chance to see the North Star up close will be her last. The telescope is in the conservatory. A quick glance around the room reveals nothing else of particular interest, with the exception of the magazines. Articles on skincare, politics, celebrities, gardening, rambling, the kitchen sink, anything really.

With the notable exception of stargazing.

The telescope appears to be hers, but the interest is not. What is it about the brain that lays certain desires dormant, only to be unlocked in its final moments? Has the old woman ever expressed an interest towards the study of astronomy or the acquisition of what it entails?

According to the brother, not really.

Huh.

Upon leaving the conservatory I find myself in the great hall. This building is one taken straight from the board game Cluedo. If I were to discover myself wandering through some secret passageway I wouldn’t be surprised. Point is, it’s an awful lot of ground to cover in one night. How many clues are to be found before my objective makes sense? And even then, how would it possibly be feasible?

Looking around the hallway, it has certainly become clear that I have my work cut out for me. Where on earth should I go next? Still, I have no time to dawdle, I will walk straight forward and see where it takes me.

I’ve never written anything like this before, so it is of course sod’s law that this is the project that ended up being chosen for my major project. However, I have had a lot of fun creating these ideas and writing this story, and am very keen, along with my team, to make and share the best story possible this upcoming December and May. Until then, thanks for reading!