About Me

On a mission to spam the spammers. With spam.

Tuesday, 17 December 2013


Dear Amazon,

I am writing to you out of pure altruistic kindness with reference to the annual shitfest that is the ‘xmas tv advert war’. A war from which your esteemed company is shamefully absent, poor little Amazon! Just think of all the misplaced sentimental bollocks and false sense of public togetherness generated by these sparkly visual piles of vomit that you’re missing out on. What better way to celebrate a company which is undoubtedly the bastion of 21stcentury Western capitalism than by anchoring it to the yearly consumer-fest obscenity that is xmas. This is something which I feel you should remedy for 2014 and I have come to you now as a metaphorical saviour with a world-beating script for your assault on the xmas advert brawl! John Lewis, Aldi, M&S, Morrisons, Tescos and all those other twats won’t know what’s hit them next year!

Title: Amazing Amazon (Already I can sense you’re excited! Alliteration does that to people)

Scene 1:

Starting with a black screen an image slowly fades in. A bird’s eye view of city streets, snow gently cascading around the lens as the camera moves along the rooftops. Haven’t decided on the musical accompaniment yet but probs Coldplay or something equally as bland and clich├ęd, the public love that shit.
As we arrive at the outskirts of town the camera zooms slowly in on a large warehouse, the Amazon logo resplendent and proudly emblazoned across the roof, people and forklift trucks busying themselves outside unloading pallets from a large HGV. The camera continues its descent, its speed increasing as it approaches those silly plastic flaps that cover the entrance of all warehouses. As we fly through the flaps the music suddenly changes! Now: ‘O Fortuna’ by Orff, you know that music they used in The Omen that makes your tits shrink? That one, right at the point where the shouty singing comes in.

Scene 2:

The scene inside the warehouse is one of total and utter horror. I’m thinking something like the hell section off Hieronymous Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ (alternatively if you’re not as cultured as what I am just picture the audience at an X Factor Live recording). Rows and rows of shelving literally dripping with parcels and boxes while grotesquely deformed humanoids slave away collecting them off the floor and throwing them onto huge motorised trolleys driven by enormously fat men with two heads who periodically vomit napalm and chunks of semi-digested mince pies onto the swollen backs of the workers (proper xmassy). The camera continues moving speedily between the racks, the floor slick and glistening with a noxious mixture of sick, blood, sweat and pies. As we reach the rear loading doors we again burst through the crappy flaps to be greeted by this…

Scene 3

A huge hairy santa 60ft tall, naked and sweating on all fours. As he cranes his neck round to look directly in the camera we get a view of his grubby beard encrusted with the detritous of a thousand xmas dinners which vibrate and shift as he belches with a repulsive and sickening grimace. The camera pans back and we see him reach round and spread his anus wide as dumper trucks continually lift and pour a mountain of presents and parcels into the disgusting fleshy cavity. Slowly, santa’s arsehole closes as the trucks cram the last of the presents in, then as santa rises onto his haunches and prepares for take off the music cuts out and there is silence. A few tense seconds pass as santa begins to shake then ‘WHOOSH’ he shoots into the air, loose hair and food particles creating a trail of vile confetti behind him, while the voice over is that bit in that awful Slade song where Noddy Holder shouts “It’s Chrriiiiiiistmaaaaaassss” in that dreadful throaty Brummy whine of his. Music suddenly kicks back in as santa soars but this time we hear Bing Crosby’s version of ‘It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Xmas’.

Scene 4

The camera is now again a birds eye view above santa’s fat hairy arse as we fly over the city once more to Bing’s sugary crooning. As we reach suburbia santa pauses over a chimney then squats and strains with the might of a man who has a million presents stuck up his backside. A bloody shit full of soggy boxes emerges from his ass and ‘plops’ down the chimney…

(Cut to)

Scene 5

Two children, a boy and a girl, both around 5 years old, sitting by an open fire in their living room. Both have a look of greedy expectation on their hideous faces as they witness the arrival of the xmas shit. It splats onto the flames and explodes, showering them both in cardboard, faeces and glitter at which point they turn to face the camera, both grinning inanely as glittery poo slides down their cheeks and gradually envelopes their entire bodies. The screen fades to black once more, the horrible image of shit-covered children burned forever into the viewer’s mind, as the end message types itself one letter at a time, white on black in a classic calligraphic font: “Merry Christmas, Love Amazon”.


See? It’s a belter isn’t it? I can’t think of a more appropriate and honest way to sum up the magic of xmas. The war is already won Amazon, John Lewis can stick that bear up its arse!!

Niesche x

Monday, 25 November 2013

UGG Australia

Initial message:

Date: Mon, 25 Nov 2013 18:21:07 +0800
To: the_niesche@hotmail.co.uk
From: customer@uggfull.com
Subject: UGG Boots Sale: 65% off TODAY ONLY

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To: UGG® Australia, Service@uggfull.com


Can i first of all state that no, i absolutely did not 'sign up at uggfull.com' to receive your email offers BUT (and this is actually a very large and special 'BUT') by some weird piece of cosmic synchronicity i was about to email YOU with an offer of my very own!!! How very special! And my offer is infinitely more valuable than a paltry 65% off and free shipping you tramps! What i offer is simply one thing: advice. Advice and ideas. Ok, two things, but it's mainly advice alright?
You may or may not have noticed that over here in the civilised western world ladies are increasingly getting sick of wearing boots that make them look like they work as the 'comfort police' in Fluffybunnyland. You have to admit that, as 'cosy' as they may be, trotting around all day in what essentially amounts to two dead sheep on your feet isn't going to win you any style awards. They're like slippers with delusions of grandeur. Not to mention the fact that everyone else has to suffer seeing these poor (but oh so comfortable!) women wear the shit out those 'fancy slippers' until the soles shoot out to one side like they're trying to escape being trodden on all day so ladies end up looking like they've broken their fucking ankles 'cos no-one in the real world can afford to spend 150 quid on a pair of replacement bedtime wellies every month.

So, UGGs are seemingly on the way out. But do not despair! My advice to you is simply 'diversify'...................................................................................................................................................

Just let that sink in......................................................................................................................................

Mind? Blown? I'll bet it is, but save your praise! I am about to share with you my amazing idea for a new stock line to help you continue to sell over-priced woolen products to fashion-unconscious Brits! Also, you're gonna have a whole bunch of fleece-lined toe-ticklers to get rid of so you may as well use them for something. So what is this idea?................................

'Cock Wallets'

A subtle and unique combination of the novelty 'cock warmers' popular in seaside town joke shops in the 80's, and that most outdated of monetary containers: the wallet. Bringing you the warmth and comfort of a toothless prossies mouth coupled with the convenience and security of keeping your 'pieces of silver' right next to your 'crown jewels'. Once your johnson is safely tucked up in its wooly bed you can rest assured that no self-respecting pick pocket (prick pocket? or maybe even pick cocket??) is going to have the 'balls' (hahahahahahaha!) to slip his hand down the front of your strides for the sake of a few pennies. And even if they did, what would they find? With the downy interior taking care of any post-wee dribbles, they'd discover a soft, warm and dry penis to welcome their dirty thieving hand. You know this one's a winner (or should that be 'weiner'!). I've even thought of some advertising slogans:

1. 'Ugger me!' A clever play on that most British of phrases 'bugger me' which serves two meanings, being both an invite by the consumer to your company to furnish his needy penis with your groundbreaking product, and also a reference to the act of 'buggery' which is sort of what the consumer will be doing when he pops his winky into the fluffy sheath, resembling as it undoubtedly will, a sheeps anus. 

2. 'Fort Knackers'. A reference to the American 'Fort Knox', being the archetypal secure money depository, and probably a very comfortable money depository at that.

3. Actually, i could only think of two. Sorry.

By the way i've trademarked the name 'Cock Wallets', i know you Aussies are all descended from criminals and as we all know thievery is genetic! I want my propers!

Niesche x

Thursday, 24 October 2013

Sharon Osbourne

Dear Sharen

I was thinking recently about your future career as it seems your run as quein of the x factor is likely coming to an end (source: The Daily Star, so it must be true). Due to your position as ‘national treasure’ and all round ‘strong woman archetype’ it would seem the only logical step up the career ladder for you is to be the actual quein of England! Because let’s face it, Liz is looking tired. What the royalty in this country needs is an injection of spunk. Forget that boring hippie freak Charles and his horse-faced son Bill, I’m fully on the quein Sharen bandwagon! In support of this I have taken the liberty of preparing your application form for the position of quein. There’s no need to thank me….

Application for the Position of the Quein

Name: Sharen Osborn

Address: Amurica

Do you hold a full clean driving licence?        No don’t be ridiculous! I am chauffeur driven in a chariot made of peasants!

Preferred hours:
Please tick when you are unavailable:


/ Counting my huge wads of cash

/ Shaving horses

/ On x factor
/ On x factor


Manager of a band what was popular
Qualification – Being good at shouting at people
Grade – B

On telly in my own family show
Qualification – Being on telly + Teaching kids to swear
Grade – C

On telly again
Qualification – x factor judge and ‘national treasure’
Grade - C       
Training Courses:

Being Sharen Osborne:
Incl. -
·         Developing an over-inflated air of self-importance.
·         Talking down to plebs.
·         Level 3 swearing

X Factor judge:
Incl. –
·         Shouting down people to win an argument
·         Level 3 Patronising
·         Professional arrogance

Professional Insulting:
Incl. –
·         Calling Chris Tarrant a ‘cunt’

Current Membership of Any Professional Body/Organisation:

Member of the Society of Delusional Idiots Who Think They Are Better Than Everyone Else (Honorary)

Wolverhampton and District Working Men’s Club – Committee member

Member of the ‘People Who Have Called Chris Tarrant A Cunt’ Society

Current or Most Recent Employer:

Name of Employer: The x factor

Date Started: I dunno, ages ago.
Leaving Date: Left 2011 but then came back cos I was bored not being on telly in 2013

Brief Description of Duties:

   In my role as x factor judge it is my job to lie in a high pitched whiny voice to poor sods who can/cannot sing in order to give them the misguided impression that ‘being a pop star’ will automatically bring them happiness, instead of telling them the truth of the matter which is that any short term gain in self esteem will be counteracted in a hugely disproportionate way by the crushing sense of despair and disillusionment they will inevitably experience when they are no longer ‘flavour of the month’. Speaking of ‘crushing sense of despair’ I also have to humiliate and patronise individuals during the ‘auditions’ who are clearly suffering with a variety of mental health problems and cannot sing or perform for toffee and who should never have been allowed in front of the camera in the first place hopefully reducing them to tears in the process but who cares eh it makes great tv. As a judge I also have to engineer column inches in tabloid newspapers by starting ‘feuds’ with my fellow judges, like when I bully little Louis Welsh, or saying ‘controversial’ things like “I didn’t like that”, “Get a bloody haircut you tramps dog” or “Shut up Tarrant you cunt”. 

Supporting Statement:
   Please use this section to demonstrate why you think you would be suitable for the post by reference to the job description and person specification (and by giving examples and case studies).  Please include all relevant information, whether obtained through formal employment or voluntary/leisure activities. Attach and label any additional sheets used. See guidance sheet for further information.

   I am Sharen Osborne. I am DEFINITELY quein material, just look at my cheekbones! I’ve got ‘condescending pout’ down to a fine art. I ‘swan about thinking I own the place’ like a proper professional quein. I eat things like kumquats and them posh grapes without the seeds in and I have milk made of diamonds. After years of plastic surgery my vag has been completely filled in and smoothed over and I am now completely asexual, just like the real quein. I don’t even have nipples, I had them removed yonks ago and now I use them as the push buttons on my doorbell at home. I look fucking great on stamps. I have proved that I can act with grace and dignity under pressure, like that time when I called Chris Tarrant a ‘cunt’ in front of an audience of adults and children alike. I am scared of bees. My husbend Oswald was a professional musician for many years and is a devout Christian, he even named his band after the sabbath! Our kids are weird, just like the real queins! I have stupid little dogs. I once gave a quid to a homeless. Erm…I ‘look marvellous for my age’ whilst ‘doing a great job’….or something. That’ll do won’t it?

   There you go Sharen, the job is in the fucking bag!! Do me a favour though, when you get the quein job can you hang Louis Welsh off Tower Bridge by his knackers so that every time a car goes over he shakes violently and his flabby jowls vibrate making him look really really stupid. Thanks.

   Niesche x   

Tuesday, 24 September 2013

Tracey Emin

Subject: The intertextual possibilities of the sexual-self

Hi Tracey,

I have some ideas for an art project but i have neither the time nor the requisite spunk to carry them out so i thought i'd contact the greatest name in post-modern art this country has ever produced (that's YOU Tracey) to see if she would help me realise my artistic vision. I do so hope you can help me 'colour in my outline'.

As a man with a functioning penis of flesh and blood i am overcome with a daily urge to recontextualise and deconstruct the sex act down to it's fundamental animalistic uber-aggressivity. Looking around this decaying fetid pus-encrusted heap-of-cock country i see secular sexualisation of humanity at every turn. Billboards literally scream the primal roar of orgasm directly into our collective unconscious, showering and sullying our sub-egotistic sense of sexual self in a sordid miasma of slick, sticky, superannuated secretions. 
My artistic inner-vision calls for a nouveau-grandiose addressing of this socially-misrepresented and unhealthy union betwixt penii and vagine: a brand new, thrilling and exciting approach that challenges our context-heavy presuppositions of the sex act while at the same time arousing the primeval jelly from our brain-base to come forth in an orgiastic explosion of high-brow filth.
My idea then, is this: Imagine if you will Tracey my love, entering a gallery space. That very act at once explicitly symbolizing not only the penetrative act of sex itself, you Tracey being a giant penis and the doorway a robust but welcoming vaginal/anal/nasal cavity, but also at the same time representing a contextually unique pastiche of the mind-rape perpetrated by the media sexualisation of the self.

You are then immediately greeted with the first of three pieces representing my artistic interpretation of the animalistic vagueness of human sexuality: a giant photograph of a lion's erect cock with the word 'POOF' written across it (i'm thinking a sans-serif font but am open to suggestions).
In this shocking yet thrilling moment the viewer is presented with a three-fold assessment of their own sex-ego: the sense of voyeuristic guilt at witnessing true animalistic sexuality; the direct questioning of the viewers same-sex biases, creating an internal monologue along the lines of "By staring intently at this grand feline phallus, am I the poof to which this statement alludes?? Have my inner-homophobic tendencies, all but hidden by my middle-class pretensions, now been exposed as the raw chauvinistic/feministic privileges they truly are?? Did that lion's cock just call me a poof???"; and most profoundly, is my hitherto unchallenged binary view of human/animal sexuality redundant, lost into a sea of grey shades that hold the entirety of animal sexual experience where lion and man are neither 'straight' nor 'queer' but instead drowning in a hot plasma pool of sexual possibilities?

Moving on one is then presented with the second statement: a close up actual penetration shot of bunny rabbit cock into bunny rabbit vagina with the word 'BESTIALITY' in tiny tiny writing (again, probably sans-serif) all over the rabbits' faces. We are truly then in the realm of 'animal porn', confronting our inner prejudice on the normalcy of the sex act within human social interactions, fully questioning our interpretation of what constitutes pornography. If we are indeed all animals, is this 'bunny fucking' arousing? Or is this bunny 'fucking arousing'?? Is it a possibility that within the realms of ones own sexual head space one might indeed 'knock one out' over this hyper-real presentation of bunny coitus? In a world where a man can marry his own dog (Google it, seriously. Dude kisses that bitch with tongues and everything. Yuk!) are we perhaps ready to confront this re-contextualized and hyper-defined version of smut?

Finally, the last piece in this pseudo-triptych of sexual discovery: a 6ft by 6ft mirror, next to which is placed a hat stand and several coat hangers. This invites the viewer to first reassess their own body image in the new context of a truly animalistic sexual ego, asking them to look inside and feel for the first time that base neanderthal response to pictures of pricks and pussies thus releasing a sexual freshness which permeates their by now sebum-coated loins. The hat stand further invites a literal stripping of clothes while also offering a figurative removal of old sexual attitudes and biases, leaving the viewer to walk naked out of the space, free from an outdated and normalized vision of sexual mundaneity.

It'd also be nice if the gallery space led straight out into a cafe or something so you could get a drink and a biscuit afterwards. Oh, and I realize there are no tits in this exhibition, do you think it needs some form of tits? Maybe we could cover the floor in bats nipples or something? Just a thought.

Laters, innit.
Niesche x