About Me

On a mission to spam the spammers. With spam.

Friday, 4 December 2015


I hate Sainsbury's. I hate sentimental xmas adverts. I wrote Sainsbury's a letter...

Dear the Sainsbury’s,

I haven’t seen your xmas advert to be honest but from what I hear it’s a bit of a tear jerker. Now, that’s all well and good but what you’ve gone and done is set a precedent for future years, where every Tom, Dick and Wanker will be trying to ‘out-sad’ your efforts this year leading to the tv being full of tragi-wank xmas vignettes involving animated animals, and no one wants that do they? Therefore I am proposing that you end this shit-fest once and for all by producing the tear-jerker to end all tear-jerkers! And it just so happens that I’ve gone and written it for you! You lucky bastards! So without further ado, here’s your advert for next xmas:

Scene 1:

The screen fades in on a garden scene, the camera panning slowly across a snow-covered lawn towards a tree at the back of the modestly-sized, well-manicured garden, upon whose branches two robins sit by a nest full of chicks twittering to each other. As the camera gets closer it becomes a static close-up shot of the birds talking to each other in bird talk. They kiss (well, they touch beaks) and one flies off with the camera following behind as music begins to fade in (Shakey’s xmas ‘classic’, ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’)

Scene 2:

We follow the robin over the rooftops of a middle class neighbourhood from behind, a birds-ass eye view, and as we reach the city below we see a homeless man begging for change on a street corner. The robin lands on the edge of his cup, twitters for a bit then shits in the cup and fucks off, the homeless man is too busy crying to notice and so he drinks the shitty coffee (close up of his neck making swallowing movements and gulping sounds so we know the shit is going in). The homeless then grins a toothless grin and we see bird-shit and coffee residue all over his disgusting yellow teeth.

Scene 3:

The robin then flies low and in through the door of a Cash Converters, where we see a haggard and dishevelled young woman, old beyond her years, handing over a brand new Playstation 4 to the cashier and receiving a fraction of the price she paid for it before heading outside and handing the money straight to a man in a fleece lined coat who drops a few bags of smack into her wrinkled hand.

(Cut to)

The robin is in a squalid flat now, perched on the windowsill. The same woman from Cash Convertors is slumped against the radiator with a hypodermic needle sticking out of her arm, a poorly-written Santa’s letter beside her which the camera closes in on, the words ‘Dear Santa, I would like a PS4 for xmas’ scrawled across the paper, and commotion in the background as an angry 9 year old trashes the house and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries. Whilst crying.
“Children plaaaaaying, haaaving fun!” ay, AY!!!!

Scene 4:

The robin now flies into an industrial estate, where we see a man leaving work, laughing and joking with his colleagues as he walks out of the loading bay. He is carrying a large bag with what appears to be a box inside.

(Cut to)

The robin perched on the top of an old armchair in which the same man sits, the glow and flicker of the tv illuminating his weary face. He wears a look of complex emotions: sadness, fear, despair, self-loathing. He swigs from a bottle of vodka, the bag next to him revealing a case of 12 bottles of the same. The camera closes in on his face and a solitary tear emerges from one milky eye and slowly rolls down his ruddy cheek. His face contorts into a grimace and as the camera sharply pans back we see him reach forward and smash the bottle on the coffee table in front of him causing the robin to fly off hurriedly (the ‘smash’ of the glass timing perfectly with a ding-dong noise in Shakey’s annoyingly saccharine ditty). He takes the jagged remnant of the bottle and holds it above his wrist, his whole body tense and shaking with grief as he tries to summon the courage to end this miserable, lonely existence. The camera pans away as the man looks to the ceiling and cries out in mental anguish, his body shaking as he begins to sob uncontrollably as we hear Shakey crooning “Love and un-derstaaaaaaaandiiing….”

Scene 5:

We are now back following the robin’s ass as he passes over a market stall. A jolly man stands behind the stall and smiles and waves as the robin stops to pick up a bright red bow from a selection of trinkets then flies off into the snowy sky.

Scene 6:

We see a repeat shot of scene 1, the camera slowly panning down the garden, coming to rest focusing on the robin family as father returns to the nest and passes the bow to his wife, who tweets her delight (as in, she says it in bird language. I don’t mean she writes 140 characters on a website where twats go to argue. After all she’s a robin. And robins don’t have hands. You fucking idiots). The chicks chirrup and jump around excitedly as the two parents embrace. The scene fades out with a snow flurry and the following words fade in:
‘Never mind ‘them’, have yourselves a very merry Xmas!’

The end.

It’s ok Sainsbury’s, wipe away those tears. Just think of all the extra money you’ll make by cynically exploiting the public’s emotional response to sentimental claptrap in the hope that they somehow internalise a false association between a corporate supermarket giant and ‘the spirit of Christmas’, as if those two things weren’t fucking light years apart.


Niesche x

Saturday, 23 May 2015


I came across this website the other day: http://www.raisingtheskirt.com/about.html
Have a read (it's totally NSFW by the way). I did. Then i sent them this:

Dear Nicola,

First of all congratulations on your successful ‘raising the skirt’ workshops, from the photographs on your website they sure look like a lot of cunt-staring fun! What a set of cunts! You're not only displaying your cunts, you are by your actions personifying them and projecting their power outwards through your very being on a profoundly moving level. You are literally 'being' cunts, and that's a beautiful thing. Your work is so inspiring and I feel compelled to open up my inner soul to you and to lay bare my personal vision of cunt wonderment. I must confess though that although I do feel a very personal connection to your work, my own ‘cunt’ needs a bit of work to be honest as it is actually much more like a ‘penis’. Ok, it is actually a ‘penis’, but if I tuck my balls between my legs and then squeeze the sides of my jap’s eye so it opens a bit, then get someone to look at it from a distance through binoculars while squinting their eyes, it could pass as a cunt I reckon. And wouldn’t that be wonderful? ‘Cunt-derful’ even? Me, a male human, sharing my inner cunt, my bell-end cunt, symbolic of the alpha and omega with the balls representing Adam the first man and my cock-cunt jap’s eye as Doreen the last biblical woman opening ‘her’self up to shower the world in glorious femi-juice. I feel that with your expertise and experience you can help me finally realise my dream of being a 'total' cunt.

Your work also reminded of the words of Margaret Phillllling, the 17th Century white witch, who wrote the famous ‘cunt-grimoire’ magical text - ‘Spastic Jam and Other Treatise on Witchdom’. She first invoked the 5 words of feminine power, which are more relevant now than ever: Cunt, Tipple, Fruitcake, NibNib, Bobbin and of course, Titties. According to Maggie’s magic book, when spoken together really fast (like you’re one of those rappers or something) these words provide the power of a thousand winds which can be used to blow away the shackles of male repression and furnish you with the freedom to set about abolishing the nasty patriarchy forever!

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I think the next logical step on your road to cunt domination is to open the workshops up to other men of my ilk so we can join in the fight to reclaim the cunt and to present it back to society as the weather-controlling magic orifice it always has been. Maybe us like minded femi-men could gaze in wonder at all the cunts on display and worship them by chucking milk out of a window or something. Then the women could piss on us, further reinforcing the power of the cunt over the penis but then our peniseses would transform into mini-cunts and we could stand in a line and again squeeze the sides of the jap’s eye so it ‘talks’ like a mouth and ventriloquize it saying stuff like ‘it's a piss disaster my cunt master’ or ‘ladywinners, shower us with cuntfetti!’.  
Alternatively, maybe look to get some sponsorship from the world of showbiz, and publicise your movement a bit. You could even turn the whole concept of cunt-power on its head by having a total cunt like Piers Morgan endorse you thus raising your profile while at the same time striking a sarcastic ‘blow’ to the figurehead of patriarchal cunts everywhere. This would surely be the perfect triumph over misogynistic wankers the world over as a truly post-modern ‘blow’ job delivered to an enormous ‘cock’.   

Anyway, have a think.