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The New Statesman Daily The best of the New Statesman, delivered to your inbox every weekday morning. World Review The New Statesman’s global affairs newsletter, every Monday and Friday. Morning Call Quick and essential guide to domestic and global politics from the New Statesman's politics team. The Crash A weekly newsletter helping you fit together the pieces of the global economic slowdown. You ideally want to have porn on, so it doesn’t take ages, but you don’t want to see each other.Sign up for The New Statesman’s newsletters Tick the boxes of the newsletters you would like to receive. Rick: ‘There’s a whole etiquette around Jizz Derby that I find fascinating. Greg: ‘Yeah, one of my favourite bits about growing up was learning that there was nothing to be ashamed of, and we basically all do it.’ To the point his jizz actually caramelised, and turned brown.’Ĭomparatively vanilla, this one: two or more pugilists beat themselves off, first to finish wins. Greg: ‘…and ended up literally broiling the poor Pony – ‘Rainbow Dash’, I believe – in spunk.
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Then one day, he absent-mindedly stashed it too close to a radiator…’ He basically succeeded, drowning the sorry quadruped in his w*** juice.
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He kept a My Little Pony figurine in a glass jar, and spent months patiently trying to drown it in cum, one spurt at a time, Greg: ‘I heard about this weird f***er on 4Chan. Rick: ‘Mum knocked it off the bookshelf when she was dusting and it smashed.’
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When it’s around half full (or half empty, depending on your outlook) the gang sit in a circle and pass it around, each in turn removing the lid and inhaling the putrid stench therein deeply. Over days and weeks, the jar gradually fills. He retires to the bathroom, does his thing, and ejaculates into said vessel. Whenever good pals gather to play FIFA or watch telly, and one fancies teasing the tamarind, a communal ‘spuzzjar’ is produced and handed reverently to him.
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Rick: ‘God, and round two would take forever.’ Ollie: ‘Ah, but is it technically a biscuit? The last thing you’d want is some smart arse proving it’s a cake. A chocolate coating would certainly help, and perhaps some sort of sweet filling.’ Paul: ‘Is a digestive the best choice? Of biscuit, I mean.’ Ollie: ‘I won – which is to say, I didn’t lose.
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Another lad produced a biccie from somewhere – a digestive, I seem to recall – and we all just cracked on.’ One of the older chaps got hold of some brandy to liven up an evening of cards. Ollie: ‘Absolutely, it was a very posh school. No choke without fire, right? My question is: why would anyone make something like that up?’ Rick: ‘Surely that’s an urban legend, right?’ Last to finish scoffs the biscuit, sour frosting and all. The nation’s most notorious masturbatory pastime: a circle of panting degenerates loom over a table with a biscuit in the centre in order to ejaculate on the, let’s say, ginger nut. For those brave souls still with us, our methodology was to identify five distinct varieties of ‘team tug’, outline the rules, and see if our panelists have tried them out, or had any thoughts on how they might get on.