Grater Expectations Issue One
Welcome to the first issue of Grater Expectations, the younger but ultimately more likeable sister of The Cheese Grater. Satire has long been a bastion of white dude-dom, so we thought we’d distract ourselves from the impending doom of our own mortality by making one of these ‘zines’ that all of our millennial friends have been talking about. Here at Grater Expectations we’re all about shoes, shopping, gin and the destruction of the neo-colonial white supremacist capitalist cis-hetero-patriarchy. I’d like to thank our contributors for taking time out of their desolate schedules to badly photoshop pictures of crying dolls. Please enjoy our zine and make sure to follow us on the Tumblr we forgot to make. Ms. Anthropy, editor
Autocue robot t Tory Secre Pig man Porky
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Sligh tl silly s y till posh
Gr pol easy itic ian
Tired of the same old satire? Contributors: Colette Allen, Catherine Dorman, Bo Franklin, Oumou Longley, Jess Murray, Jason Murugesu, Jack Redfern, Tara Sarangi, Anna Saunders, Jamal Seddougui
“We’re both made out of ribs!”
The Easy Way To Deal With Trash People! I am good at everything and the system works perfectly and when people do badly itâ€™s their fault and they deserve it
Oh no it seems that I belong in the trash
Grater Expectations tries...
Negging is the practice of lowering women’s confidence enough to get you in the game. As just another desperate bachelorette, I hoped I could get some above-average action using this technique. With some killer putdowns and my best condescending smirk, I hit the streets of North London to make men feel like trash, in the hope of adding another piece of garbage to my already crisp packet strewn bed. I spotted my first target striding briskly towards the tube. Standing in his way, I looked him up and down and said, “You know pink trousers make you look like a dick right? And not just as in ‘he’s a bit of a dick’, but like an actual penis, all pockmarked and misshapen. It looks like the entire customer base of Jack Wills went on a night out together, got a round of cherry sourz in and then simultaneously vomited on your legs.” He gave me a look of confusion and mumbled “fuck off” before scurrying away. Brimming with misplaced confidence, I preyed on a man dejectedly smoking a cigarette outside a metal and glass monolith. “Your eyes look puffy. Have you been crying about how your dad always preferred your younger brother and missed your nativity play so that he could have sex with your year two teacher? Are you smoking to fill your body with something more acrid than the hatred that consumes the very core of your being? Also your hair is shit.” The cigarette dropped from his hand and I sauntered off feeling drunk on power, and also booze. Beware the pre-midday ‘Spoons. Full of lust – and three large glasses of Nottage Hill – I felt like the lovechild of Dionysus and Eros. Dioneros. I was still chuckling at this witty, definitely spontaneous and not Googled portmanteau, when I spotted him: the most handsome man ever to set foot in a WC1 postcode. I ran up to his chiselled face and started shouting into it. “Ooh you think you’re so big and clever, working in a bank or whatever when really you’re just a cog in the big, greasy capitalist grease machine, yeah? Sure you have a fulfilling social life and a wide range of interests and hobbies, and your pension plan is very comprehensive for someone of your age, but can you wake up at 11 on a Wednesday and head straight to a Wetherspoons? Huh!? How’s that for a transferable skill, you prick! Now am I going to fuck you or what?” His impossibly sharp jaw remained stonily resolute, his piercing, unblinking eyes stared straight ahead. It was then I realised I’d been shouting at a River Island mannequin. As I turned to go home, a passing builder shouted “Give us a smile love”. ‘Neggers can’t be choosers’ I thought, reaching for my phone and opening up Tinder as another mid-afternoon hangover kicked in.
Crying all the way to the bank
Poetry for the disillusioned Yes, I am a man Although the female plight I Understand. Haha. Can I be honest? Life has always been easy. Keep it secret, shh. Feminist I am We should be equal. Agree? So your place or mine?
So Farewell then Taunton Town that spawned and educated Me I hated you when I lived in you And I still do Bye Sometimes I hate you Truth is, itâ€™s all the time Everybody hates you Pretty much everyone Dick, thatâ€™s what you are Also, Die soon
We need to talk about... PISSING YOURSELF FOR
I think pissing yourself is good because it means that you are overflowing with laughter and joy and you can justify buying expensive new trousers.
I think pissing yourself is bad because you end up covered in piss.
Who Wore It Better? The Vacant Stare
Jess accessorises her vacant stare with the perfect balance of misanthropy and self-hatred
Colette conveys the deep well of numbness we all feel with flourish and poise
Once again: nobody wins
I’ve seen into the void!
LIVE CHAT with quirky babes on www.imnotlikeothergirls.XXX
“I’ll be your manic pixel dream girl!”
Now 100% effective!* *due to total elimination of libido
The Bi Eraser! For use by gay or straight people - we donâ€™t discriminate!
SHERLOCK SERIES FOUR - ‘THE HOT FOREIGN LADY’ UNAPPROVED ADVANCE SCRIPT
1. RESTAURANT INTERIOR. EVENING. Oriental music is playing. Some plucky-plucky nonsense. Dingalingaling. Close-up on woman’s hands. It is clear that she is into kinky sex from her painted red nails. She probably likes going on top sometimes. The woman’s name is FEMALE CHARACTER. A delicate flower. Skin like a new morning, eyes like gently rippled lakes, breasts like English muffins. She has a word in a silly language tattooed on her neck. She is seated alone at a table. The restaurant is busy. It is solely patronised by young, white heterosexual couples. Two men enter and request a table. They are middle-aged, plain, boring, and delightfully privileged. But they are white men, and so they are obviously OUR HEROES. MAITRE D’ Bonjour fellow heterosexuals. How can I help? HERO ONE Hello my fine white man. My friend and I would like to be seated at a table where our knees might be conceived to be within intimate proximity, without ever showing any real proof that we might be anything other than straight men. MAITRE D’ Of course, my kind cis companions. Please follow me. HERO TWO But Shercock, shouldn’t we at least give some fodder to the SJWs? HERO ONE You’re right Cockson. Come here. The HEROES lean in. HERO ONE whispers into HERO TWO’S ear. We will not find out what he whispers for another six years. We will say that he was whispering something about the Mafia. Tumblr will say he was whispering “I love you”. Really, he was whispering “Check out the baps on her.” The HEROES walk past FEMALE CHARACTER’S table. This independent woman, enjoying a dinner by herself, is captivated by the pasty loftiness of HERO ONE. She loves him. Of course she does. All women love him: he is an aloof, patronising public-school boy. He stops and turns to her. HERO ONE Stop what you’re doing. You’re a feminist. I can tell. Know how? The nails. The eating alone. The breasts exposed to catch the eye of every man, because why else would you wear that dress? Good for you. Well done for embracing your womanhood. I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of all lady feminists, they’re getting to be almost as good at it as men are. Bravo. Have you ever kissed a genius? No? Come to my house later and we’ll kiss like a fish trying to suck itself off, and ridicule people with mental health problems. FEMALE CHARACTER You’re a bloody psychopath! HERO ONE Oh, do your research. I’m no psychopath. I’m a cunt.
ike inton l e l r Mo lary C !!?! ? l Chi rite??! i am
THE MELTING POT
Message in a bottle It was far too early on a Friday morning after a hard week of lectures and disappointing social engagements when I approached the bus stop headed for another day of monotony. As I dug my phone out of my pocket to surreptitiously skip to that one One Direction song (you know, the one that’s a stone cold banger), something tucked beneath the grimy bus stop bench caught my eye. I looked over and saw that there was a carefully rolled piece of paper sticking out of the top of a very fancy, glass sparkling water bottle. Someone had clearly placed this empty bottle in the corner with an important message for just the right person (me) to find. It had to mean something, right? If it were simply rubbish wouldn’t it be on its side, or in the bin two feet to the left? And what of the paper, what did it say? A million possibilities flew through my mind in an instant. Perhaps it was a thoughtful note that said ‘have a nice day’ or some platitude like ‘you’re the only you, embrace it!’ Maybe it was the first step of a treasure hunt ending in, ideally, cupcakes. Or an abandoned warehouse full of left mannequin hands. That would be a change of pace. I checked my bus tracker and saw that I still had 2 minutes until the 134 would whisk me away forever, so I decided to still my beating heart and pick up the bottle. As I carefully fished out the slightly damp, tightly rolled piece of paper more possibilities flashed before my eyes. Would it be a phone number? And if it was would I call it or be more chill and text a simple ‘hey’? Would I find the love of my life? I decided that if it was an address I would check it out on google maps before following the designated directions to my dreams. As the bus approached I tentatively unrolled the paper and found myself staring at a receipt for a Rustlers burger and a packet of AA batteries. There is no magic.
No matter what I do, I feel the same. Numb, numb, numb.
We go out, I drink, I hate them all. In the toilet mirror, my face is not my own.
I spit my poison into their drinks. They sip, none the wiser. I feel better.
Tired of being humiliated by sexist/racist/pesky playground jocks? Want to throw some A-grade sass back at your withering grandma? Think the power balance in your relationship is way off-kilter? We’ve put together a handy guide to the perfect comeback. Just combine your star sign and the hue of your pants for a real sick burn: What’s your star sign?
And your pants?
Aquarius - U wot m8? Pisces – Listen up buddy, I think I might not like you very much. Aries- One day when everything seems perfect, something will go horribly, irreparably wrong, and in that moment I want you to think of me. Taurus - If you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Pls don’t hit me. Gemini - Muuuummm!!! Cancer - Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words just make me feel a deep sadness and personal inadequacy. Leo – U wot m9? Virgo - Oscar Wilde quipped ‘There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.’ Pls don’t hit me again. Libra - Talk to the hand, ‘cos the face is crying rn. Scorpio - Never, ever take that tone with a Scorpio. Oh no wait, maybe I mean the Scorpion King, aka Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson? Sagittarius - Looking for beef? Then welcome to the fucking deli counter! Capricorn – Bazinga!
White- You sack of leaky batteries. Red - You’re a real curate’s egg*, you know that? Black - Think your words can break me? You’re looking at the 2007 Truro and Falmouth short story competition runner-up, sunshine. Green - If I had to save you or Martin Shkreli from a fire I’d probably save Shkreli, on balance. Blue- I hope the labels come off all your canned goods, and you open a tin of beans thinking its ravioli. Pink - Why don’t you go home to your mum’s house! Where you probably live! With your mum! Orange - Get in the bin/sea (delete as applicable) Purple- I hope all of your tinder matches catfish you Yellow- I’m actually above this petty mudslinging. [… wait for them to turn away…] Not really you smell like eggs! Other – Bazinga! That showed them.
*A “curate’s egg” classically refers to something that is obviously and essentially bad, but is euphemistically described as nonetheless having good features credited with undue redeeming power. Its modern usage varies. Some authorities define it as something that is an indeterminate mix of good and bad and others say it implies a preponderance of bad qualities.
Join the dots!
Build your own fuckboy!
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Published on Mar 18, 2016
The first issue of CG's zine! This will be a yearly (for now) publication featuring alternative humour, satire and cartoons, giving our cont...