Team GB safe from angry bulls

BRITAIN’S Olympic team need have no fear of rampaging bulls, it has been confirmed.

The team’s official kit is based on the flag of a mystery country amid fears the nation’s athletes could be attacked when a truckload of bulls inevitably overturns nearby.

Designer Stella McCartney said: “Red is a very dangerous colour. I feel sorry for the Chinese. A lot of them will be gored to death.

“To protect our athletes I chose the flag of the mystical country of Kintyria.

“When I was young my father would sing us songs about Kintyria and I always imagined it to be a wonderful place full of world-class rowers who could wander through a field of cattle with complete confidence.”

She added: “The bulls will escape and then burst into the stadium, snorting and scraping at the ground. Moments later the ground will be soaked with blood and that blood will be Chinese. Or possibly Canadian. Or Swiss.”

The non-British motif is also central to the kit for the non-British Olympic football team.

McCartney said: “If I’d just used the English flag then as well as bull attacks there would lots of tedious Scotsmen whining like bitches.”



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Stylish Masturbator, with Dylan Jones

A NANO-BREAK is like a mini-break for the genuinely important.

Pioneered by lifestyle innovator, architect, cyborg and close personal friend Morton Jax, the nano-break condenses the travel experience into 117 minutes, which psychologists believe is the maximum length of time a high-status person can spend before a really vital email arrives.

It is also the running time of the film Three Days of the Condor which is notable for Rob Redford’s chambray shirt. But that is a coincidence.

My current wife, a former beachwear model, and I recently nano-broke in the Georgian spa town of Bath.

Exploding out of the train station on our matching Segway scooters, our plan was to hit 14 boutiques, enjoy a 12 minute pamper experience and then swallow a cream tea before taking in a specially-abridged performance of Jerusalem where Mark Rylance speaks very quickly.

But these best-laid plans soon fell into disarray. Despite the protestations of my long-legged spouse, for sheer edgy cool you cannot top masturbating in a disabled toilet in the provinces.

When we chanced upon the aforementioned facility during our blurry sprint around the Georgian splendour, I had to avail myself. My reluctant wife was despatched to guard the door, telling people that her brother was in there having a fit.

Things came fully unglued when I fell into a spontaneous post-onanistic slumber, waking 92 minutes later on the toilet floor with a queue of angry wheelchair users outside baying for my blood. As I made my escape, I’m fairly certain I dodged a flying colostomy bag.

Perhaps the nano-break pushes us too far. For the cash-rich and time-poor I think the future of life maximisation lies in cloning – while one of me is enjoying a cream tea, the other is locked in a disabled toilet with his trousers around his ankles.

Dylan Jones is founding editor and masturbator-at-large for Stylish Masturbator magazine