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§ 1746 and other applicable statutes and laws that all of the following statements are true and correct: Do NOT continue if: (i) you are not at least 18 years of age or the age of majority in each and every jurisdiction in which you will or may view the Sexually Explicit Material, whichever is higher (the "Age of Majority"), (ii) such material offends you, or (iii) viewing the Sexually Explicit Material is not legal in each and every community where you choose to view it.īy choosing to enter this website you are affirming under oath and penalties of perjury pursuant to Title 28 U.S.C. A smoke-screen for existential dread.Įxtracted from ‘Raven Smith’s Men’ by Raven Smith, out now (£14.This website contains information, links, images and videos of sexually explicit material (collectively, the "Sexually Explicit Material"). A way to drink and be expressive and daring, without anyone cottoning on that you were sad. A way to swagger through the chaos of late adolescence. These stories, often involving but not exclusive to vomit and faeces, were part of a self-mythologising. There was a sort of extreme bro culture at the time, of being a f***ing ledge, which gained wider public consciousness via MTV’s Jackass, but I don’t think these tales of boozing are exclusive to turn-of-the-century Brighton. We once found a huge block of ice on the way to a house party and gifted it to the host, only for all our drinks to taste of market fish.
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Sometimes I’ve torn someone’s passport in half just because sometimes I’ve encouraged everyone to stab the Habitat lampshades with kitchen knives like duelling cavaliers sometimes we’ve snorted lines of cheap black pepper off the table at the all-night diner just to feel something sometimes I’ve strained vodka from a chipped bottle through a pair of tights rather than bin it. To date, The Chronicles of Raven Smith have included: falling in human shit at Gay Pride the time a cloakroom attendant let us search the cloakroom for a lost coat and we ‘found’ a miniature bottle of clear Jack Daniels, downed it, and flew home off our tits, scribbling on each other’s faces with a bingo marker the party where the birthday girl took acid at 8pm and refused to open presents because she was terrified of the wrapped boxes the time I accidentally took two sleeping pills before work, trying to ward off an early hangover the night at a pretentious artist’s where we thawed and drank shots of his blood from the freezer. I wanted to be able to retell my misdemeanour stories that made people both wince and laugh, so I neatly packaged every calamity from every night out into excruciatingly captivating vignettes. As a nascent party monster, I was always getting things wrong, always f***ing up, but my modus operandi was to transform those benign catastrophes of youth into witty two-liners, the perfect pub banter.