PaedoVision: My New Google Glass App

Here at Zelebz we like to be at the forefront of new technology and we strive to make the world a better place, if only for myself. This week we've been brainstorming a series of Google Glass apps for our developers to work on. I'd be interested in your feedback on these innovations.

The Ivy App

 Most people, once they've paid the vast sum for a pair of clunky-looking specs, won't have enough money left to eat properly. The Ivy App cunningly sneaks around this problem. You can now sit at your dinner table eating bits of old newspaper while The Ivy App projects images of roast swan or devilled venison in a sea kale jus on to your retina, thereby creating the ultimate dining experience. Then, three days later, after the severe constipation, you can look into the toilet bowl and your papery turds will appear to be little fishes waving at you and singing something by Avril Lavigne.

The Comedy Ebola App 

This is great. As you walk around town in your swish goggles, everyone you see will appear to be suffering from advanced ebola, with profuse spurts of blood leaking from every orifice. You will then be able to play the part of the Post-Apocalyptic Emergency Response team, speak the keyword “Terminate” and explode into a fireball whomever your eyes are locked upon. (Google Glass Sniper attachment also required.)

The PaedoVision App 

You have to feel sorry for paedophiles, don't you? They can't help feeling that way. I mean, not that she does it for me but my PA, Snowdonia, is pretty hot and she's only 5. Does that make me a paedophile? Anyway, in order to cater for the burgeoning pederast market, PaedoVision makes everyone appear to be between the ages of 3 and 15. So now you can lie in bed with your crusty 28-year-old wife and easily reach orgasm without fretting that your number is on Rolf Harris's mobile.

What do you think?

What Happened When I Murdered Prince George

If you remember earlier this week, which will be a feat of memory beyond most of you over twelve years old, I challenged gobby Prince George to a duel. This wasn't an act of aggression on my part. He started it.

Kate had already made it known that she was backing me. Apparently, motherhood wasn't all she was expecting it to be. Every time she threatened to remove the Prince's Lego, George would start to write out  an execution order. She'd had enough. I also had a short call from William last night offering a knighthood should I complete my mission.

Anyway, this morning I arrived at our duelling venue, Wimbledon Common, at the prescribed time. I could see Prince George, all alone in the distance, pacing about. He saw me and shouted over.

“Oi, chicken balls, you gonna do it, or what?”

He waved his gun in my direction. I wasn't going to hang around. I suspected that the murder of the third in line to the throne in broad daylight may attract unwarranted attention. I pulled out the Magnum acquired for me by my BCF, Robert Bundzenieks, pulled its heavy trigger and put a bullet through his tiny brain. His crown whirled through the air and landed in a nearby bin. That's it, George, keep Britain tidy. Job done! Arise Sir Ratpike!

Kate and Wills came rushing out of the Ford Capri from which they'd been watching the event. Before reaching the cadaver, Wills looked over and gave me a thumbs up. But his mood changed as he reached the body. He took off his own crown, dashed it to the ground and jumped up and down on it. I walked over quickly.

“What's the matter?” I asked. “Oh, your crown's got some dog shit on it.”

“This isn't him,” he said. “It's his body double. The fucker's legged it.”

So now it would seem that I have a nemesis, and he's on the lose, which I find rather exciting.

How I'd Solve The Israel-Palestine Conflict

This week I received an interesting question from four-year-old Isaac. He says, “You've been around the block, Euston. How would you use your vast experience to solve the current conflict between Israel and Palestine?

Often when people are given this question they pussy-foot around it, claiming it to be intractable. Well, it isn't. Here's my solution. I'd send peace envoy Tony Blair there. Yes, really. It would be great. And when he gets out of the plane and we've video evidence that he's actually arrived in Israel we should nuke the fucking place. Two birds, one stone. One massive radioactive stone. They can resume fighting in twenty thousand years when the air doesn't make their faces melt. Admittedly, this is more a solution to the problem of Tony Blair than the conflict in Israel but, you know, collateral damage and all that.

I met Tony Blair once, the horrible shit. I was only three. The arrogant prick mistook me for John Bercow. I'm not sure what it is about Blair that annoys me so much. I suspect it's his deeply socialist agenda. I know a lot of people have accused him of moving to the right but he didn't move far enough for me. And now it's nice to see the Tories becoming a bit more Thatcherite again. I'm with David 100%. Get everyone working. What, you don't want to work? Chop off a limb. What, now you can't work? Chop off another. Eventually they'll get the message, the lazy fucks. At least that's what David told me last week.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not supporting idiots like Farage. I'm not a fucking retard. We need Europe. A lot of my software is sold to Europe. And my uncle Tony needs Europe to fill up his transit van with cheap plonk once a fortnight. And where would we be without Dignitas? Are you reading, mother and father? I said Dignitas.

Anyway, for now, please excuse me. I need a wee wee.

Why I'm Challenging Prince George To A Fight

Late last night I got a phone call from Prince George. I think he'd been on the port. He was giving it large. As you can guess, I'm not easily intimidated but he was trying his best.

“Euston, you worthless sack of shit,” he starts, “I've only just turned one and I'm already richer than you are, you loser.”

You don't really expect this sort of behaviour from a future monarch. Or, then again, maybe you do. 

“And I'm going to stay richer than you and I don't have to do a single day's work in my entire life, you proletariat tossball. And I've already got a crown an' all. So stick that up your hoop.”

I tried to remain respectful. I've always had a lot of time for the royal family, especially when they manage to pull off that air of overbearing superiority without possessing a single talent of any kind. That takes some doing. But Prince George was going too far. I collapsed.

“Yes, I accept,” I said.

“Accept what, you bin-faced wanksplat?”

“Your challenge of a duel. I accept.”

He went quiet. I heard him gulp. And then he replied in a measured tone.

“Alright, 10 am, Wimbledon Common, this Friday.”

“Fair enough,” I said coolly. “But no toy guns. I seriously want to kill you to death.”

Then he started crying and calling for his mum. I heard a loud slap followed by silence and then Kate appeared on the phone.

“Don't worry, Euston”, she said. “He'll be there. Oh, and Euston?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Please do your best. We're sick of the little fuck.”

So that should be fun.

Why More 5-Year-Olds Should Visit Strip Clubs

Although lots of other pre-teen CEOs are members of the Westminster club to which I belong, my BCF (Best CEO Forever) is 37-year-old Robert Bundzenieks. He's Latvian. I feel at some level he is trying to lead me astray.

Yesterday evening, after a longer than typical day, I knocked off just after lunch. It had been a stressful morning. I'd caught my new secretary using Facebook and the penalty for that requires a great deal of disinfectant. Normally that wouldn't bother me. After all, I have a cleaner, Sardinia, for that. But then I caught Sardinia on LinkedBin, the networking site for hygiene professionals, and so I had to dish out the same treatment to her. Never let anyone talk you into a white carpet.

Anyway, I needed to unwind and Robert knew just the place. Spearmint Rhino has a strict age policy but the new nightclub chain, Dill Koala, will let anyone in. There was a W.I. meeting in one corner, a group of boy scouts in another and the Pope was indulging in a lap dance in a distant alcove. For a brief moment the priest on the receiving end had a very tense look on his face. I like Dill Koala's business model.

A round of tequila shots appeared from somewhere and before I knew it I had a sparkly G-string, still attached to its wearer, in my face. This did nothing to change my mind that girls smell. Robert grabbed my winkie area and shouted, “Is it getting hard yet?” I know what he's alluding to but I'm fucking five, the knob end. No matter how much porn I try to watch, it has the emotional impact of someone rubbing two lamb chops together. 

Anyway, Robert went home with sparkly G-string girl and I ended up with the W.I. women. Old duffers like that leave their handbags wide open. I covered my costs and had enough left over to get a can of Monster on the way home. I was off my tits. Good old Robert!

Why I Am Better Than You Are

Today's question comes from 3-year-old Grimsby McDonald. Grimsby asks, “What is it that sets you apart from other CEOs?”

I like this question because it implies that I'm better than other CEOs and, by extension, you. Not that I was ever in any doubt about that. So, yes, Grimsby, thanks for asking.

I think the thing that really sets me apart is my humanitarian work. I don't know a single, other CEO who provides work for orphans, orphans who would otherwise be forced to live in a care home with professional social workers or with foster parents pretending to love them. No, they work with me, they eat with me (when I'm not out to lunch eating real food) and they learn the value of graft in our fast-track-to-experience, thirty-six hour shifts and all by the age of 4. It raises them up.

Granted, the vast majority of my orphans are burnt out by the time they hit 7. And I mean that quite literally. I didn't commission the Dachaumaster 3000 incinerator for nothing. But at least they will have had a good three years. Not many of you lot can say that.

And it's not all one-way generosity. After all, they keep my company profitable and I thank them for that. The thin gruel we provide is a low overhead. If I had to pay actual wages, I doubt we'd have lasted the first month. So without overloading the wankometer, I would say here at Zelebz there's a synergy.

Some, though, have had the temerity to call it legalised slavery. I take issue with that. First of all, I'm not entirely sure that it is legal. I didn't check. Second, it's no different to Jamie Oliver and his Fifteen restaurants, where they find people under bridges, give them a hosing with DDT and then glue a frying pan to one hand and a recipe for quail's vagina to the other.

No, goddammit, it is different. Our products make the world a better place. Oliver's shit just makes people fat, because it's food, and food is what makes you fat, not fatty food, all food! So, Oliver, you can stick that up your shitpipe, you mockney clown.

Why Scotland Can Never Leave The UK

Today's question comes from 5-year-old Cumbria Littlejohn. She says, “My father is a stereotypical drunken Scotsman while my mother is a stereotypical drunken English woman. Normally they get on like a house on fire – i.e., there's usually something smouldering somewhere - but in the last months there has been a great deal of tension when they hit the sauce and discuss the issue of Scottish independence. So, Euston, should Scotland leave the UK?”

That's an interesting question, Cumbria, and one about which there appears to have been a lot of debate recently. I'm not sure what all the fuss is about though. It's plain and simple. Scotland cannot leave the UK and I'll tell you why: They. Are. Fucking. Glued. Together. By. Rocks, you daft bastard. I might be five years old and have never been to school but I know that much about geology. Have you been to the border? What are they going to do? Get a massive pair of scissors?

It's a shame we can't set Scotland free though. Obviously, despite their diet, Scotland is lighter than the UK and so it might float off somewhere warm. And then we'd be able to go there for our holidays. I only give myself 12 weeks a year but I'm running out of worthwhile destinations. And Scotland would be nice if it was sunny because then you might be able to go outside and stuff, unlike now.

But what would happen if it floated in the wrong direction and ended up near Greenland? Everyone would break their teeth on their frozen shortbread. And the heroin would just be a huge, icy clump. They could lick it I suppose but I remember when I was at TED in Vancouver last winter and Abel Ardman licked a railing and his tongue stuck. So maybe that wouldn't be a good idea.

But anyway, even if they could get a big enough pair of scissors, Scotland still can't leave the UK because they've got all the oil and Britain invades nations with oil and we'd just take the country back again the day after and then annoy them by calling it something like Shitland instead.

I hope I've solved that one for you, Cumbria.