The photo above is a picture of the Bullingdon Club, Oxford University's most exclusive drinking society, open to all members of the swaggering upper classes who like to get drunk and smash things. ![]() Interviewed by Decca Aitkenhead today, equalities commissioner Trevor Philips said: The task today is not to shout for black people or women, but to break the grip of white men who went to public school. Some of them are doubtless able to defy the expectations of their upbringing but surely not every single one of the disproportionate hordes of the creatures currently running the banks, the civil service, the regions and most of the government, and if the Tories maintain their 20-point poll lead, soon to be running even more of the country? Does anyone else make this calculation and find themselves questioning the natural order of wealth and heredity, if it means that the men who still have almost all of the money and power are overwhelmingly the bizzare, fetishistic, feckless, greasy-haired oiks whose parents have paid hundreds of thousands for them to take part in Soggy Biscuit? They are a strange and self-referential race, trained from boyhood to administrate tenancies, shoot defenceless woodland creatures and come on cookies. White, 'well'-bred public schoolboys are frequently cultish, is what I'm trying to communicate here. Hat-tip to Spiritof1976 for pointing out that this means that this man has almost certainly played Soggy Biscuit. But apparently, at Eton, you get what you pay for, and that means culture, class and extremely speedy ejaculation onto small pieces of confectionery. I'd want a little less of the gag-inducing public shamefest. well, it's supposed to be fun, isn't it? That's the point, isn't it? I mean, if I were going to get my knob out in front of my peers, I'd want either mood music or money, and preferably both. I'm not trying to suggest that toffs are any more degenerate than the rest of us, but bog-standard, everyday sexual deviancy and experimentation is. This is another thing that makes me inestimably glad that I was not spawned amongst the upper eschelons of society. It involves wanking, and public humiliation, and a biscuit. It's a game that posh public schoolboys are supposed to play. According to the internet, it really happens.įor those across the pond/ around the world/ living in a cardboard box on the M6, the Soggy Biscuit game is, well. According to the internet, this is not the case. Like most quiet, bookish middle-class girls with secretly filthy minds, I had always thought that the Soggy Biscuit Game was an urban legend/ a teatime accident/ something that Stephen Fry made up. 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.****Please note: none of the following links is safe for work, or for those with delicate constitutions.**** 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. 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.
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