List of events by date.

The Easter projects have begun. All around you, grinning hipsters are breaking out into spontaneous, machine-gun bursts of unbearable egg puns. If you join them you will, quite rightly, think of yourself as an insufferable cunt, but there's no ignoring them either. They really are all around, like the suffering of Christ. You can see your own unsmiling face reflected in their oversized spectacles as they throw back their heads in ironic joy. Your disparagement must be rye and uncompromising. What do you do?

You go to, that's what. You load the page, generate a board and calmly tick the boxes until you get a row of eight contrived psuedo-witticisms, and then you run around the room, hands in the air, pointing and jeering at your colleagues in a frantic victory lap. Perhaps you will have taken the time to print the board, and you can sign and date it before warming up the laminating machine to immortalise your victory. These people have no idea who they're dealing with.

I almost wrote an article for Cracked. I would have finished it too, if Mark Dacascos hadn't stepped in.

The man invented racial polymorphism. Sure, Vin Diesel and The Rock are the mainstream practitioners, but the godfather of ethnic mutability is and always will be Dacascos. Fun fact: the pre-Iron Chef site had three sections - ('the actor', 'the martial artist' and 'the man') -- clicking on the latter takes you to an error page.

Turns out my calling was just really, really insignificant. Myopia is sort of a requirement for seeing things that are barely even there.

Avogadro adored pornography, swore by it in small doses. Problem was, he couldn't get the tinctures down to an agreeably tiny dose. If we've learned one thing from homeopaths, it's that absolutely everything gets better when it's overwhelmed by an abundance of things that that we don't care about.

Hence the excitement for my new magazine project, HOMEOEROTICA. Imagine two-page spreads of monochrome photography, half a dozen old people bent double under the black weight of depression. Lavish, flourishing prose in little hipster blocks adorn the photographs like mocking jewellery, each a sentence or two addressing the unimaginable frustration of having lost every possible permutation of potential.

And then, nestled between sagging geriatric despair, a little slice of vaginal cleft, or an tanned and oily nipple, peeps out at you. Maybe there's one per issue, and maybe not. It'll be like Vice, only with fewer adverts and way more heroin.

Welcome, forensic psychologists of the future.

I’ve tried to lay everything out for you as neatly as possible. I know you take your work seriously, and so do I. You’re probably under a lot of pressure, so I hope I can convey that I am too.

I’ve split the site into artefacts and events for your convenience.