Now that the holiday’s are dead and buried, it’s time to haul your sullen self back into reality. The jubilant rosy beams and festive spirit have long departed, not before dropping their trousers and unloading their bowels all over our already miserable lives however. Some will propel the shit-riddled mince pie fragments to the neglected corners of their mind, however come Spring these are the ones that will find themselves floating in several pieces across the diseased veins of the Thames; or alternatively swinging from the nearest lampshade.

So If you find yourself striving for a smile, don’t worry. We here at foam realise the strain of these strenuous times, and have kindly devised a list of three crucial points which we hope will help underline the source of your holiday based misery.

I. Being a dick.

Alcohol is obligatory during the Christmas period. It allows us to be somewhat civil and coherent to Granddad Frank, who spends the rest of his 364 days shitting himself and whining of inflation. And this goes for all the other relatives who we’d rather pick scabs off our arse than bear talking to.

No Christmas Eve would be complete without rolling around the piss-riddled pavement of the local highstreet in the remnants of your stomach’s lining. Bellowing tedious Christmas songs whilst a group of close and respectable friends ensure the cherished moment survives the New Year. Maybe the atmosphere in the office is somewhat tense ever since that drab, ill funded staff party when you threatened to molest the boss’s son. Or maybe those unprepossessing burns across your stomach are making you miserable after deeming lighting your pubic hair with a lit cigarette a good idea.

Regardless, alienating yourself from the rest of the world is a rather enjoyable process, and there is no better way to spread christmas cheer than by threatening to cockslap strangers whilst half cut on Baileys. Warning: To successfully gain eminence and obtain a ‘super cunt’ status could cost anywhere in the region of 30-100 pounds. And sometimes even more for those pretentious dick children who prefer to mislay their dignity for the taste of a dozen cosmopolitans. And we haven’t even got to the presents yet:

II. Buying shit.

Shit we don’t need. Shit we don’t particularly want, and shit we almost certainly cannot afford. When hit with the big flaccid dick of festivity however, we are more than willing to spawn a dark Abyss in our already disconsolate looking bank accounts to show we care about the ones we allegedly love. Material possessions have become a necessity preventing the one special day from becoming a greed fuelled bloodbath. Unfortunately however it is also responsible for children believing Jesus to be nothing more than a mere action figure, and his mother Mary, a whore.

Half-four Christmas morning, and there’s a similar scene depicted throughout the country. Children bouncing off the fucking walls at the thought of the fictional, furry-faced kiddy fiddler unloading his sack all over the families artificial grotto. At the sound of their joyous cries and glee filled faces everyone reluctantly awakens. All with volatile hangovers, tenderly sipping at a mug of coffee desperately attempting to unearth some enthusiasm.  Uncle Pete however, is filled with an equal sense of joy as the children. He sits back in his silk trimmed dressing gown and eagerly awaits the unveiling of his jewel-encrusted, blowjob giving Microwave. His adversaries look on in envy.

The meaning of Christmas has well and truly drifted out to sea. Thought is no longer applicable when selecting that slice of joy for Christmas morning, providing it’s big and relatively expensive; it’ll do. The more impressed everyone is, the more of a considerate person you are, fact. Be sure to inform the Bailiffs of this, and Howard Brown the Halifax man, as he may shed some mercy as he ploughs through your eardrums with his bulbous member.

III. Fat

It’s Christmas time! Let’s get merry and eat everything in fucking sight. Pounds are inevitably going to gain over the Christmas period, but I’m left somewhat perplexed at those who believe their metabolism no longer functions due to the time of year. We all overdose on meat and cake and then moan when we resemble a sausage in a condom. Next year, let’s take the strain off Aunt Bessie as well as our heart and go for a jog.

I was pleasantly surprised last Friday, when, after dragging myself to a local gig in order to silence the part of my brain that calls me a cunt every time I complain about the sort of music the local clubs play and yet make no effort to go anywhere else, I accidently witnessed what was possibly the most exciting live music event I’ve seen since I caught myself miming half naked to Ziggy Stardust in the mirror.

The band are called Islet, and they are going to be fucking massive. I did catch up with the band after the show, but having long since been reduced to a gibbering mess by both the alcohol and the pure cerebral genius of the bands performance, I didn’t get any photos, or any words of wisdom. Islet are a stupidly difficult band to track down online because they don’t yet posses a MySpace, and it’s highly possible that my frustration with the local music scene just grew to a point where I invented the whole gig, but fuck it. If you ever get a chance to go see this band, do it (Assuming they actually exist)

The propensity of university students never ceases to make me titter. 

Yes, thats right. Someone wiped their arse with this girl’s hand towel. Disgusting? Not even slightly, genius is the word I had in mind.  

Anyone who possesses a sense of culture aspires at some point in their life to live in Paris. Over the few neglectful months that have passed, me and my lover strolled off for a romantic weekend. Here are some personals. 

‘He’s a dedicated follower of fashion.’ But just how exactly does one become a dedicated follower in a world that’s constantly altering? The answer is with extreme fucking difficulty. Undeniably there’s an element of vanity in all of us, and we enjoy looking ‘cool’ and ‘hip’ to a certain extent. But to dedicate yourself to these latest equally absurd and ridiculous trends would compel you to scrutinise every blog and band scribbled across the walls of piss-soaked shitter’s in the decaying indie obsessed undergrounds, to dismiss anyone who looked as though they didn’t get dressed in the dark, and to obtain your Grandmother’s sewing machine prior to tearing apart flea riddled garments from musty little charity shops.

Once upon a time when wrestling was cool, pogs were valuable and Eamonn Holmes didn’t have tits, charity shops were the equivalent of social suicide. Remember the compulsory fat kid in school? The fat kid that sat alone on the playground because he smelt like Shepherd’s pie, and his ill-fitting trousers were speckled with pensioner’s spunk. Well for this there is reason, his attire is from Scope. Now isn’t it just that little bit absurd that eleven years later we purchase clothing from charity shops willingly for that vintage edge, and not because our mother has to feed her thirteen other children and a crack addiction?

This week we’ve been traipsing around the dust stuffed locals in search of some fashionable bargains. Below are the little gems that we managed to uncover.

Going to Grandma’s house used to be a friendly doorway into childhood obesity, what with gallons of milk and an infinite supply of Bourbons and custard creams. Never did I feel the need to root through her wardrobe. This wonderful sparkly knit cost a mere £3.50. Cheap as chips.

Probably the most ridiculous of fashionable maladies, the thick rimmed NHS prescription glasses. The majority of those who are required to actually wear glasses in order to see usually choose an alternative, such as contact lenses. Hence glasses are not cool because no fucker wants to wear them. It’s like riding around in a wheelchair with perfectly able legs.

The waistcoat speaks for itself, its fucking hideous, furry, smells and itches.

The garment once worn by the psychotic philanthropists from the now desolate council estates has now become the pinnacle of a Hipster’s wet dream. Yes, you’ve guessed it, the revival of the sad Animal prints. Unfortunately after much hunting, no charity shop this side of Britain has one, it comes to something when a charity shop is to embarrassed to stock them. Topshop and other commercial chains have spent months beating at the door of crazy Carol’s one bedroom flat. Finally they’ve obtained her Zoo inspired wardrobe, and after toiling away to remove the several layers of cat shit they have managed to replicate and mass-produce the designs. So we can all look like the bullied fat kid who spent the majority of his teenage years wanking over orcs and magic.

Foam returns to strip the flesh from your brittle bones, chemical warfare style.

On the whole, technology is a pretty good thing. It allows us to stay in contact with people we don’t like enough to see them face to face, and means we can spend hours of our short lives watching other more attractive people do much more exciting things on television, for just two examples. The miracles of modern science can be used to cure diseases previously thought incurable, allow us explore the deepest reaches of space, and means we can access a mind - bogglingly huge cache of porn whilst shaft deep inside a Henry Hoover (Oh come on, it’s even got a face on, you do the math). Occasionally however, the magic elves that make all these wonderful devices have a little too much pixie crack, get whacked out of their little fairy noggins, and come up with something so ridiculously useless and offensively shite that it makes you wonder if we wouldn’t all be much better off in the stone age again. Feast your eyes upon this shining trouser nugget:

Want to disguise the fact your now too hopelessly dependant on gadgets to even grow your hair without the help of a mobile phone anymore?  - We’ve got an app for that. The developers of this farcical toss have this to say about it:

HAIR CLINIC generates various types of inaudible high and low frequencies to promote circulation around hair roots under the head skin and as a result, hair roots can be provided nutrition normally. That process improves the function of hair roots and the condition of hair. And then you will have healthy abundant hair.

Maybe it’s just me who thinks that this is utter toss. I don’t actually own an Iphone because I’m quite happy just making calls, sending texts and taking pictures with my mobile, and generally find the sounds of the outside world interesting enough to not wish to drown them out with music. If I want to show off, I’ll just walk around with my package hanging out, thanks. That’s basically what the wankers that buy these things are doing every time they make a call anyway.

Thought this couldn’t be topped? A new application allows users to download a map of their area in which exposes all the local paedophilles, yes that’s right peadophilles. The app sends you a photograph, address and conviction information. Thank god we have huge multi-nationals full of coked -up cuntfucks paid obscene amounts of money to come up with this shite, otherwise who knows what might happen to our kids?

The application has allegedly received over a million downloads prior to Halloween, I suppose its a good way to avoid any unwanted treats.

Foam’s super fun completely unbiased UK chart singles rundown

This may not seem like particularly original content, but what kind of zine would we be here at foam if we didn’t include at least one regular feature about the music we fucking hated? By this point you could well observe that the charts vary from week to week, and it would be pretty pig headed of us to assume that we’re going to hate every single record that enters the top 5, and yes, yes it is, but it doesn’t change the fact that the majority of the UK are fucking idiots that will happily ingest any slop that is put in front of them like a mongoose suffering from malnutrition. Ok, so I’m not in the best mood at the moment. Here’s the rundown. Cunt.

5. Beyonce – Sweet Dreams:  

“This could be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare’ Beyonce sings in this excruciatingly bland ballad, but it ultimately evokes about the same level of emotion as a schoolchild falling asleep on their Casio during a GCSE music exam. Trust me; the only way this one will have you reaching for the tissues is if you turn the sound down.

4. Calvin Harris – Ready For The Weekend:

I liked Mr. Harris back when he was still living with his mum and making DIY electro hits about drug fuelled house parties, but it seems that even those rather nifty fly eye sunglasses can’t keep the dollar signs from one’s eyes in the current economic climate. It used to be that in times of crisis, British artists produced great reactionary hits that questioned the establishment, now they just bend over, unzip, and await diamond studded dildo penetration. My biggest problem with the track is the chorus, which sees Harris swapping his synthesiser for a vice in which to place his balls, thus producing an unnatural vocal pitch. Toss.

3. Tinchy Strider featuring Amelle – Never Leave you:

Less a singer, more a walking advertisement for his ‘Star in the hood’ clothing label, Tinchy Manhood is just one of the many artists who make the very concept of ‘Urban’ music fucking laughable. This paint by numbers shitefest is unlikely to be lighting up a dance floor near you anytime soon, unless of course your local club is full of pricks with no taste in mu…. Oh, ok, fair point. I’d still ruin that Amelle bird though

2. Black Eyed Peas – I Gotta Feeling

If I wanted vague psychic predictions mixed with bright colours and skimpy underwear, I’d read The Sun, thanks.

1. David Guetta Ft. Akon – Sexy Chick/Bitch

Here’s a recipe for success – start your career with auto tune, then, when every single fucking song you release also uses it, no one will notice the difference. ‘I’m trying to find the words to describe you without being disrespectful’, Akon croons to his imaginary slag. Luckily, I don’t have the same problem Akon, you talentless fucking wankstain.

Note: Scott of late has unfortunately decided to remain clothed, hence the lack of update on the issue of hilarity that is naturism.

This month’s tale of cock derives from Scott’s nineteenth birthday, where we witnessed a heroic display as he consistently battled an advancing coma. Needless to say Scott did some severe damage to his liver and the eyes of every unfortunate onlooker. He toyed with lingerie and dabbled in public masturbation in an attempt to make his manhood look slightly more impressive. 

Once the initial shock of Scott’s audience faded, he attired himself in nothing but shoes and a trench coat then headed to the local pub. Despite a lack of clothing and dignity the bouncer’s approved his entrance and luckily refrained from beating him to a bloody pulp. Scott’s cock basted the pub in a sense of reverence, from this moment on (until closing) he was a branded a hero. 

The stroll home took it’s toll raping his co-ordination system. Luckily, a dozen of loving and caring friends were at hand to ensure his safety, and to bury him in every piece of shit that he owns. 

A truly fantastic display of courage and balls. 

As for this month’s rating, an outstanding: 14/10 

Diverting away from the routine humour exercised frequently here at foam, I’d like to maintain a somewhat informative tone throughout this article and keep the ‘fucks’ to a minimum. 

Mid way through another year and up creeps the obligatory holiday, two weeks of melting in the blistering heat before heading back to the piss riddled roads of Britain equipped with nothing more than sun stroke, a novelty key ring and an extra two stone in weight. In attempt to detach myself from the generic British holidaymaker, I went in search of unearthing some of the country’s fine culture. 

Understandably Cairo’s the daddy for the Egyptian past time, what with the pyramids, tombs, merchants, and thieves. Unfortunately however, the prospect of having my camera stolen by an underweight boy wearing a bed sheet doesn’t appeal to me. Besides, Sharm El Sheikh surely has a gem or two of it’s own, right?

A corroded transit van short of everything, including air conditioning carried us through the desolate desert land. The driver was particularly friendly, especially after taking a pound from each passenger before boarding.

Twenty minutes later and three stone lighter, we arrived at a complex decorated thorough in an abundance of police and security, all heavily armed and sucking cigarettes. The complex contained nothing but exotic properties and imitation palm trees along pristine white pavements. In contrast to the acres of empty untendered land a mere fifty yards away from the perimeter, it was surreal. Like a Mc Donald’s in the heart of Auschwitz. 

Needless to say, our hotel was beautiful. A five star slice of Egypt, a la carte meals round the clock, attentive service, free alcohol and a beach to laze away the days. It almost made me feel guilty about the scarcely surviving families in the diverse neighborhood’s of dismal slums. On the third day, we got talking to a plump man who owns a shop in the hotel’s quarters.

After buying several pieces of shit due to his perseverant tone, the conversation grew somewhat personal. Keeping a grip on his emotions he included his family into the talk. Turns out they’re all in Cairo eagerly awaiting his return, and his pay cheque of which is equivalent to about fifty quid.

So where does he live in the mean time? Welcome to the corroded shit pot known as staff accommodation.  

This man may look like the average bed-sheet sporting Egyptian, however he is filthy rich and has not one, not two, but seven attentive wives huddled back in his hut. As Mr Hussein waves away another six hour evening, welcoming guests to his hospitable abode these veiled ladies sit around combining beads and string set to bleed the wallets of unsuspecting tourists.

Venturing back through the golden sands prior to the death of the evening sun, bar the abnormally raw heat and beautiful landscapes an unfamiliar sight crossed my path. Children as young as eight sat on the roadsides in the soiled sands, miles away from civilization; as we crossed, their conversations ceased. Their pupil’s dilated in the gritty gleam from the quad bike’s headlights, they scowled at our presence.

Located in the heart of Sharm’s adaptation of Blackpool, I discovered a familiar face. A face that can be found on a jewel encrusted throne in the commercial hall of fame, I sighed as the seven foot neon Colonel chuckled over me. For a twelve mile radius, the scene remained the same until darkness overtook. There’s no escape.