After 13 years of careful consideration and, I must say, some pretty epic opium smoking sessions *cheeky wink*, I have leapt to the conclusion we should probably have a look into that van-dwelling German Paedo guy with a record of house and hotel breaking, that was right near the scene of the crime…Brilliant Holmes. How DO you do it!?
Go away click-baity bullshit adverts… it’s not the early 2000s…
You’ve got mail… Big news. Tom Hanks, currently Castaway on a desolate island (Australia) gets Corona Virus. Spotted after he went walking and could not stop sneezing, leaving what has now been referred to as a Green Mile. Expected to recover, however he is unwell, and his wife has reported he is unable to maintain a Woody.
Wash your hands whilst singing happy birthday twice. Needs different lyrics…
Wash your hands you fuck wit,
Wash your hands you fuck wit,
Use some soap and some water,
And they won’t smell of shit.
Repeat.
You dirty bastards.
51 people.
That’s 0.0000785% of the population of the UK infected with Corona virus. Is it time to go looting yet?
Step 1. Find high street that doesn’t already look like the fucker has been looted, or used as a set for a zombie apocalypse film.
Hmm.
Abandon plan.
The pitch is: Big Brother meets Love Island meets The Only Way Is Essex etc, meets My Big Gypsy whatever.
A group of spray-tanned gym morons with American teeth and tattoos. .. trapped on a traveller’s site on an Essex roundabout, where they all compete to be the most unlikeable human flotsum bobbing in the shitter. There’s some off-camera humping, then Tyson Fury comes flying in at the end coked off his nut, and bare knuckle boxes everyone to death except one.
Working title:
The Only Way is A Big Essex Gypsy Love Bareknuckle Site Island.
I fucking hate all these arse-warts on LinkedIn with their ‘daily routine of a leader’ horse shit. Up at 5am for a cup of warm water and some meditation. Fuck off.
This is more likely for most:
2am. Wake. Get up. Stretch, and remove wide-eyed cat from curtains where it leapt whilst chasing ghosts. Stumble back to bed swearing.
5am Wake. Return to fitful sleep, dreading 6am.
6am Wake. Snooze alarm. Shakily open eyes that resemble peeled tomatoes. Rapid trip for slash, and return to bed before duvet cools. Read end of world news on phone, in drizzly gloom. Start to drop off. Drop phone on face.
6.30am. Think about how to ruthlessly maximise morning routine efficiency in order to justify staying under snuggly duvet for another half hour.
7am. Begrudgingly leave bed in a mild panic. Make tea of sufficient strength and sweetness that it could jump start a dead elephant.
7.15am Half hearted ‘that’ll do’ shave. Into shower hot enough to poach an egg. Shampoo, shower gel, rinse, quick piss in shower (that was the time saving bit you devised earlier) then bounce off towel, disappear in fog of deo, and then get dressed in a flash: as you might if a ship was sinking kind of speed.
7.20am Bowl of microwaved porridge.Throw down gullet. Brush teeth, apply enough aftershave to make an estate agent cough.
7.30am Throw bag into car boot, throw energy drink down face, throw car into gear. Begin daily attempt on landspeed record in ageing hot hatch.
8.45 Rock up at work all casual like.
This is the interval of time in seconds between hearing Zoe Ball or Sara Cox on Radio 2, and changing channels, source, or turning off the abomination entirely. The Ball-Cox interval varies greatly by individual, but usually increases in value with a corresponding fall in IQ score.
Whether it’s the inane kiddie singing on national radio in the morning for Ball, or the slurred drivel of Cox in the evening, the interval is on average the same in individuals who are exposed to one or the other at either end of another tedious commute.
The soothing hum of tyre noise is another favourite alternative commonly sought.
spiffingwheeze 