I got my Sunday newspaper on Saturday – I called the newsagent to complain and he said that I was mistaken and it was Sunday. I said that it was definitely Saturday. He repeated that it was definitely Sunday. I said that his mother had sex with farmyard animals. He then got very abusive for no reason whatsoever, so I threatened to call the police – but I couldn’t really, because the town’s police station didn’t open on a Sunday. I replaced the telephone receiver on the vole who helped out occasionally and melted into the kitchen looking for breakfast.
I examined the eggs, but they’d hatched a long time ago. I then realised that those dreams when six yellow balls of fluff were eating my nose hair weren’t dreams at all… they were chicks. I wondered what happened to them and whether I could still poach, scramble or fry them and whether they’d taste any good on toast. I decided to have some cereal instead, but – not having any cereal – I decided to have some eggs. I then realised the flaw in that decision and cursed my short-term memory. Finding nothing else edible in the kitchen, I tucked into a delicious breakfast of pitted black olives and a refreshing glass of sunflower oil.
After a healthy breakfast and a good old-fashioned vomit, I made my way outside and, seeing her trimming the hedge, called the next-door neighbour a yo-yo knickered prostitute at the top of my voice. Her 30-year old grandson took exception to that and punched me in the nose. Lying bleeding in my gravel path, I called after him that if he’d observed her antics during the Crimean war, he’d share my opinion. He then turned round and started walking back towards me.
I regained consciousness a few minutes later with testicles the size of Seville oranges, a lawnmower up my arse and, worst of all, my blonde wig was lop-sided. My right ear was being kept warm, so I guess every cloud has a silver lining. Having made the best possible start to the day, I made my way back indoors and turned on the PC… well, I did my best anyway – it’s difficult to say erotic things to a piece of electronic machinery without feeling a little bit silly. Sometimes being me is great, but most of the time it’s shit. Honest.