Returning home on Sunday from a day out in the Big City, I crested the hill and saw my garden full of my beautiful friends. All the neighbours were out with their beers and their barbeques and their big bellies broiling in the un-English sun. I changed into my Dalmatian suit and sprawled on the grass, drinking applecrisp wine and munching on the foetus-shaped biscuits that Best Girl had made. We stayed out until dusk soothed the sunburnt sky and then I had some fish fingers of inferior quality and the evening was ruined.
There’s a special fuckball game on tonight – Manchester United versus Barcelona. It’s a carnival atmosphere and to celebrate I am cooking my speciality. I will place a bumblebee inside a dormouse inside a kitten inside a cat inside a dog inside a monkey inside a big fat man and then I will spit-roast it in the garden, a process I normally save for premiership soccer stars. Then I will serve it with lashings of melted butter and no cutlery at all.
Twenty past three is too early to start drinking on an overcast day. Or is it.......?