It’s been a long, hard week at Sack Posset Hall. I’ve been up to my knickers in serial killers. Today that Friday Feeling is upon me, nudging me in the small of the back like a fella’s early-morning lob-on. I’m in the mood for mischief. It has been so warm this week that I finally divested myself of my long-johns, but today, England being England, it’s snowing not far from here. Mother Nature gives us this weather so that there’s always something to talk about with the little old ladies on the bus.
I watched the Big Brother Launch last night, because I am a top postmodern-socio-analyst and not because I am a voyeur who likes a good freak show. Of course. I think it would be a good jape if they put them all in there and then turned off all the cameras and slowly walked away. The woman whose job it was to open the car door for each gaudily daubed abortion was clearly concerned about a zombie attack.
For tea I want a songbird no bigger than my thumb, drowned in a glass of cognac and placed roasted and whole on my tongue. I will cover my head with a hood to hide my sins from the gods and in the seamy dark I will savour the fat dribbling down my throat. Slowly I will bear down on the bird. I will lick away its breast and crack its back and it will surrender its secret sweet meats. I will not face the light until the bones of it are gone. Then I’ll have a cuppa and a fag.