The monkey and I are preparing for the Rapture, which is apparently due this afternoon. I've tucked my trousers into my socks and the monkey's set the video to tape BGT. I read that it will be some kind of storm but the monkey says that's just code and the vicars will come for us in blood-steeped chasubles and beat us all to death with acoustic guitars.
It's every other day now, the end of the world. I would greatly resent dying in someone else's apocalypse. I don't like to believe in anything I didn't invent myself, which is probably why I'm so bad at maths. I'm pretty sure I'll be safe, anyway. My end of days will come wearing coordinated cruisewear and a tight rubber cap, chin slick with Lurpak and mouth wide as the sea. Butterface will be my Ragnarok. Unless I get to her first.