Oh look, some sunshine is sunshining. That’s nice, isn’t it? What do you mean it gives you skin cancer? Everything gives you skin cancer these days: bacon, watching the news, frotting, dressing up like Sophie Rayworth, ejaculating over photographs of the Eiffel Tower. All the simple pleasures of life are carcinogenic; let’s just eat, drink and be merry and then spend the second half of our lives having melanoma removed.
Or the fifth third.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’d rather be in America. The states one. Only could they please sort out healthcare for all and remove the orange blob from office? While it is true that my tendency to be grumpy and not necessarily care whether strangers have a nice day ensures that the best fit for me as a country is Britain, my soul hasn’t wanted to be here for the last two years. I know that it would take a huge lottery win to enable me to move to America and I also know that the odds on that happening are high, but I want what I want, regardless of practicality or possibility.
Maybe I’ll marry that new waxwork of Melania: an immigrant getting hitched to an effigy of an immigrant is bound to go over well, right?