We are all good at Americana-UK Towers. The weather has been nice, none of the writers have (recently) slaughtered each other during the night in our communal dormitory and we discovered that our favourite chi-chi little delicatessen is resuming doorstep delivery of our go-to late-night snack of jalapeno flavoured houmous (with a special offer of a free sun-dried tomato side dish drenched in toad urine and tossed in a bag of hand sanitiser). For a very reasonable twenty quid extra Stefanatiti, the Ukrainian-Columbian delivery driver, will even wear full PPE when he drops it off. We didn’t think that life could get much better. Furthermore, due to the success of the local distillery/brewhouse (“Piss Gin Golden Showery”) in switching production from their previously undrinkable IPA to industrial-strength bleach with a hint of juniper, we now have a fully stocked bar which is proving invaluable in these times of hardship and duress. Moreover the local tin-rattlers haven’t bothered us much in recent days collecting, as they are wont to do, for the Dunroamin Home for Poor Working Class Old Folk. One can only assume that they don’t have that many of them left to collect for despite ‘A Ring of Care’ being thrown around them. Our guess is that we can import some more, assuming that they last the fourteen days of quarantine before carking it, so no worries.
The only fly in our otherwise unctuous ointment is that the local rag, The People’s Republic of Liverpudlia’s Armaggedon Times and Advertiser, ran a scurrilous story about The Editor’s spad. Initially we were uncertain what a spad was, thinking it some kind of masturbator, but having checked the interweb we now know that it involves someone who has ideas above their station trying to influence ‘Events’. Obviously we dismissed it out of hand because The Editor clearly doesn’t need a hand in this or any other activity but grumbling persisted so we took it upon ourselves to investigate further. We lined all suspects up against a wall at gunpoint, the thinking being that the first person to piss their pants was clearly the perpetrator. Thus we identified Dominance Coming, Head of Marketing, as the root of the story. Dominance is a sweet bloke with very little hair and a penchant for eugenics. In normal times he passes amongst us stroking our genitals, playfully orally sodomising those of special interest and wilfully resisting being held to account. We laid our cards straight on the table and asked the spad right out what the actual fuck he was thinking of.
Obviously it took several weeks to determine the meaning of ‘what the actual fuck were you thinking of’ and ‘when were you thinking of it’ but we got there. We are pleased to relate that everything has now been cleared up. When we told the peasants in the village to stay the fuck at home and don’t even dare to visit your dying relatives we bloody well meant it. When we said protect lives by not fucking travelling to your incapacitated next of kin we bloody well meant it. When we said that you should protect our health care provision, despite the fact that we are going to get shot of it at our earliest convenience, by not giving your snotty fucking disease to any fucker else, we meant it. This, it mustn’t be forgotten, was an instruction not a request.
It is a matter of absolute clarity that this does not apply to any resident of Americana-UK Towers. We make the fucking rules. Jeez. Dominance’s Aunt’s cat’s birthday party was held… erm… relatively recently. This was clearly set out in our rules. Cat’s birthday is a “Special Exemption” and if you feel that you absolutely must tickle the feline then it is perfectly within your power to do so. For fuck’s sake don’t let anybody know is all we ask.
Our advice to you is to pay more attention. It matters not a jot what we said at the time of saying it it’s what we are saying now that counts. To reiterate – a cat’s birthday is worth more than your smelly relative. Therefore our Head of Marketing was fully within his rights to leave The Republic and drive, with wife and child, in a potentially incapacitating state, to tickle a feline. Are we clear? ARE WE CLEAR? Move on. Peasant.
