I have barely lifted a finger in anger in the work department for quite a while now. Indeed my days have consisted of waking at 11:30, opening the daily delivery of cinnamon buns and Pain au Chocolat that are helicoptered in from Honfleur, before greedily devouring them with gallons of Nicaraguan blend coffee that our house-boy expertly brews in the lean-to that doubles as his dwelling.
By mid-afternoon I am ready for the rigours of the day: I call my yoga teacher and arrange a restorative class to commence as soon as she can drop everything and get over to the ‘wellness barn’ I have had constructed near to the west wing. Post-class is a time for reflection and deep contemplation; I decide to give more funds to my bear rescue charity and cease giving a fucking sixpence to any charities involving humans, as we have made such an ungodly mess of everything that we certainly deserve to burn in eternal damnation – bears do not.
After this exhausting decision I think it wise to lay on the sofa for several hours watching ‘Bangers and Cash’ drinking Nigerian Tequila shots followed by a few big Vodka and Baileys – this lightens the mood considerably and I fire up the Acoustic Research hi-fidelity music delivery system and listen to Lonnie Liston Smith at a volume that even Extreme Noise Terror’s drummer would find disturbing. My comedown is usually traumatic so the load on my unused frontal lobe is eased by a fistful of Tuinol and Mahlers 2nd (resurrection) Symphony plus a dash through ambient reimaginings of the complete Sun O))))) catalogue performed by a Norwegian tranny trumpeter.
By now I am a coiled spring and ready for action… but ho! Hold fast young tiger, the horse tranc is wearing off at a rate of knots and the night is not yet in its full pomp.
I immediately crack open one of the two litre flagons of White Lightning cider I keep in reserve for such dilemmas, I’m back up in a shot. I order 60 Marlboro light on my Ocado account and once they are delivered the evening heads skyward once more. As the moon wanes over Andromeda I have Eddie Cochran on repeat until I soil myself, and am taken to my John Lewis linen sheets by one of my bearers: on Wednesdays this is usually Lydia, a nymphomaniac Peruvian dwarf.
I awake with a start… fuck, what a dream! I get the 9:06 to London Bridge and have a huge row with a nazi ticket inspector. Metro newspaper hides away at the bottom of page 17 that scientists have indeed found the secret of eternal life. To my amazement this bombshell merits less column inches than the latest revelations from TV’s Dancing On Ice…
What a bunch of c***s we all are, and we shall indeed reap what we sow
