Nearly 4 weeks since the pubs shut their doors, we are scratching around for work like the headless chickens we have become and yet, an enclave of calm is week in, week out provided for us by the wonderful Rochelle. Picture this week is provided by Roger Bultot and i’m imagining it to be New York, but i’m most likely wrong.
Anyway, it is what it is, and i’ll take it anyway I like, so
On My Marks…
The Marmalade Coloured Baked Megalomaniac sat in his Oil-Powered Wheelchair smoking a pipe of coal.
“One Day all of this will be yours” he croaked to his elderly son. His implausibly terminally surviving Dad was pleased; he was like the fucking Queen of England; but royally more vulgar.
NY suffered catastrophically as America crumbled due to sadistic decisions taken by a president hell bent on quashing personal astronomical debts.
Lockdown was cancelled well before time to open hotels and bars which became killing fields for the virus.
Honeycombed with the cancerous pox, his son heaved the chair towards the edge.
There we are 100 words, on the nose, and all about a “fanciful” leader, it could never happen, could it?