Today is Friday and I’m combining the genius of Eno and Schmidt to get me out of my November Fug with this phrase; Lost In Useless Territory and as a sneaky sneak in i’m including the wonderful Cee’s FOTD with a picture of a frosty thistle, the first i’ve seen since “Lockdown 2 on Electric Avenue” so hopefully this is permissible, if it isn’t I don’t care.

 The suspense was palpable and was killing me, but I pulled through realising that the election wasn’t going to be finished any time soon, its 9pm on Friday and it still hasn’t finished, Trump has been described as an orange turtle floundering in the desert sun due to his outburst, he’s been called out by pretty much every news channel for being a massive liar and when he’s at home he throws faeces and sick all over the Oval office in a technicolour dirty protest. This election should be enough for everyone who’s got a tv and half a brain to surmise that this man is a dangerous mentalist whose refusal to accept the results of the votes was previously tried by Ahmadinejad, he wasn’t nice either. 

So my sincere hope is that Trump will leave the White House in a cacophony of confusion, his clothes hastily packed in a ton of Lidl bags for life, because he, like myself, always forgets to take plastic bags to the supermarket. He’ll throw everything into the back of his Hummer and drive off into the sunset, before finding it impossible to get off the Washington ring road for hours. He’ll then stop off at the golden arches , consume the weight of his fat head in Quarter pounders and chips, drink a bucket of coke and swerve off into the darkness out to the wilderness to get lost in useless territory for the rest of his fucking life. 

Maybe.