One morning The Count of Clifton woke up to find he had been completely transformed into a fully fledged giant copy of his Dad.

“I’ll Marmalise you”

“Hello darling; Yes i’d love a Bells please, large one.”

“Bloody Cows, wrecking the lawn”

Not got it yet? Let me simplify things for you, the symptoms are all there, its unavoidable.

I’m turning into my Dad, that’s the fact. I’ve started keeping a fucking little book with daily electric readings, because i’m taking an interest in the cost of heating, working out what furniture we can afford to burn to keep us warm in our retirement, a few years from now, that’s what its all coming to. I can’t let the dog out into the back garden because it needs seeding, so I can be seen outside the front of the house, in the road, in my pyjamas encouraging the dog to go for a piss in the gardens of the (at the moment) empty houses, first thing and last thing, even in the rain and even when the fucking dog won’t go out. 

I need fresh air, to breathe and to feel the noise of the bustling boozer on a Saturday afternoon. No matter what anyone says to you, lockdowns are a pile of shit, and yes we are all in the same boat, but some have more baggage to fit into their cabins and some have less. But there’s no getting off, just yet. 


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