In order to protect himself from the cruel world out there, our resident loose cannon, erm, columnist, has a genius plan… sigh
In 2016, everyone voted to have no trousers and to let a talking hedge run America. “Good riddance 2016,” says the voice in your head as you shred the kittens in dumpsters calendar you stole from Paperchase.
But wait. Brace yourself, reader: gaffer tape yourself to the floor; glue yourself to a table leg; hide under a dog.
Because the chaotic gusts of last year are about to become a steaming brown hurricane: one hot sack of sludge. 2017 will be a post-truth torrent of turdery in which everything is horrible and nothing is real.
Is the couch I’m sitting on real? Is that lamp real? Is this computer keyboard real? ghghasdf92;;P@@uiop. OK, the computer keyboard’s real. But what if all National Enquirer headlines come true? What if flat-earthers win ‘Britain’s Got Talent’? What if all electronic music gets replaced by Justin Bieber farting onto a startled child? So many questions and so little toilet roll to write them on.
I’ve come up with a solution of sorts: I’ve joined the tin foil hat brigade. I say “hat”. It’s a crown made of cartons from Molested Prawn, the Chinese takeaway down the road. This hat will protect my brain, which is precarious like a baby deer or snowflakes or the careers of ‘X Factor’ champions. As I sneak underneath the CIA’s mind-lasers, I will crawl to the only place on earth that is safe in 2017. That safe space is inside Curt Smith from Tears For Fears (not the other guy, I don’t trust his weird lips).
Curt Smith is incredibly safe: look at his orderly hair, his pinched nose, his satisfying forehead. If I achieve anything in the gush of wet nonsense that is 2017, it’s to live inside the cosy cocoon of Curt Smith. I just need to wait for him to yawn and I’m in. I’ve not tried to climb inside a human since I drank too many alcopops playing The Shamen at Twister. Hiding inside Curt Smith will feel like a bile flotation tank but, y’know, actually nice.
In the humid darkness, I will dream of old times when people helped pensioners across the road, doffed their cap in post offices, and hedges weren’t allowed to talk never mind run whole countries. Perhaps I’m being pessimistic. These foil cartons are really digging in. My eyebrows have become shelves of black bean sauce.
Crikes. Bring back 2016.