!happy 3 Telly Savages, sing the blues.

where do go to my lovely? when you're alone in your bed? Tell me the thoughts that surround you I want to look inside your head.

The hardest thing about facing the end of the world, the world that you I, or just about everyone knows as their world; is that secretly, despite it being recognised as being a total piece of vile pile of dried out dog shit, the truth is -the real truth is- that we don’t want it to end. We want to keep it going, mainly because it’s all that we have ever known.

That is the problem. Despite the fact that we hate it, we don’t want change, or any change that upsets us. We like things to stay the way that they are, because -on the whole- it is safe; and when we face change, everything, even those things that might not be out of the ordinary, well…they become strange, new and alien to us. Marcus noticed it with the bird’s nests. Every year those nests had been there. No doubt they had always been that big, that the crow had always been in such numbers. But he hadn’t noticed it before. Now, with no cars and empty streets, even the mundane seemed weird to him now.

That is of course to be expected. The world of Marcus Townsend -53, unemployed and unemployable due to both mental health and physical conditions- a father of four married to the only person who made his life feel normal, being isolated was his normal. That wasn’t what was wrong. It was…the other things. The lack of people. The empty streets, the deserted, closed shops… and the shadows in the shops… then there was night time. Night time terrified him. It wasn’t the absence of light, or the fact that there was no electricity. It was how had Wells put it in the time machine…the dark nights, that chilled him to the bone. That led to him boarding up his doors, nailing up the windows, and when he was in bed -at night- locking himself in, and pushing his old heavy desk to block the way…just to make sure…yes…just to make sure.

Journal entry dated 1-4-2020, lockdown day 10

We have hit the double digits, day ten of lockdown. The time is 16.20and the kids are fighting again.

-“yes, ladies and gentlemen, droids’ and voids, and welcome to the tenth lockdown games , with your host Eddie. P. Psychopath. And what a packed your tube audience we have tonight. We see, Mr and Mrs Smegley from 12 Feral Avenue. Its nice to see those toilet rolls Mr. Smegley, how is your hamster, or did you… oh you did, you ate him. Hope there was enough to feed your twenty kids, fifteen cats twenty-seven dogs and gods know how many rats you have living under your floorboards. Then there are the viscous twins, melting together nicely I see there, and your father Mr viscous, melting Mrs Viscous into the wall there….and we have a new guest Karen the Aardvark from Porterbellow gardens, just north of St David’s railway station. Oh, lopok! Its another new viewer. Its Colin? How is it going Colin? Yes? Really? Hey, guess what we don’t fucking care! Get a life you fucking waste of space! Of, we haven’t one. First of all, let us be thankful and pay homage to the God of Lockdown, now called lockdown because its gender neutral.

Our Lockdown.

Who goes on forever?

Silence be your name

Your kingdom come

Your will be done

In this house, as it is in all the houses throughout the land

Forever and fucking forever A MEN!

Just before battle comments, just a quick word from our sponsor. Give a fuck: because we don’t.

There… now we have done the usual, let battle commence.

In the left corner is Jessica I’ll slap your face in. She is armed with a sub machine gun, a machete, from machete and a copy of the Guardian newspaper before it sold out to the fucking government!

In the right corner and baring her newly filed teeth for the occasion is Angela Jane. She is armed with a thermonuclear device, that she managed to exchange for a tube of toothpaste and a cup of bleach.

The arena is full of other cats shit too, so we are in for a very exciting match tonight. In fact, it’s so exciting, I have just let loose of my water bowels. Over to you Jim.

Thank you, Jerry, and please clean the seat with the proper sanitiser, we don’t want any stray virus here tonight do we… I said.

It wasn’t funny?

Wasn’t it? Ut it was passed by the British board of humour! John Selwyn Bummer the third ailse of Sainsbury, thought it was hysterical.

That is because he is dead.

Is he?

Yes, popped his clogs last week, while attempting the Heimlich manouver on a ferret.. or was it man over? Oh well, the ferret is alive and that is good news isn’t it?

Very probably… anyway Jessica has begun the bsttle by throwing a particularly large dried up cat shit at Angela, who has responded by attempting to arm the thermo nuclear warhead. And mother has just come in! Yes, Mother has just come in! its getting exciting now. You can feel the tension just squeeze out of Jessica’s face, or is that the excrement? Who knows? As its everything to play for.

That’s the bell of the end of round one. And both Jess and AJ are taken to their respective corners, while daddy gets a berating from the referee mother for teaching the children about conflict resolution and gambling!

And the bell has gone for round two, and Jess has hit the nuclear device with a two-pound lump of dog or cat crap, right across the arming sequencer. This has led to a burst of tears from Angela who is now opening up with a quantum pulse rifle given to her by some weird robotic gut who sounds strangely like Arnold Swartzenegger! LOCKDOWN MEANS LOCKDOWN MISTER get to your home in the hills! Stay there with your dog or Donkey, or whatever you have! And now the referee is calling it over with a resounding (ouch) clip to the head of the announcer, who has tried to get his kids famous on you -tube, by throwing shit at each other, mainly because they don’t have anything better to do!

This show was bought to you by Aardvark enterprises. Aardvark… because we care.


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Well, this is it.

I'm tired, mostly tired, generally tired, and just plain tired. To start with I am tired of life. tired of living actually. Tired of the drum boredom of it all. Tired of the net, of face book telling


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