Monday

If I was to get up right now, tell my colleagues I was going for a long lunch, leave my desk, walk to Cardiff Central, buy a ridiculously expensive train ticket to London, grab a table seat and then wait for my personal space to be invaded by a bunch of Brexit retirees on their way to a Monday night showing of something ungodly in the West End, and have to listen to their fucking pre-paid funeral mouths screeching on about how they didn’t even know Italians played golf and how good Lidl-own gin is for cocktails, and all the while watching Tory England speed past me like an ironic montage of a country abandoning the bucolic idyll for tower blocks and cancer, and because despite being nearly 50 still feel pathetically unable to ask if I could just squeeze out for a piss and so I just hold on to it till I nearly pass out in a Paddington cubicle, if I was to then make my way to Westminster and fortuitously bump into Jacob Rees-Mogg, would it be ok if I did a massive Mick Channon-style windmill and punch the nanny-fed cunt into the Thames?