Are we there, yet? We’re bored, tired, and the only thing keeping us from leaping out is the fact that we’re travelling at 117mph. Well, that and the bloody child locks are on. I swear, if this isn’t over soon, words will be had. Rude ones.
Are you lonesome tonight? Are restrictions too tight? Is the lockdown just driving you mad? Have you stuffed yourself full? Bored right out of your skull? Have you lost whatever grip that you had? Don’t worry. You’re not alone.
You know what it’s like. It’s Christmas, you’re a bit drunk, you’ve had buggered organs for nine months, and you start getting sentimental about one of the best friendships you’ve ever had and wondering how much time you have left …
So, it seems we’re pretty fucked, right? Well, at least we’ll always have Christmas to enjoy, yeah? I guess it depends if your definition of enjoyment includes scrabbling in a ditch for road kill and rotting berries to make your dinner with.
Look, we know that we’ve been away for a few months, but we’ve got a REALLY good excuse and, while we are loathe to play the organ failure card, we do have to say: ORGAN FAILURE. Unexpected, moderately inconvenient, dropped-out-of-the-sky organ failure.