A glum Friday.
It's one thing to be awakened by a clap of thunder so loud I thought my number was up, quite another to have to go out in it. But go out into it I must, as the gym won't do my weights for me.
Because of the never ending abuse I get on a Friday about my one true fetish, I have-with a heavy heart- decided to suspend all photos of my peachy nipply ginger lovegod until further notice. It's not right, I know, but what can I do? This way I know I'll win you lot over to his comely charms. You wait and see, first you'll wonder, 'what's wrong? I feel odd? Like something's missing in my life.'
Then you'll stop sleeping so well, the fitter among you will suddenly find it hard to dredge up your competitive spirit, beer drinkers will find their beverages bitter and metallic tasting, the mothers among you will find yourselves idly playing games with your children, but with one ear cocked for the ginger whipser on the wind. Men will whimper in their sleep. Maroon will drink Kir and sing a sad lament.
Oh ye feckless lot, you mark my words. It will only be a matter of weeks when the realisation hits you all square between the kisser.
What was once a beautiful Friday, filled with a ginger snowglob of bobbling manhood has now been reduced to nothing more than the start of another tedious drink filled weekend.
Where is the love? Where is the dream of peachy perfection.
I hope you're all happy!