For sheer horror value, my plate of maggots and pasta easily trump Donald’s Trump victory
If you think the situation in America is looking grim, just be thankful you haven't been enjoying supper in front of the box with Jezza
AS both candidates in the American election seemed to be fairly horrid, I decided not to bother watching the coverage.
Instead, I settled down to watch the latest instalment of Goliath on my massive vulgarsonic television.
There was, however, a problem.
My flat has been colonised by about two million moths, which spend all day in a cupboard with their wings over their eyes, saying: “Oh the light, the light.”
And then, as soon as it goes dark, they come out and head immediately for the brightest thing they can find. Which, on election night, was the beam of light from my vulgarsonic’s projector.
Soon it felt like I was trying to watch television in 1931.
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The screen was a flickering mass of shadows and something had to be done, so I reached for the fly spray. Which they seemed to like very much.
I then resorted to running around the room, trying to squash them by slapping my hands together, but after a few minutes of doing this, I noticed that all the people in neighbouring flats had gathered round their windows to watch the man from the television in No26 jumping over his furniture and clapping for no obvious reason. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I went to the kitchen to make myself some supper.
My flat has been colonised by about two million moths, which spend all day in a cupboard with their wings over their eyes, saying: “Oh the light, the light.”
I chopped up some pork tenderloin and some peppers and mushrooms and emptied some pasta into a pan of boiling water and, 20 minutes later, I was at the kitchen table munching away . . .
And then, for no particular reason, I looked up and noticed the ceiling had come to life.
I checked the bottle I’d been drinking from to make sure it wasn’t absinthe and after discovering it was just wine, I climbed on the chair for a closer inspection. I was amazed to find the ceiling was indeed alive, because it was completely blanketed in maggots.
And so, much to the amusement of the neighbours who overlook my kitchen, I then proceeded to beat my ceiling vigorously with a newspaper.
I permitted myself a wry grin when I noticed that one of the headlines in said newspaper said I was earning £10million a year.
Yeah, right. So why am I living in a maggot farm, then?
Soon, though, it got worse. Because after I’d Hoovered up all the maggots, I put my dishes in the sink and went to put the packet of pasta back in the larder . . . As I was resealing it, I noticed something strange. The pasta was moving.
Feeling a bit nauseous, I put on my spectacles and suddenly, the reason for this movement came into sharp focus.
It was teeming with maggots.
God knows how many I’d eaten as I sat there contemplating my living ceiling, but it was several hundred, I imagine.
The next morning I woke to find the BBC in funeral mode because Mr Trump had won the election. But I didn’t care.
It doesn’t matter what he does when he takes office in January, because by then my teeth will have fallen out, my arms will be wings and I’ll have become Jeff Goldblum. I’m afraid. I’m very afraid.
-THE morning after my maggotty supper, as I listened to the BBC droning on about the awfulness of Mr Trump, I heard an almighty crash.
It turned out that a neighbour had backed his two-ton Range Rover into my garage, knocking the wall back by a foot.
This meant the roof was propped up by nothing but the door. So if I opened it to get my car out, it would collapse and I’d be down one Golf GTi.
A builder came round and said the wall can only be fixed from the inside. So the door will have to be opened.
“But my car will be ruined,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied.
I suppose though, in the big scheme of things, it doesn’t matter, because soon I won’t need a car. Because I’ll be a moth.
It's us versus the world
SO, Mr Trump has invited Theresa May to a meeting “as soon as possible”.
Which will be after he’s met the leaders from Japan, Russia, China, Germany, Jordan, Afghanistan and all the other countries which matter a bit more than Britain these days.
A CRATE ESCAPE
SWEET Jesus. This week a British tourist on holiday in Bolivia tripped and fell into a crater of boiling mud.
He was pulled out but died from the burns, which were described as “catastrophic”.
I’ve always thought the worst way to go is to be beheaded on the internet or burned at the stake.
But being boiled in mud. That’s got to be up there.
The only good news is that if it happens in Bolivia, you are at least spared from having to spend any more time there.
Buy Buy to bank balance
AN editorial in The Times says that internet shopping is clogging up the roads with delivery vans, which always seem to arrive at your house when you aren’t in. Even when you are.
They argue that shops allow people to try on and touch stuff before they buy it, and that you can walk home after completing your purchases.
Rubbish.
Shops are too hot, the changing rooms are too small, they never have your size and, if by some miracle they do, the assistant always demands your life history before you’re allowed to pay.
Then you end up with a bag that’s too big and too heavy for you to walk anywhere.
With internet shopping, the only problem is that you can’t ever stop.
You go online to buy a T-shirt and end up with six pairs of socks, a toy horse, a selfie stick, four hats, a hammer, Lee Child’s new book, a track day at Silverstone, some Minstrels, a new pair of reading glasses, a lion and a door mat with “Bugger Off” written on it. Or is that just me?
HIKERS and off-road cyclists were accused this week of ruining Dartmoor.
Dartmoor? Hikers and off-road cyclists have ruined a lot more than that.
Jeremy's guide to spotting REAL snow
AFTER an inch of snow fell in Yorkshire this week, the schools were closed and the motoring organisations were all over the radio advising people not to go out unless they had a gallon of warm soup, a Scott of the Antarctic coat, a defibrillator, a tent, a stove, some logs, a bulldozer, a rifle and a Bowie knife in the boot.
It’s a dusting of snow for God’s sake. Not the apocalypse.
IN one of the many photographs of Donald Trump and his family this week, I noticed that his son, Barron, has some toy cars.
“Oh good”, I thought. “This means he is encouraging the lad to be a petrolhead.” But then I examined the picture more carefully and noticed that the toy cars are, in fact, limos.
So as a result, the kid’s going to grow up thinking that motoring comes with a bar, purple lighting and some lurid sex toys that were tucked down the back of the seat and then forgotten by an out-of-control hen party.
COCAINE CRETINS
WOW. A Royal Marines sniper took out the engine from a drug smuggler’s speedboat this week.
That’s some shooting.
Certainly he’s more skilful than the people on the speedboat, who then sat there waiting to be arrested by the US Coast Guard. And never thought to lob their bales of cocaine into the sea.
Which means they’re going to spend the next few years in jail playing “hide the sausage” with Ramirez the Strangler.
