I’m sick as a bad goat, and there’s something wrong with my faec-hole. It’s got the red, and my mouth smells like an Al-Qaeda..
The ‘phone is terrible at me for a second. Then it stops. It repeats this procedure seven or eight times, whilst I stand quacking like a broken Toby trying to work out which handle is the good one.
When it stops for good, I realise that this is going to be a Morris-day. Morris-days are the worst.
The answering machine is cross with me. “Where the fuck are you?” it says. I tell it I am at home. It doesn’t seem to care or even listen. I take comfort in the fact that, if it came to a fight, I would win.
The answering machine tells me that everyone in the office is waiting for me. I don’t think this can be true. Even if it were, I don’t see how the answering machine would know.
They say that a man’s reach should exceed his grasp. This explains why giraffes are rubbish at everything.
The answering machine is giving me the silent treatment now, and I wonder if I should buy it a present.
Later on, when I am at the place, I become aware of a young woman mouthing gummy platitudes at me, face as big as old plate. I decide to tell her about my answering machine, but she thinks I am funny and continues squirting out her horrid word-wrong.
I hate Morris Days...