Sundays are for realising that he’s coming. That he’s inevitable. That, in a way, he’s already here. You feel him in the back of your mind. Grinding his teeth. Picking his nose. Raking his nails across the palms of his hands. He hungers, a snarling hunk of robo-man-flesh yearning for the time his clarion call rings out through the space between each of our psyches.
Something terrible and insidious this way comes. He glues a cookie-cutter short back and sides hairdo to his usually bald bonce. He cries out to the great corporate entities for money and wares to show off. He dusts off a tombstone engraved with the words ‘please wrap it up’. He howls at the moon. AWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Adrian Edmondson? “NO,” he yells, jumping on stage. “IT IS I, KEOFF GEIGHLEY.” You gasp in horror.
