The saga begins.
Don’t stop til you get enough. My sister has Covid true and proper. Confirmed by Boris’ track and
trace squad. The universe has bowled me a fast one and I’m now destined to become some Walter
Mitty. Forced to face my two-week fate and cancel the biggest date of the bloody century.
Congratulations Callum. You are the mayor of lonely town, population, one. Time to start ticking
items off your to do list. I hear the Amish are recruiting. Perhaps I could do with a bit of butter
No. I need cigarettes to take the edge off. My friend goes and comes back with a box of JPS Players –
Real Red Superkings. What the fuck are these things? They sound like a b-rate skiffle band from the
mid-60s. 80% filter, 100% cancer.
Oh look, here comes Brexit! Right in the nick of time. I was starting to worry things were improving.
Can we all congratulate the people of Kent, who voted in such large numbers to turn their back and
build an empire out of spite. The irony is not lost on them, for the big bold lorry park being built on
their back lot is to be legally designated as part both France and Blighty. They literally voted to dispel
some foreign enemy only to invite them to set up an internal border in God’s own country.
Now if that’s not entertaining enough, apparently Bella Thorne has an OnlyFans. Millions of men
made Bella a millionaire overnight. Screw the Amish, I’m going to sell sock picks with gnarly toe jam.
And then just like that, I’m out. First mayoral policy. Hit the big smoke – ditch these smokes –
reschedule that date for Sunday.
The saga continues.
The date was nice.
We ate pot noodle.
Kissed once or twice.
Offering an immediate boost to my immunity. Making love to my cocktail faster than anything. In a
Dalston state of mind, wearing poor man’s get-up, I swaggered westwards towards Shepherds Bush.
By Charing Cross Station, I sat down and cried. Not for any good reason, I just felt it might be the
time. Lots of well-dressed bankers around. I ought to hand out my CV. Give them something to talk
about. The meek drunk graduate with tears in his eyes.
An almost intoxicating momentum. As such a loud person, the new rules which limit no more than 6,
have served only to force the 5 around me to give me more attention. Because in truth, life’s alright.
I’ve got my A1 light motorcycle test coming up soon. Can zip around on the vespa. Hey, what’s that
sound? Everybody look what’s going down. It’s Callum and his red bike, best buddy on the back,
smile on his face; zipping along the A420 at an underwhelming pace.
Is Steely Dan just Vulfpeck for boomers?
The saga concludes.
I discover she’s over me. It ended before it started and I’m sort of ok with that. I’m just pleased the
President has a cough. Maybe it’s Covid?
By Callum Ruddock