5am I wake up, as normal with my pyjamas covered in rice pudding and a lazy lob on. I check my emails and go and stand on the balcony whilst singing 80s pop classic “Gold” by Spandau trying not to wake my wife Maureen. It’s a cold morning so I drink a full bucket of rice pudding in one and wave at the next door neighbour, Elton John, who is also up early and has several young men helping him in the garden wearing very little and dancing to music a DJ is belting out. I think the DJ is Normski.
7am I wake Maureen up so she can go sort our autistic son, Bernard, out and take his restraining straps off. He has, unbeknownst to me, been rather loudly voicing his needs throughout the night. Maureen makes coffee and I do a massive piss all over the kitchen floor.
9am Gym. Exercise is good for the mind as well as the body. Eric Bristow once told me that. I have eight minutes on the rowing machine before drinking a full bucket of rice pudding and relaxing in the sauna. I get the staff to throw everyone else out as they are peasants.
10am breakfast. Maureen makes eggs benedict but I have to tell her that the hollandaise isn’t thick enough, the eggs could do with a little more seasoning, and the muffin has been shop-bought and at this stage of the competition she should be making her own muffins. I put a ladder up to the 12-foot fence between my house and Elton Johns and climb up only to be met with scenes of debauchery and so forth. I make a hasty retreat and get Maureen to walk the dog.
1230pm. I’ll have a snooze before lunch if Bernard will stop voicing his needs rather loudly, and retire to the drawing room. I dream about clouds, the ocean, and John Torode. 130pm lunch. Maureen has prepared Sea Bass, on a bed of sautéed potatoes, wilted spinach, and a full bucket of rice pudding. The rice pudding goes everywhere as usual as I attempt to neck it. Bernard has spaghetti hoops with custard but just throws it at the wall.
258pm I try to spend time with Bernard regularly, even though I didn’t want a child.
300pm I tie Bernard up as the footballs kicking off. I put Sky Sports News on and cringe every time there’s a goal in the Hartlepool game as the full panel (all women except for a disabled black guy) roll their eyes and reference previous host Jeffrey Stelling in “hilarious” scenes. My 5-fold accumulator isn’t looking good so I go to try to pass stools.
445pm The acca isn’t looking good at all, but Leeds have had a good result by only conceding six at home to Dagenham and Redbridge.
450pm Make that seven. I shout over to Elton John asking if I can borrow his lawnmower as I think Maureen should be cutting the grass. Elton John doesn’t answer as it appears he’s still revelling with Normski and the young scantily-clad gentlemen. He must be having a barbecue as there’s lots of sausage flying about, a lot of rump, all served with gentlemen’s relish. Double-entendres are cheap jokes, I find.
6pm I suddenly inspect all the food cupboards manically, ripping out not one, not two, but three packets of Aldis own Spaghetti. There’s a blackcurrant jelly mix that’s out of date, an onion that’s gone bad, and an unopened jar of pickled red cabbage and it’s not even Christmas. I scream at Maureen “maureen, what on earth is going on here? We’re doing just what the general public do and that is waste food and overstock on groceries that will never be used”. Maureen started screaming “I’ve been so facking stupid, I’m so sorry Greg”, so I punched her in the kidneys as it’s spelt “Gregg” with two g’s. “We’ve got to sort this out” I said.
7pm Tea. Maureen had Spaghetti with green onion served on a bed of red cabbage followed by jelly and I ordered a chinky. And you can all fuck off, that’s not racialist, it’s known as chinky. It is. Full chinky banquet is a Saturday treat for me. Bernard was still tied up so I’m not sure what he had but it will have been slightly overcooked and needed seasoning. I washed it all down with a full bucket of rice pudding. Ah-bosh!
8pm I retired to my quarters to work on my own catchphrase. I lit a cigar and changed into some fresh pyjamas and set aside a full bucket of rice pudding for the night ahead. I waved at Elton John and his depraved entourage only to be met with gun fire. I watched Mrs Doubtfire in bed but I didn’t think it was very good, I masturbated furiously, then shouted night to Maureen who was in her quarters and from a distant part of the house, I thought I could hear the sound of a child crying as I dozed off to sleep.
