Around the turn of the year, in the hope of establishing a silly little tradition for myself, I wrote another piece of stream of consciousness second person nonsense.
It’s rather fun. I thoroughly recommend it.
…
It is January the 6th, 2025. Your last clear memory is of assembling a ‘Christmas leftovers curry, in a pie case, deep-fried in Yorkshire pudding batter’. You assume the endeavour was a success for three reasons. There is a pan on the kitchen counter containing several litres of congealed fat, the toilet bowl has shattered, and you have no feeling in your anus.
Feeling in need of an early morning pick me up, despite it being a quarter past six in the evening, you open the fridge to find it is filled to the brim with neatly stacked gold bullion. The gold is pleasantly chilled to the touch. Thankfully, nestled between two more gold bars in the fridge door is a single can of special brew, which you drink while you consider what may have led to this situation.
You do some quick maths, based on the volume of your refrigerator, and come to the conclusion that it is highly unlikely that you have legitimately obtained half a billion pounds worth of solid gold. Suspecting that such a loss is likely to have attracted attention, you turn on the television. Your intuition is proven to be accurate, when the first thing you see is a video of an individual riding a quad bike out of the Bank of England, towing a trailer packed with gold. You allow yourself for a moment to hope that the mysterious character is not you, their face being obscured as it is by a highly elaborate protogen mask.
Unfortunately, the news then shows a zoomed in photograph of an elaborate foreskin tattoo highly reminiscent of Kandinsky’s Composition 8, which you realise is why your bell end is so sore. Any attempt at a reliable disguise will now need to involve an amateur circumcision and several weeks spent in hiding. You sigh and slam the fridge door closed. At this moment, the admittedly impressive structural integrity of the kitchen floor fails, and the fridge falls through the flats of several of your downstairs neighbours, before making an aggressive arrival in the basement utility room. You peer down the hole.
‘Morning, Mrs Stebbins,’ you say, waving politely.
‘Put some pants on you fucking degenerate, I can see right up your arsehole from here!’ she replies, furiously. ‘And see a doctor, for Christ’s sake.’
Since you no longer need to carry the gold downstairs, you finish your breakfast special brew while strolling downstairs to the basement, finalising your plan as you walk. Arriving in the basement, you shovel the gold back into the fridge before closing the door and sealing the whole thing with several rolls of heavy-duty duct tape. The finishing touch of the plan is achieved by taping a pre-paid return envelope (which you received with an unsolicited credit card application) to the fridge door, with a return address of ‘The Bank of England’ written on the back (with your left hand, for security reasons). You then pay someone on an odd jobs website £3.25 to take the ‘parcel’ to the post office.
Crisis averted, you head out to your nearest branch of Wickes to test out their selection of demonstration toilets. After a spirited debate with the branch manager, you depart, but not without hitching your new quad bike to the tow hook of the car park burger van and driving off with it, staff and all.
So begins 2025.