There are few experiences in life as universally terrifying, as deeply existentially unsettling, as the sheer, soul-sucking horror of attempting to leave the sanctity of your bed. The kind of experience that takes you to the very edge of sanity, where you teeter on the precipice of defeat, staring into the yawning chasm of another day, wondering whether it might just be easier to remain motionless for the next 12 hours. Because, let’s face it, the bed has everything: warmth, comfort, a lack of judgement – a sanctuary for the hopelessly lazy. But alas, society insists that you must leave it, to do things like work, eat, or, dare I say, “live”. And so it begins: the battle of wills.
Phase 1: The Negotiation (aka The Denial)
As the alarm blares – an affront to your very existence – you make the decision to cling to the warm cocoon of your duvet as if it were your last shred of human dignity. You know you should get up, but the brain, that feeble organ, insists that a few more minutes of unconsciousness is all it really needs. And so, you lie there, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling as if you were contemplating the meaning of life. “Just five more minutes,” you whisper to yourself, making a mental note to ignore the fact that the ‘five more minutes’ you asked for twenty minutes ago turned into a full-on siesta.
At this stage, there’s an internal struggle. Your body is telling you that staying in bed is a victory, a triumph against the absurdity of modern life. “Who cares about work?” your body asks, a question that echoes the despair of the human condition. “You could just lie here forever, where it’s warm, where it’s safe, where you don’t have to do anything except exist.” It’s tempting, truly. But then your rational mind kicks in – mostly because it’s been subjected to the alarm’s relentless shrieking. “You’re an adult. You must contribute to society,” it says. Or perhaps it’s more like a cry of desperation: “PLEASE, get up, or we will be unemployed and living in a cave by noon.”
Phase 2: The Physical Assault (aka The Banishment)
And yet, the war is not yet won. Because as much as you attempt to rationalise your situation, your limbs refuse to cooperate. They are heavy, unyielding sacks of inertia, designed by some cruel deity to thwart your every attempt to get out of bed. You try to push yourself up, and immediately your back protests, as though your body is saying, “No, no, no. We had an agreement. You stay here. We lie down forever. This is our destiny.” Your muscles, apparently bereft of any memory of how to stand, groan and screech in rebellion.
You manage to roll over – an impressive feat, really – only to find that gravity is conspiring against you, dragging your body back toward the mattress as if it has its own agenda. At this point, you’re aware of just how humiliating it would be if anyone were to walk in and witness your pathetic, half-formed attempts at rising. The act of getting out of bed is no longer just a simple physical motion – it has become an art form, a tragic comedy unfolding in slow motion.
Phase 3: The Moment of Victory (aka The Reluctant Realisation)
Eventually, you do it. You move. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold air of the room hit your skin like a slap in the face. You stagger to your feet, disoriented, convinced that you are now an entirely different, less functional being. There is no elation at this point – no sense of accomplishment. Just a deep, existential weariness that sinks into your bones, and a nagging thought that perhaps you should’ve just called in sick and become one with the duvet forever.
And as you shuffle towards the bathroom, still blinking against the harsh light of the world, a sobering thought strikes you: you’ve only just started. There’s a whole day ahead of you, filled with things to do, none of which you will truly enjoy. And the thought of crawling back into bed later, where your body and mind can cease pretending to be functional for a few blissful hours, is the only thing that keeps you from contemplating the futility of existence itself.
Phase 4: The Deep, Dark Aftermath (aka The Regret)
Then, just as you’re about to face the grim reality of your day – emails to read, meetings to attend, the long, slow descent into a mundane routine – you feel it. That pang of regret. You were so much happier in the bed. Was this the right choice? Was it worth it? You’ll never know, because by now, it’s too late. You’ve crossed the threshold, and the bed is but a distant memory, mocking you from afar. But tomorrow, oh tomorrow, when the alarm rings, you’ll be ready. You’ll negotiate with it, bargain for another few minutes. And in the end, you’ll lose again.Because let’s be honest – getting out of bed is the hardest thing you’ll do all day.
It’s 6:30 AM. The day stretches ahead of you like a dark, inhospitable road that’s somehow still worth driving down—because you’ve been told that coffee is the fuel that makes that journey not just possible, but potentially productive. You shuffle into the kitchen, eyes bloodshot from the night’s failed attempts at sleep, yet somehow, your body—still operating on the 23rd cup of the previous day’s caffeine intake—has come to the unmistakable conclusion that coffee is the only thing standing between you and your imminent collapse.
You open the cupboard. There it is. The bag of coffee beans—those tiny, roasted morsels of hope, a symbol of a brighter tomorrow, if only you can make it through the next four hours of email replies and deadlines. You grind them. Not because you enjoy the process, but because society has led you to believe that grinding your own beans somehow signals that you’re a person of taste. The sound is maddening. A high-pitched whirring that mimics your over-stimulated brain trying to process the fact that you’re already behind on everything. The beans are crushed—metaphorically and literally—and now it’s time to brew.
As the hot water splashes over the ground coffee, you are filled with a false sense of achievement. The smell that wafts through the kitchen is enough to temporarily fool your tired, jaded mind into thinking you are about to experience something magical. But, as with all things in modern life, it’s a cruel joke. For just a fleeting moment, you believe that your productivity is directly linked to the size of your mug. You pour the coffee, half of it spilling over the edge, and your optimism shrinks. It is barely enough to keep your hands warm, let alone propel you into any meaningful work.
You take the first sip. And for about two seconds, the universe makes sense again. The bitterness washes over you like an existential awakening. This is what life is all about: bitter, futile, and endlessly addictive. Coffee doesn’t just wake you up, it numbs you to the reality of just how hopeless everything feels. For a moment, you feel invincible, but that’s only because your brain is convinced it’s been handed the magic potion that’ll make everything manageable. The rush of caffeine floods your system like the first hit of any drug—it’s short, sharp, and deeply unfulfilling. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s a necessary evil, or, more accurately, a necessary illusion.
You scroll through your phone while the caffeine does its work. There’s a new email from your boss. “Hope you’re having a productive morning!” it says, as if you haven’t been awake for less than 30 minutes and already have the distinct sense of impending doom. You take another sip. The email is followed by another, and another. There are meetings to be attended, spreadsheets to be filled in, and, of course, more coffee to be consumed, because no one has yet figured out how to build a productivity system that doesn’t rely on liquid motivation. After all, you wouldn’t dream of facing the first Zoom call of the day without at least two double espressos in you. That would be as ridiculous as trying to power a car without fuel. It’s not so much the caffeine you’re addicted to, but the idea that it might, just might, bring you closer to the day where you stop running around like a headless chicken and start feeling genuinely accomplished.You glance at the clock. It’s 9:00 AM now. That’s an hour gone, wasted in a haze of brown liquid and half-baked ambition. Coffee, like most things in life, has presented itself as the solution to a problem it created. Your to-do list grows ever longer, your energy is already starting to dip, and you find yourself wondering: Is this it? Will there be more coffee? Will there ever be enough? The truth is, you’re just chasing the high, the rush of being productive, which is the cruelest joke of all. Because you know that no matter how much you drink, there will never be a point where you can look at your day and say, Yes, I’ve truly accomplished something today.
As the morning progresses, the coffee becomes an endless cycle. The first cup—an illusion. The second cup—denial. The third cup—desperation. By the time you get to the fourth, you’re no longer drinking to wake up. You’re drinking to stave off the existential dread that has taken root, convinced that you can push the panic button just a little bit longer, if you keep topping up. And so, it continues—another day, another coffee, another set of promises you’ll never keep.And just as the day ends, you’ll be back at it again tomorrow. Because coffee doesn’t let you stop. It simply makes you believe you’ve started. And that’s enough. For now.
Ah, housework. It’s the unwelcome guest at the party that is our daily existence — a guest who refuses to leave, despite our polite, increasingly desperate, attempts to show them the door. You know the one. The person who arrived under the guise of “I’ll just pop in for a quick drink,” but, five hours later, is still sitting on the couch, blabbering about their garden renovation plans while you passively (and very nearly imperceptibly) edge towards the door.
I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that there exists a mysterious, nebulous thing called “cleaning,” a force that looms in the background of one’s existence, like a rogue planet. It orbits your life, ominous and ever-present, occasionally pulling you into its gravitational field with alarming, irresistible force. Some days, it’s dusting. Other days, it’s mopping. And let’s not even speak of the laundry — a task so multifaceted, so long-winded, it could be a novella if it were a bit more coherent and less riddled with wrinkles.
There’s a particularly charming irony in the way cleaning works. You finish one job, proud of your accomplishment, only to look around and realize that, rather than having removed the grime from the universe entirely, you’ve merely nudged it along to a new location. You vacuum, and suddenly it seems as though a thousand more crumbs have been unleashed in your wake. Where were these crumbs five minutes ago? Were they waiting in ambush, biding their time under the furniture, waiting for you to make that brave, half-hearted attempt at domesticity? The truth is, housework is like a Sisyphean task, but less poetic and more domestic. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was condemned to roll a boulder uphill for all eternity, only to watch it tumble back down again. This, surely, is the destiny of anyone who tackles the laundry pile. Or the dishes. You wash the dishes, and the next thing you know, you find four used mugs dotted around the house. Before you know it, you’re in a situation not entirely dissimilar to those eternal looping train rides that never seem to end, the same track, the same repetitive clankclankclank of reality.At times, I find myself questioning the point of cleaning. I mean, why do I keep vacuuming the same rug? It’s not as though the rug is going to become a person and return the favor with a bit of light housework. No, that would be absurd. If rugs could clean, they’d probably spend their days getting underfoot and critiquing your cleaning methods. “You’ve missed a spot, you know. I’m just saying.”
But then there’s the other side of housework — the one that’s more sinister. The “all-consuming” side. You start with a simple task, like scrubbing the bathroom sink, and before you know it, you’re elbows deep in the fridge, debating whether those olives are still edible or whether they have transformed into a sentient penicillin colony. And yet, there’s a certain satisfaction to this madness, isn’t there? The feeling that, for a fleeting moment, the world has been put to rights. The tiles have gleamed, the laundry is folded, and perhaps, just perhaps, the dust has temporarily been vanquished.
Then you sit down on the couch, feel a deep sense of pride, and are promptly greeted by a mountain of paperwork you could have sorted out last week but opted not to. The cycle begins again. So we carry on, don’t we? Every now and then, perhaps with a sigh of resignation, perhaps with a brief and fleeting moment of joy, we continue to tidy up, knowing that the broom will forever chase us through the house like an obedient, if slightly overzealous, dog. And yet, in our hearts, we know we’ll never truly win this battle. We can only delay the inevitable, and even then, only for a very short time. Such is life. Such is housework. And such is the human condition.
It was once a simple matter. Thousands of years ago, people worshipped the Sun as a god, making sacrifices of all sorts—virgins, goats, perhaps even a few particularly enthusiastic charioteers— everything from which you could extract a still pulsating heart to appease the giant ball of fiery gas that could make or break harvests and tans. The Sun, ever the attention-seeker, didn’t mind. In fact, it quite enjoyed the praise.
It gavee life to everything you see and you can feel its warmth on your skin, and – in exchange – it only demanded that a ribcage or two were cracked open like a walnut she’ll at Christmas time, every now and again. It sounds like a toxic relationship, but these were different times. The good old days.
Then, as history often does, it got complicated. Along came a chap, no less that on the day of the Dies Natalis Solis Invicti – or the “birthday of the invincible Sun” – on December 25th, and said “Why are you all celebrating the Sun? Today is Jesus’s birthday! Always has been! I mean, not always, maybe, but, you know…” and suddenly, the Sun’s big day was overshadowed by someone else’s birthday. The audacity of it all! After millennia of being the center of attention, the Sun was unceremoniously shoved aside by a bearded carpenter, a man who wouldn’t have known a solstice if it slapped him across the face.
A man so obviously less powerful than the Sun. And the Sun knew it well. You can’t stare at the Sun for more than a second, you can stare at a crucifix until you fall asleep, because there are sunglasses, not Jesusglasses. There are solar panels, not Christ panels. The Sun gives you skin’s cancer, Jesus cannot cure it.
There’s simply no context.
At first, it didn’t seem so bad. The Sun still got some mention in passing, perhaps as a metaphor or a glowing reference in a sermon or two. But no hearts were ripped from ribcages to praise it. It was simply no way to live. But the Sun wasn’t the type to forget a slight. Slowly, over the centuries, a subtle resentment began to simmer. Instead of openly confronting the problem—perhaps sending a few angry rays to scorch the city of Rome—the Sun took a far more calculated approach. It did what all truly passive-aggressive entities do: it started to make life uncomfortable, just enough to make you think. It was a slow burn. Literally. Every year, a fraction of a degree warmer. “Oh look, still no sacrifices, let me turn up the thermostat!”
Cli-click.
Minor heatwave here, a summer that was just a little hotter there. It wasn’t immediately noticeable. People simply chalked it up to “weather patterns” or “human activity”—foolishness, of course, because we all know that nothing in the cosmos happens without some sort of celestial motive behind it. The Sun, with all its solar flare and fiery bravado, was sending a message.
Eventually, things heated up. Politicians, ever the experts in obfuscation, began blaming either climate change or telling us that global warming was a myth. Meanwhile, the Sun, content to let its heat rise a degree or two every year, sat back and chuckled.
Like that chap at the office that keeps cranking up the heat until everyone else starts sweating bullets and looks at each other wondering who is going to say something. And still, we didn’t sacrifice even a chipmunk to the Sun.
And so, in a rather quiet and entirely undignified fashion, the Sun exacted its revenge. Each year, another degree. The ice caps melted.
The Sun is reminding us, one degree at a time, that it would not be ignored.
No one likes a birthday party hijacker, and the Sun was no exception. But instead of an all-out tantrum, it’s decided to take the long game approach.
Now that we finally realised we’re all sweating buckets under the Sun’s unrelenting glare, it is too late to send an apology card.
Am I suggesting that we should bring back human sacrifices?
Yes.
That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. After all, what’s the point of being all-powerful if no one’s paying attention?
Becks couldn’t tell what annoyed her more: being the human who finally made first contact with a race of superior aliens or having to work despite this.
She could remember her abduction, a combination of a spaceship that underwhelmingly looked like a cyan FIAT 126 crossing her path and a violent impact. As she lay on the road that would lead her to the corner shop, her mind had time to register the embarrassment of being splayed on the tarmac in a hoodie, tracksuit pants and flip-flops. Then the cyan 126 hovered above her and – under its chassis – a passage shaped like a doorframe opened, a rectangle of blinding white light breaking up the dark colouring of the car’s underbelly. And when – stereotypically – she was tractor-beamed across its threshold, she found herself standing upright in a very posh office, way bigger than logic would expect from the interior of such a small vehicle. Mahogany wooden floor, walls and a desk of the same material. The only accent of colour, strongly contrasting the room, came from two bright yellow upholstered wingback chairs.
The room was very well lit, despite a lack of windows, by a series of chandelier-shaped lamps hanging on the walls.
She took a step forward and twisted her ankle, “Fuck…” she muttered, as she looked down: she was now wearing a pastel pink power suit and black heeled shoes.
She couldn’t walk on heels and she hated it.
“Ms. Rebecca Stafford?” A voice that sounded like five different children with a Scandinavian accent talking in chorus made her jump out of her skin.
She looked towards the voice.
On one of the chairs – empty just a moment ago – sat the most singular being Becks had ever seen. Clad in a blue suit with pineapple prints all over and a yellow shirt, there was a scrawny… man? His face looked gray / greenish and gills were intermittently opening behind his ears. On his face there was a pair of those joke glasses, the one with a fake nose, eyebrows, and ‘stache incorporated, and the lenses were covered by some cardbox with very badly drawn eyes upon it. The top of the head was covered by a bald cap.
The hands were hidden by blue latex gloves, of which several fingers were obviously empty. Around the midriff of the suit, something kept flopping under the clothes.
Becks stared at the figure with ping pong ball-shaped eyes and a slackened jaw until he repeated: “Rebecca Stafford?”
“Y…Yeah…”
“Rebecca! I am Bobby! I just want to say congratulations! You’ve been selected for a very exciting business opportunity!”
“Okay, sorry… No offence but…”
As she stammered some excuse to turn down whatever scam this creature was trying to pull on her, Becks slowly moved toward the door of white light she came from, keeping her eyes on a sprig of hair of the fake eyebrows that was stuck to the slimy skin just under the bald cap, but – as she turned to leave – she was confronted by the black mahogany wall.The door was gone, and they were boxed into the room.
“Hey… where is the, uhm…?”
“Rebecca.”
“Hm?”
“Why don’t you come here?”
Becks approached very slowly, both out of fear and because of her shoes.
“Here,” the four or five different voices of the creature named Bobby said, kindly, as one of the mostly empty gloves pushed a tall glass of water towards her.
Rebecca looked suspicious. As if in answer to that, the strange man said “I mean… why would I spike your drink? I’ve already abducted you.”
Becks shrugged at this and accepted the glass. “Thanks?” she said, confused, but kindly.
“Rebecca, you’ve been selected to represent your species in what is probably the biggest court case in your history. I think. Well, either way, it’ll look good on your CV.”
“My species?”
“Gonna explain something to you real quick. Rebecca, do you know what sea-monkeys are?”
Becks was blank for a few second. From when the weird flying 126 had hit her to now had only passed, what? A couple of minutes? And in that short period of time, the amount of absurd stuff she had to process was so enormous, that – after a few beats – her brain just decided not to process it. To stage a strike. So, she suddenly calmed down and decided against logic that what was definitely a non-human in a bad disguise asking her about sea-monkeys, of all things, was just another Thursday.
“Yeah, those weird prawns that come to life when you add water to them, aren’t they?”
Bobby was delighted, “Excellent!” he clapped his mostly-empty gloves, then pushed the joke-glasses up to his face.
“Well, brine shrimps, to be pedantic,” he carried on. “But still. See, you’re my client’s sea-monkeys,” he blurted out, letting a nervous laugh ending the sentence.
Becks looked at Bobby.
Bobby looked at Becks.
Bobby coughed to break the silence. It didn’t work.
“May I call you Becca?” He tried.
“No, I prefer Becks.”
“I see. Well, Becks, would you like to take a seat and a sip of that water?”
Becks nodded, plopped on the yellow armchair and took a gulp from the glass without moving her eyes from the indefinite spot she was staring at without blinking.
“Is there anything you’d like to say about what I just told you, Becks?”
“Well…”
“Yeeees?”
“When you say you, do you mean I am your client’s sea monkey, or all of humanity?”
“All of humanity. I did say Sea monkeys, plural.”
“That’s true, sorry.”
“Not a problem.”
“Ok, soooo… all of humanity is one individual’s pet?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Right.”
“I’m glad you took it so well,” Bobby beamed, ignoring the fact that Becks’ eyes had never moved from the spot on the wall they were staring at nor blinked.
“BLOODY WHAAAAATT??” Becks snarled, suddenly.
“Well, I thought you guys would have understood, by now, that you haven’t originated on planet Earth?”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about? Planet Earth has the perfect conditions for our species!”
“Does it?”
“Duh!”
“Well, think about it: the planet has temperatures that range between minus eighty something and plus fifty something degrees Celsius, and you guys are only happy between seventeen and twenty-five-ish. Not to mention that seventy percent of the planet surface is covered in water that you cannot inhabit nor drink.”
“Yes, b- but…”
“BUT!” Bobby interrupted Becks’ stammer, “it’s good that you think that Earth is a suitable habitat for your species.” He concluded with a smile that threatened to dislodge the fake nose, which was promptly pushed back on the fish-like face.
“Snack?” one glove pushed a bowl of fish flake food towards Becks. When she shook her head, Bobby shrugged, scooped some of the food and fed it to the inside of his shirt collar. His midriff flopped squishably.
“Are you a bunch of fish in a suit?”
“A school of fish.”
Becks raised a warning eyebrow, so Bobby answered the question with a sigh: “We find that species are more comfortable dealing with representatives that look like them.”
Becks looked at the pulsating gills on Bobby’s neck. “I see,” she said.
“Hang on,” she carried on, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, “why is it good that I think Earth to be a suitable habitat for us? What is this biggestcourtcaseofourhistory you mentioned?”
“Oh well, it’s just that the UG has sued my client for animal cruelty…” Bobby trailed off.
“The UG?”
“The United Galaxies.”
“Right. And we are the animal who’s been mistreated.”
“Yes, we mean no offence by that.”
“None taken. So…?”
“So, my client has sent me here because we’d like you to officially agree that humanity has been taken care of in the best way possible and that my client doesn’t need to make any further arrangements moving forward.”
“Well… Society is a bit fucked up at the minute, and the planet is dying… so.”
“I’m confident we can get to an agreement.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, I do hate this part,” Bobby said, grabbing a heavy tome from next to his upholstered chair and dropping it open on the relevant section, on the sleek wood of the desk, “but as per interstellar law, we’re bound to conduct a good faith negotiation with a qualified member of the species…”
“I… I am the qualified…? And… and this is the good faith…?”
“Exactly! But you see, during the negotiation, the parties have no duty of care towards each other, and my client, unfortunately, does own the oxygen present in your atmosphere…” the fishes making up Bobby’s body made a sound like they were sucking air through their teeth, as if they were sorry to say that.
“Your client owns the oxygen? And… what? They’re just gonna take it?”
“Between you and I, you’re much better off just making a deal with my client.”
“But… how is this a negotiation? We’re going to die! Our planet is frying, our resources are running out! The ones in power aren’t giving us healthcare but are building space hotels…”
“Yeah, but that’s symptomatic of your society…”
“Society must be changed, then!”
“Also, we have to do this within today.”
“WHAT??”
“If an agreement isn’t achieved by end of business hours today, the case is dismissed.”
“Listen, I can’t do this… I do traffic tickets, why pick me?”
“We’d love a signed agreement immediately.”
“Oh God… You didn’t pick me because I am a good lawyer. I bet that you could pick anybody, as long as they’re technically qualified…”
“There were a lot of moving parts that our team had to consider…”
“You’re taking advantage of a loophole!” Becks stood up in the excitement, a finger pointing at Bobby.
“And it’s only good business to do so.”
An awkward silence suddenly exploded inside the room. Becks let herself fall back into the chair. She kicked the heeled shoes off her feet.
“You know…sometimes… You feel like you’re rubbish at your job. But – you know – then you tell yourself: ohno, you’rejustdepressed, therehastobesomeoneworseoutthere. I also have PMT today, this is really not the right time for me to realise this.”
“May I offer you a chocolate hash brownie? Is it too early for your species to do drugs?”
Becks looked at the clock above Bobby’s head. It said 9.29 am.
“It’s late enough,” she muttered. Bobby brought her a hash brownie.
As she chewed, Bobby tried to console her: “Oh come on, I’m sure it is just a coincidence you’ve been chosen. Maybe this is not your field, but I’m sure you’re good in what you do.”
Becks smiled a sad smile: “Well… I win sometimes…”
“You see?”
“Mainly when the cop doesn’t bother to show up… gotta love a no show!”
“See? Celebrate your victories!” Bobby cheered, pawing another fistful of fish food down his collar, as Becks finished her hash brownie.
For the next forty minutes or so, Bobby compiled the agreement that was to be signed by Becks, involving her in the process, though she only contributed to the conversation with groans.
Suddenly, her pupils grew very large, like a cat’s when focusing on a prey.
“Let me see that,” she said, grabbing the book Bobby had dropped on the desk.
“Hey, just a minute…” Bobby tried to protest.
Becks ignored him, instead making noises with her mouth as she hovered her finger above the page looking for something, until: “Here it is!! Whendisputingthesuitabilityofahabitat, thedefendingparty – that’s your client, he has been sued by the UG – willhavetherighttoahearingin the jurisdiction of said habitat. That’s Earth. You’re the representative, but your client has to actually be here to get a deal signed.”
“Well, I represent them…” Bobby said, but the squishy noise grew louder from inside his suit.
“And we must come to an agreement before the end of business today, you said. Earlier, you also said that you were sent here by your client. I take it they’re not local?”
“Well, they’re not in the galaxy, at the minute… some important business had to be taken care of…”
“And how long would it take them to come here to sign the agreement?”
“In Earth’s days?”
“In Earth’s days?”
“Please.”
A massive sigh escaped Bobby’s gills and after a long pause, his voices croacked: “About six thousands years.”
“A no show!!!” Becks jumped from the chair, both fists held up high in celebration.
Bobby shouted his frustration at losing the case, tentacles erupting from his collar, sleeves and from under his jacket.
Becks recoiled in horror.
Then he recomposed himself, “Sorry, that was very unprofessional of me. Congratulations on a successful negotiation. You’ll have to email the UG with the changes that you’d like for my client to apply to your planet. I’ll give you their email address.”
*
A few months later, Becks received the following email from the UG:
“Dear Rebecca Stafford,
We’ve reviewed the changes you’ve requested to your own natural habitat.
They were the following:
1) TV programs are not to invite as guests populist politicians. Alternatively, do not invite populist politicians equipped with mouths.
2) Both religious and secular authorities can wear funny costumes only during Carnival or on Halloween, exactly like everybody else.
3) All racists must become the ethnicity they hate. For white people hating black people, this will not extend to their penises.
4) Any person believing in a deep state can use the term “they” to indicate the hypothetical, evil, secret masters who control everything only the same amount of times they use the same term to refer to a non-binary person. If they run out of uses for the term “they,” the believers in the deep state will have to refer to the evil masterminds as “magic meanies.”
5) Whoever kneels to accept a knighthood from a royal figure anywhere in the world, won’t be allowed to stand up again.
6) Every singer, poet, and writer will be allowed to use the word “love” up to ninety-nine times. At the 100th use of the word, they’ll be punished by execution.
7) All of those who will try to convert other people to any religion using the phrase “It’s impossible that the perfect beauty of the universe was just random and not the creation of a divine mind” will be instantly infested with the taenia solium, colloquially known as the pork tapeworm, so that they can observe the perfect beauty created by the divine mind of their god from up close.
8) Every time a person will try to convince a person who isn’t their partner and didn’t ask for advice to have children, a kid from foster care will be immediately dispatched to their living room for them to parent for life. This will be repeated for every unsolicited sentence such as “Who will look after you when you’re old?” or “You will love kids when you’ll have yours.”
9) Every person who listens to music or watches videos loudly in public will get a pair of headphones welded to their ears.
10) For intellectual honesty, every video or program about UFO, ghosts, or miraculous apparitions, will have to feature a laughter track.
11) Every worker working for a business that they don’t own and votes right wing must have their wishes immediately granted: halved salary, sixty weekly hours, unpaid overtime, and two white hot pins in their nipples.
12) Deflect the orbit of the asteroid Apophis on Prince Andrew.
13) Every cliché, spoken or written, will cost £13 per letter.
14) All national anthems must be played with the anus.
15) Every man who puts his hands on a colleague, even “as a joke,” and even on “innocent” places such as arms, back, shoulders, or hips, will become fluorescent yellow for a week.
16) When someone is delivering a homily, a lecture, or any moral-ish sermon, a number of how many times they’ve masturbated in their life will flash above their heads. This is to maintain the right perspective.
These possible changes are pending reviews and the process will take between six and nine Earth’s decades.
You will be notified with the outcome as soon as one is reached.
I know that many of you think my generation (I’m a pensioner) had everything handed to us on a plate. And although we had very different struggles from your generation, it by no way means I’m not willing to impart my life-learned knowledge to a bunch of youngsters who have never had it so good. That’s right, we can all see your free Wi-Fi and cavorting around with that gender fluid. All sounds rather mucky to me! What is a free Wi-Fi anyway? (I pronounce it Wiffy) Is it a cocktail? Anyhoo… back to my main point.
Thanks to the cost-of-living crisis this winter I nearly froze and starved to death. But did I complain? No, I did not. In fact, had I been found alone and frozen as rigid as the lovely Suella Braverman’s policies on immigration, I would have just accepted my lot in life. I always have, even when our hero Mrs Thatcher broke the unions and my husband Terry died of a stroke in his 30s due to the kicking he got off the rozzers on a picket line. Them’s the breaks. We didn’t fight two wars to have such freedoms taken from us. Had the worst come to the worst this winter (As it so often does for voters like me) I even asked my dear neighbour Brian to speak at my funeral, and say something along the lines of, “Although it was sad that Jean was found frozen solid and starved to death this winter, as a true-blue Conservative and Patriot, it’s what she would have wanted.”
So, with that in mind, I’ve decided to put a list of things that you young people can do to help with the cost of living. Let’s face it you don’t want to die during a cost-of-living crisis because funerals are expensive. And yes, some of my tips do include getting rid of Netflix. Honestly, I don’t even know why you need the fancy telly when BritBox has episodes of The Nazi War Machine or Ms Marple on a 24/7 loop.
Here goes…
1.Free food can be found in unusual places. Now here’s a proper treat for lovers of foreign foods. They’re not for me as I have a delicate palate, but I know you young ones like diversity. Get your hand down the back of the couch and what do you find? That’s right! Bombay mix. My couch seems to be full of the stuff. Nobody has any idea why our furniture is full of this exotic treat. It’s probably a hangover from the Empire and all the folk we invited over. But I reckon there’s enough Bombay Mix in your average couch to feed a family of four for a fortnight. You’re most welcome.
2.Money saving tip number two. It’s that time of year again that few of us can really afford. The kids want toys and your relatives have already started posting you gifts. But you’ve got no money to reciprocate. So what do you do? Hide! That’s right, when Yuletide comes around you must hide at Christmas time. This one’s very simple, you get in the cupboard, get under the bed, and leave a note to family and loved ones saying “I’ve gone to Panama for a bit to check my offshore accounts. We’ll exchange gifts at a later date.” Then you come out a month later, and your loved ones will be so relieved to see you’re still alive that the whole gifts thing will be forgotten about. Bob’s you’re uncle money in the bank. Good-oh. We’re getting on a roll now.
3.Tip number three. Give yourself a skinhead. It’s actually quite a popular look these days, especially among many of my best friends. It particularly suits Nancy who runs the Croydon division of the women’s guild, although she might be stretching it a bit with the facial tattoos. Obviously, this saves lots of money on barbers, most of whom are Turkish these days anyway and you definitely want to avoid that lot. You can even do it with a sharpened shell or just rip it out at the roots. Considering how stressed we all are trying to understand pronouns as fancy as “they” and all these newfangled things, some of you may already be doing exactly that.
4.Tip four. Recycling is always important, but have you considered recycling your own urine? Now, as long as you’ve got access to a tap, and I appreciate some private renters may not, but as long as most of you have access to a tap then that gives you access to an unlimited supply of urine. And kidney stones, if you’re in London. But with the 65 million quid our NHS seems to getting everyday, having them removed will be a piece of cake, surely. As the planet slowly turns into a blazing inferno, water bills are only going to go up. If you ask me access to free water is actually Communism gone mad. It’s time we kicked such stuff back into line. So, here’s the solution, recycle and drink your own urine. Probably best not to drink the first wee of the day as that one may be a little bit tangy.
So there we have it. Please do join me again next week when I’ll be writing about immigrants and showing appreciation for the sadly bygone times of when our Empire went around to bring civilization to other people.
Cantankerous Cockerel 