1^st January 2017

After my traditional New Year’s Eve celebration of cycling over to Noel Edmonds’ house and pushing butter through his letterbox until he called the police, I awoke on the first day of 2017 to the sound of pickled eggs. I smiled, safe in the knowledge that the pickled eggs’ sweet song meant that this year’s harvest would be a bountiful one, and no sacrifice would be necessary.

    I bounded downstairs, straightening my wall-mounted pictures of startled voles as I went, only to find that my kitchen had been transformed into a picturesque view of Aberystwyth while I slept. I didn’t know what to say.

    In the afternoon, I read a book which I quickly became bored of, only realising after six hours that I’d actually been staring at a piece of toast the whole time.

    I spent my evening suspended by balloons while listening to Throbbin’ Robin, Robin Gibb’s solo album of saucy ballads.

    Eventually, sleep stole over me like some kind of sunless twat.