It would appear that this long dry spell of unemployment is finally coming to an end. I have a new job as a candidate for UKCP – the UK Co-Dependence Party. Unlike most political parties, UKCP’s platform is one of proud emotional dysfunction. We campaign for the country’s requirements to be placed as a lower priority to those of other countries, due to an excessive preoccupation with putting the needs of others before ourselves.
Driven by a core pledge of low self-esteem, Britain over time – as governed by UKCP – will drive away its European partners by repeatedly texting to ask if they still love us, accusing them of negotiating trade deals with other countries behind our backs, over-analysing every little treaty, and going out to discos with Iceland to make them feel jealous.
Eventually, Brussels will have little choice but to declare Britain no longer part of the European Union. At this point, we shall threaten to blow ourselves up with nuclear weapons unless they take us back.
Well, that didn’t last long. I’ve had to resign from my post as a candidate for UKCP, following my disastrous attempts to stage a “Co-Dependency Carnival” in Brixton. I took to a podium, and – while speaking in a cheery, Jamaican accent, dressed in a leopard skins, and beating out a steady rhythm on a large, tribal-style drum - I balanced the tricky task of reassuring passing voters that I was “fine”, while being visibly terrified that they might secretly hate me.
For some reason, not a single person agreed to vote for us – not even when I repeatedly offered them tea and cake, regardless of whether they wanted it or not, and chased them down the street shouting that I was going to wrap my lips around a bus exhaust pipe, and asphyxiate myself, unless they pledged their support.
I am taking something of a career break following my disastrous entry into politics. Adhering to the old adage that ‘healthy body begets a healthy mind’ I have decided to go on a juice fast. Unfortunately, the most immediate consequence of this new diet is the most profoundly explosive diarrhea I have ever suffered. My doctor tells me that this sort of extreme diarrhoea, or “diarrhoea 360”, is also known as “brownaround”.
At any given moment, my sphincter will pout and open like the iris of some pink-eyed kraken, emitting a flock of soggy, sepia doves, the rough shade and texture of fluorescent Weetabix. Last night I couldn’t flush my lavatory fast enough, and resorted to sleeping in the bath with the shower running. At one point, my neighbours called the police as they thought somebody was being murdered. Unable to move enough to answer the door, the police were forced to smash their way in, only to be confronted with my clammy, shivering, weeping, form slithering around on all fours.
I had a brief respite this morning, so paid a visit to Primark to buy some new underwear, trousers, socks and shoes. But while browsing the footwear I felt the sudden rumbling of Old Faithful in my abdomen. I had no choice but to emit a gallon of this so-called “Mahogony Niagra” into the hood of an anorak. When confronted by a shopworker, I had to pretend to have spilled a flask of French onion soup in there. Worse still, due to a misunderstanding I later checked myself into an Ibis Hotel, and ended up with a bill of £500 for damage to their lobby carpet and an elevator. It turns out there’s no such thing as an IBS Hotel.
I have tried everything to stop the gushing, from plugging the leak with a small boxing glove, to Super Glue and Velcro fasteners, to filtering it away using a complex system of wearable aqueducts and latrines. Regrettably, in the words of Jeff Goldblum, “Nature always finds a way”.