Being Mr. Kenny

Getting out of bed has long been an arch-nemesis of mine. Is it just me, or does everyone feel like the undead when they manage, finally, to drag themselves from under the warm sanctuary of the duvet?

As if this horrible shock isn’t bad enough, you then have to go through further indignities before you can put it all behind you and get on with the day.

For instance, Chris Moyles. The radio wakes me up in the morning, and it is his voice which I hear first in the day. This really has to change! I’m thinking murderous thoughts anyway, towards all around me, but they converge particularly strongly on him. Worse is when he’s off for whatever reason, and they let that monkey Scott Mills out of his cage. He really ought to have been shot to protect the nation’s sanity a long time ago.

Next you have to go through the whole bathroom ritual. If it’s free, there is no hot water, and if there is, you have to shave. Shave! I hate shaving! It takes so long and the mirror is always misted up so you can’t see what you’re doing. Plus the razor goes from sharp to blunt over the course of a second, so you end up pushing harder then cutting yourself, and faces bleed for an eternity!

Once that is over you have to face breakfast. My stomach normally refuses, pointblank, to be fed in the morning, so I can only ever manage a banana. And have you noticed about bananas that eating them is ridiculous? If you chew them, they put up all the resistance of a wet paper towel so you feel a complete fool chewing the air, but if you try to swallow them whole, they become bricks in your throat.

And then you have to talk to people with your voice and brain — neither of which are working yet, so you sound like a crazed madman.

Still, I’ve just looked up and seen a rainbow, so maybe I should have hope.