I'm dreaming of fish 'n' chips. I don't like fish 'n' chips. The smell is making me feel sick.
I wake up. Not fully awake so my drug addled mind (um, low dose tranquilisers) is not thinking logically, I've got this great idea for a sketch. It's so funny, in my half awake state, I'm almost laughing in bed at 6 a.m.
Morrissey is back in Manchester. He gets on a bus. At the back sits an old friend.
Old Friend: Morrissey! What brings you round these parts?
Morrissey: I've been promoting my new range of chilled ready meals, mate. Sausage & mash. Meat & potato pie. Fish 'n' chips.
Old Friend: Ooh, I love fish 'n' chips.
Morrissey: Me too, mate. They're me favourites. You'd love my fish 'n' chips. A moist, succulent loin of cod, fancifully fried in a light, golden batter; crisp, chunky chips drizzled with balsamic vinegar; all served with a generous side portion of mushy peas. Pucker, mate. Bloody pucker.
Old Friend: Ain't it hard to get hold of cod nowadays, though?
Morrissey: Murder, mate. Bloody murder.
The alarm goes off and jerks me out of my reverie. The working day starts here and heaven knows I'm miserable now.
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