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.
About Brain of Britain, again
17 hours ago