No, My Name isn’t Big Bird.

I am resigned to sitting at home, marinating in my own ineptitude, stuffing my face with obscene quantities of black forest gateau and pickled onion monster munch, accompanied by my ever-expanding big fat tub of lard arse, weeping at repeats of The Bachelor, whilst reminiscing over what could have been if only my inside leg measurement wasn’t 36 inches long.

Read more