The Tears of a Clown

It's quiet.  The chief clown is sat in a now dark and empty negotiating room.  There's a quiet holographic video of Les Dawson playing carney music in the corner of the room using all the wrong notes not necessarily in the wrong order.  The spattered walls and ceiling is marbled with sweet cream, strawberry sauce and smashed bits of flan.    

The clown slowly reaches up, pushes through the cream fondant and with a pop pulls the red nose off his down turned face.  His eyes are tired and smothered with chocolate sauce as though brown tears have started to form.  His white gloved hand drops into his lemon curd covered lap.  His pinched fingers slowly open and the red nose drops with a plop into the custard coloured snowscape that blankets the room.  He slowly looks up and eyes his wonky unicycle in the corner.  

The BREXIT negotiations are done.  There's not a smile to be seen anywhere in any of the European parliament's circus rings.  Slapstick has been used to the point where arses on both sides of the negotiating table still glow red like a troop of baboons bums.  The public have watched remotely from afar; only being given glimpses of the side show by a plethora of media monkeys through the small gaps in Brussels big top's hard canvassed walls.  

Barny, er, the French Clown come repetitive mime artist, approaches the TV cameras and says, "ze clock is no longer ticking".  The silence in the room is only broken by a powered camera shutter clicking with a slow 'ha - ha - ha - ha - ha' ..  He's a proper clown that one.  But the deal is done.  The migration of the clowns commences; like a herd of unicycle riding wildebeests with sore arses roaming a custard covered veldt.  It's gonna be a long wobbly ride home for Christmas should the cheese eating surrender monkeys deem it possible this Christmas eve. 

Somehow 1246 pages of a pristine and clean binder bound trade agreement has arisen.  I suspect purely as a result of an infinite number of government monkeys randomly tapping on an infinite number of keyboards.  Then attaching the random content to an infinite number of custard pies for the delectation of the clowns in their negotiating slap fest.  Somehow it has all come together.  I'll let the mathematicians work that one out.  

I'm sat watching TV.  The crap news has stopped.  Nothing is scheduled anymore.  The 6 o'clock news has gone.  It's absent and as dead as a BREXIT shaped parrot pushing up the daisies.   

There's nothing to report apparently, save for our man Frank; a septuagenarian Eddie the Eagle type full of energy and non-stop chatter, now single handed rowing across the Atlantic with his flat cap on.  They interview his wife of over 50 years who beams as though she's so happy that there is now peace and quiet in her life.  Cept for the 3 times daily satellite call from her soon to become fish food of a husband.  She says he is in good spirits as normal but says the wind is against him.  The crap Meteogroup weather forecasters are tracking his progress and the Atlantic weather patterns and report that he will definitely make it to the Caribbean some time in spring.   Of course, they're wrong again.  He'll for sure make landfall in the Falkland Islands somewhere about Christmas 2021.

I've eaten all that there is to eat.  Christmas at home for a bikeless fat man is bad news.  Dinner to feed the five thousand somehow appeared on the table and being that I like a challenge I polished off about three thousand peoples worth of it.  I cannot now move for fear of doing a rather good impression of Mr Creosote after swallowing the final wafer thin mint.  

TV is crap.  I'm forever turning down the volume and flipping up and down the electronic programme guide trying as best I can to find something, anything better than reading the labels on shampoo bottles whilst sat on the bog.  I accidentally drop into an advert.  Of slim women trying to sell body stocking's to over bloated Christmas refugees.  I fall off the sofa laughing at the thought of the tight squeeze into such a contraption and the sudden expansion of arses and tits as though looking at a flabby Christmas balloon being gripped by a firm hand as women let go of the elastic for the first time.  And with a slap, the sudden appearance of black eyes for sure will quickly follow as ones tits are thrust up and out into the un-elasticated space above.  I'm slapped in the face every time I put my lycra cycling shorts on so yeah ladies, be careful, I know!

A review is done of the heroes of the year.  Captain Tom looks quite ill.  The media and news outlet bloodsuckers are slowly taking him to pieces.  Like the cakes just eaten everybody wants a slice of that man.  He's done his duty.  On more than one occasion.  He is 100 now for God's sake.  It's time to let the man live in peace before he is forced by the cake slicing bloodsuckers that are now drawn to his withering carcass to rest in peace.  

Great news.  The vaccinations have started.  Again the UK takes the lead globally.  It's what we are good at.  The EU controllers in Brussels demand a start of vaccinations across the bloc but all must start at the same time.  They're all lined up.  Another French sponsored countdown clock loudly ticks in the background.   There's a day to go.  On your Marks, get set! ....and the Germans are off before the repurposed Belgianic chocolate 'n custard pie gun goes poop!  No-one tries to call them back.  Again the Germans take a head start over Austria, Poland and the Netherlands.  Here we go again.

I look down the sofa and over the belly mountain at my prone slob of a body.  Yeah, things are starting to feel tight again.  I still have just over a year left on my EHIC card so I need to start to plan and train for the ride to Vienna next year, Covid allowing.  It's very cold and wet outside.  My testicles shiver in anticipation of a hard frosty ride out and I fear the onset of hiccoughs again should they decide to retreat quickly into their rooms.  So I hastily reassure them that no, not right now boys.  Don't worry yersens today.  

I glimpse across the room and see the magnetic trainer in a far corner of the house.  It's an ugly bitch yet it still looks over it's shoulder with come hither eyes in an attempt to encourage me into another sweat fest of a ride.  Oh dear.  Get up Wayne, close your eyes, put on your elasticated underwear and think of England.

It's time to go for a ride.

Ciao