When I awoke this morning, instead of the usual rousing from a fitful sleep of dreams of happier times and climes and groggily becoming conscious of the banal horror of my empty existence, I had an idea: I could become a sugar daddy. YEAH – someone with the suave older man look of, say, Blake Carrington, who swishes about Monaco in a Masserati and camel-hair coat and who lavishes his millions on some 20-something know-nothing bint at Swiss finishing school. Now that’s something to aim for.
Now I might be some years off being the right age, and several million short of the requireds, but that’s the point of planning ahead. But! In any case, that’s not my plan, cos I’m devotedly married to Mrs Tudge, to whom I proposed (again!), this time with this wonderful idea: I could be her sugar daddy … to which she said ‘nah’, or ‘nee’, or ‘haddaway ‘n shite, man.’
Well let’s just say I’m disappointed. That was a bonfire that could have taken down the Amazon, but out it’s gone with an almighty hiss, hosed upon from above by a Victoria Falls’ worth of piss.