Sunday.

I hate Sundays.

All the good shops are shut. The pubs close at funny times. Harry Secombe is shown singing on the TV at Tea Time (even though Harry Secombe was declared illegal in most civilised countries ten years ago)

Never mind. I finish off my emergency vodka supply and eat the solidified, half eaten donner kebab thats lying in the sink. Some people would call me gross, I think I'm just ecological.

I flick through the channels on the TV and decided to watch 'Pro-celebrity farming'. Ten minutes later and the competition is hotting up.

Terry Wogan has got a nice little crop of potatoes growing in his wig, Bob Hope is struggling to clear up after the pig had an accident and Shaun Connery has shot 33 Russian spies who were cunningly disguised as horses. (and they say I have flash backs....) (see note 1)

"What to do now" I ask myself (out loud, in German, trying to sound like J F Kennedy did when he declared himself to be a doughnut that time in Berlin)

I flick through my copy of "1001 Ways to Entertain Yourself on a Sunday"

Ah ah, Number 529 :-

"Many people find Sundays ideal for completing those little DIY jobs around the home. Do you need some new shelves ? How about a jacuzzi? I'll bet the front door would really benefit from one of those fake carriage lights next to it !"

OK, DIY it is. I grab my tools.

One rusty junior hacksaw. Three large flat blade screwdrivers. One pair of industrial bolt cutters with bits of someones nose sticking to the jaws (he'll never call me "Psycho" again....He he he....) One slightly blood stained axe (I wish I could remember how it got that way. Maybe one of the neighbours borrowed it .....?)

Well, the jacuzzi is out (Well I do live in Britain...I'm mad, but not that mad) I still hav'nt filled my existing shelves yet (my collection of used nose hairs is not quite complete as yet)

Sod it. I'm off for a walk. I open the door and blink rapidly as the search light hits my eyes.

"OK, we know you're in there" shouts the over amplified voice. "Come out with a frozen chicken on your head and a green banana up each nostril"

(I've been wondering about this new police tactic. I mean, what happened to the days when all you had to do was put your hands on your head and let a large policeman fondle your genitals ? Now they have to humiliate you. I suppose thats what happens when you let your children watch 'Beadles About' and 'Candid Camera')

I throw myself back through the door and bolt all sixty-five dead bolts.

"You have 60 seconds to surrender yourself or we send in the Attack Rabbit"

Oh s---. Not the attack rabbit. Those genetic monsters will hump anything !

"I hav'nt done anything" I yell through the letter box

"You told the Green Golf Ball Joke in public" Comes the savage reply. "You must be punished. You know what that joke can do in public"

So, they discovered my plan to bring humanity down to my level through careful use of the GGBJ. They'll never take me alive.

I strip of my clothes and climb the chimney. The searchlight lights up my goosepimpled body as I begin to throw petrol bombs on to the watching crowd.

Then I remember.....

I'm sitting at a terminal, in a darkened room. Tapping away at the keys. I remember when I used to believe that attending an American University would improve my mind.

But then I discovered the News Server and my dreams were dashed on the rocky pit of Internet. Maybe I'll recover.

Maybe I'll just sit in my Paranoid fantasy, flaming the unbelievers and making a total, graphic tit of myself in front of the entire civilised world.

Note 1:- Terry Wogan is a horrible little Irish man who used to be on the BBC. He used to hideously annoy great stars of TV film and Music by touching their knees and wearing a crap wig. He was replaced a number of months ago with a new soap opera that proves bad acting should be a hanging offence. The irony is that the BBC will sell it to the American Networks and the Americans will think it's brilliant.

Check out the rest of ". . . And Still The Moon"