Bustard Child


I am very excited. We will soon be able to *almost* swear in public for legitimate reasons- the Great Bustard is being re-introduced into Britain. Unlike most of the uncouth youth, I am deeply embarrassed when naughty words escape my mouth. I accidentally shouted “You fucking shitstained cunt” at a pregnant woman the other day when she made me giver her my seat. Now I will be able to spit expletives and not fel guilty.

The bird itself looks pretty stupid, I can see why they all got butchered. Looks like Pat Butcher to me.

"Yes I frickin' do!"

"Ere. who you calling a bustard" etc

I had a terrible dream last night. My mum sent me her head in a box, I presume as an ornament of some sort. I opened it and my initial joy was replaced by dread. “But you can’t have a spare head” I said to Esther in horror. Next scene- at my parents house. I am sick with grief. “Where is she?” I ask my dad shakily.

“In the loft” he points up to the top of the house. That’s where her body is stashed, with the dank papers and dust laden webs.

I start to sob. It;s one of those dreams where you wake up and you’ve been crying in real life.

I should have rung her today to check it wasn’t true. I presume dad would have let me know at some point if it was.

"Dear Mother, as promised 'how to get ahead in the music biz'. Yours, Thom"

Just had a phonecall from BBC’s Who Do You Think You Are. Apparently, their research shows that I am not the God of Hellfire, as I had previously thought. I must have ice cream.

"I Know Who I Aren't. Thanks for nothing"

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