Richard Littlejohn

in an attempt to not do any work, i've decided to write a story about Richard littlejohn (a columist for the daily mail whos not unlike commander whatshisname from V for Vendetta who shouts at the telly). i read his column for the first time today, and this is what i assme he looks like, aswell as has for breakfast. in short, a childish poke at some big ol' twat.

  Richard Littlejohn wakes up every day at 6.30. it's time for his breakfast.

Richard Littlejohn is not, despite his attitude, not 100% british  - his father was, in actual fact, a Romanian Music-box built into the side of a Merry-go-round - which makes him only 1/3 brit, 1/3 romanian and 1/3 amusement park.

Richard Littlejohn doesn't eat breakfast like you or me. he has to wind himself up like an alarm clock. though he doesn't use a normal winding screw - he goes out into the early morning air and finds three stray cats. when he gets home, he crushes the unfortunate moggies between his hands into a messy powder, a mix of cat-dust and blood, and rubs it into his palms fiendishly.

  then the winding begins. this usually takes 2 hours. at six thirty, he looks like you or me (well, not me. or you, for that matter) but he looks at least human-ish.

  during those two hours he undergo's a change from his usual appearance. his top teeth start to grind up and down in their gums, lke pistons on a giant machine, before changing into colourful metal xylophone blocks. his bottom teeth, which have by now grown into small hammers with round rubber ends, start to chime melodically against the top set. his fingers, which are no longer chubby bone but small brass horns of varying lengh, toot out in time with the zylophone.

  in his sockets, his eyes swivel two and fro, swinging side to side like billiard balls. they mist over, and turn into clear glass orbs, each containing a beautifully crafted match-stick roundabout horse, rearing up in terror, a look of shock and fear swept across its gracefull features.

  across his usually sweaty forhead the words HELP US scar into the skin, backwards, in that traditional font that he uses to haunt the nightmares of children aged five and up.

  his torso rounds, the skin stretching across his bones, and his organs shift to the side, so that he is completely hollow. six of his ribs (three on each side) break out of the skin, and, like his bottom teeth, turn into drumsticks, which beat out a constant thrum, thrum, similar to the thrum of a headache after a joyfull night on the town.

  with his transformation into a music box nearly complete, the melodies mould together to create a haunting cover or the Magic roundabout theme played backwards. with this, his legs start to spin violently, until he becomes a large, music blaring draidle, spinning wildly about the room, arms flailing uselessly like streamers off a child's bycicle handles. a shriek of violin bows start to burst form his mouth, dodging the hammers, and rip out a jaunty tune across his dry, blistered lips.

  with this, he spins into the street, uncontrollably tearing through walls, bins and any other obstacle, before vanishing into shadows and crawling away, like a descovered spider hidden behind a door.

and that concluded Richard Littlejohn's breakfast.

i suppose i should get back to the essay now...