I am not the walrus.

Today I sat in a cafe, opposite what I can only describe as a f*cking walrus.

If it had have been an actual walrus, at least I would have been able to enjoy the relatively surreal experience of sharing an eatery with an enormous aquatic mammal. Possibly even lobbed it a fish. Or something.

Unfortunately this walrus was just a man.

The kind of man whose enormous purple face had been impressively fat for so long, that the various folds of skin and ruckled troughs had developed a kind of ruddy patina, simply from grinding sweatily against each other.

He was furiously eating  a plate of utter sh!t.

I think it was an orange and yellow ejaculation of breakfast.

I think the baked beans were on the fried egg. FFS.

Anyway, he was a disgracefully big, fat horse of a bastard and what’s worse was that he had the table manners of a open wound. Instead of putting food into his impossibly massive HEADFACE, he kind of threw it in, as if the fork wasn’t able to go into the last inch of airspace in front of his f*cking awful gob.

Instead of closing his mouth to chew, like a normal fat one, he kind of toothf*cked his oily dinner into a rough paste, then tilted his head back to let gravity ease it lovingly down into his insides. I guess because the act of swallowing, itself, would constitute some form of exercise for this FAT CASTLE.

There is no punchline, just a fat man who’ll probably soon be buried. In a skip.

I had a cup of tea.