TWIST MY MELON, MAN

Life is sweet. There has been notable uplift in the markets.

 

Before he shakes hands with any leader of Labour, the Governor of the Bank of London reaches inside his boxers and, in good faith mind, rubs the fingertips and palm of his right hand around the unclean ribbed head of his penis.

 

As for Trolley and Melon, their list of action points remains unchecked. Wrapped up in the glow of hashish and diazepam, the cool of the clearance outlet calls. There is an issue over their aroma, however, and they drift back out into the fried air, clutching their coffees to go from their last entrée into commercialism.

 

Melon has de-clunked the toilet door and emerged cleaner and fresher to relieve Trolley of his extra free coffee. The barista has had to capitulate. Two white filters on the house, so as to halt the build-up of human traffic behind Trolley, whose male gaze holds firm as he raps on the counter: two pieces of hard currency - a 100 peseta coin and an unspecified amount of zloty. He has maintained rigorous eye contact throughout.

 

His broad smile and firm fix of the pupils have done the job.

 

Melon has sploshed. His contribution to the dialogue is typically topical.

 

"Just my pits and bits, Troll. Won't be long, mate."

 

There is only so much Sanexcan do. Melon likes to make the most of every personal hygiene opportunity, now that climactic conditions have come home. Football is in the Adriatic for the time being.

 

"If that's my iced latte, can you go skinny with it?"

 

The head of light entertainment has had to intervene. There is panic on the streets of Finsbury. The Governor's remarks to a jittery, coked-up crew from the ECB, BBC and Children's ITV has led to a run on sterling. 

 

Melon has been spotted in the business section hyperventilating. He wants to have a crack at the lucrative Asian wedding market. His plastic wear has emerged as an unexpected winner in the battle of Big Four: food, clothes, shelter and sanity.

 

Now that the carbon dioxide has fizzled out, everything's back-to-school normal: full steam ahead aboard HMS Consumerist towards the White Cliffs of Catastrophe.

 

Buoyed by the heat wave comeback and the World Cup of losers, the spectre of capital casts a distorted umbra over what remains of civilization. Sun cream and painkillers are much in demand. Only comedy can break the illusion.