Those fucking traffic lights. 

They have no right to be there!

This is what they spend their time and money on. 

They have absolutely nothing to do. 

They sit around all day and pretend they’re the boss. 

They have absolutely no authority over me. 

I am far more intelligent. 

I have written 10 books, and one of them was recommended for the Puzitzer Prize. 

I am so angry at them. 

They must be punished!

So, I entered the internet.

I made my conclusions.

I made up a story – I pretended I was a reporter (I am well versed in this because I am a writer and won the Puzitzer Prize and have a lifetime Rapscallian Award).

I call them up.

I say that I am reporting, from The Daily Mail (a most terrifying and peculiar establishment – I raise my fist and dam them all to the hell, due to the celebrity insights section of their website giving me many a sleepless night from my eternal infatuation with Kim Kardashian and her perfect bottom!), and state that I am investigating a misallocation of public funds with an accusation of corruption and public monies syphoning.

I continue to share a proof of identity by going on to explain the many prizes I have won as a writer (I have, in fact, won many. I have won the Puzitzer Prize (I have written over 10 books), have a lifetime Rapscallian Award (from drinking with Reginald and Vic), and have been known to sink 4 shandy pints in under the minutes – this is not quite an award, but I have been locally recognised for this outstanding ability).

They continue their line of questioning to me; I suspect they are trying to suss me out. The fools don’t seem to be quivering whatsoever. I, however, find it quite difficult to hold myself in one place. The phone is now flailing through the air as I lose control of my limbs – from a combination of excitement, nervousness and fear. This is when I start vomiting all over myself – I am now supremely scared of the consequences of my actions and simply cannot go on pretending to be someone else.

I, therefore, must state who I am; everything from my full name, to address, drink preference, age, blood type. I even include a small insight into my sexual preferences – dam you Daily Mail and Kim Kardashian!

Oh to hell they screamed down the phone and broke my cover – but I still hold the higher ground because they are reckless enough to sue me for libel.

What fools they are indeed.

*an interruption in my writing*

Sir, how would you like your bushel cut?

Ahh, yes.

Into the shape of a phallus, my dear man. 

I have guests coming later and need to impress. 

*the writing continues*

But they won’t suspect my next line of inquiry.