I was talking with Johnson as he drove me on one of my nightly sojourns down North Road. I enjoy talking with Johnson: his no-nonsense approach to life and pedestrians is a refreshing breath of air after being trapped inside with this pack of sycophants I call my editorial staff. We discussed what to do about the continuing saga of my boiler.
It has been quite subdued recently, content with the occasional grumble and jet of scalding hot water. However, its most recent demand has been for a name. I informed it that it could have any name it liked, it won’t prevent my axe from carving a Tracey Emin installation in the front of its carapace. Undeterred, it continues to demand a name. Caught on the wrong paw, I retreated and conferred with Johnson.
His recommendation was to engage in an era of detente with the infernal heating appliance and grant the stupid mechanism a name. So I have: it’s to be called Viessman. It approved of this name and wears it as a badge upon its breast. Unfortunately, my ploy was not successful: the next day, I received a freshly baked cake on the doorstep which, upon analysing Johnson’s stool sample, I discovered to be pumped full of arsenic. Touché, Viessman, touché.
What’s been in the news? Tougher targets for primary school children? Good idea, Gove, make the little buggers work. In fact, why even bother sending them to school at all? They’re just a drain on resources. I say we find some mines, throw them in, whichever ones emerge at the end can go to secondary school.