Monday mornings

I part my sleep-greased cheeks and unload a lost weekend’s weight of shit on them.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?

I shit all over him. I shit on each page of his stories. I shit in the teeth of his characters. I take a big dysenteric liquid crap over Victorian detective fiction, because my name is Guy Ritchie.

Fat pigeons using my bbq as a birdbath.

I shit all over them. See how they like it.

Never having enough time for a bit of quiet shitting daydreaming.

I’d shit on it if I had a moment.

Work.

I shit on it from great height.

Umbrellas

They won’t protect you. Evil things. I shit on them.

The smug middle classes on a Saturday night out at the National Theatre

I shit all over them

People who don’t know their envelopes

I throw a gravelly turd at them.

Remembering to make regular posts to keep your blog fresh and readable?

I shit on that.

With a side order of fried shit.

Pollen

I shit on it. And the bees that carry it. I shit on them too.