With Jim Davidson haunting last night’s dreams like the bastard son of Freddy Krueger and Enoch Powell, I should’ve realised today would be ill-fated
I’m in a urinal at work, trying to zip-up. Frustratingly, my flies are stuck. As I wrestle with them at the door, it swings open and cracks me on the forehead. I cry out in pain and thrust a hand up to my brow. My other hand, meanwhile, is still in the vicinity of my flies, and instinctively clamps around my nuts.
My attacker is a cleaner from Hungary. I swear she looks like Jim Davidson.