Richard Littlejohn has at last admitted that he’s a goldfish.
I can’t believe nobody saw it coming. The signs were all there. Orange, scaly flesh? Check. Dead-eyed gaze? Checksville. Notoriously short memory? Checkerama. Stringy turds dangling along in his wake? Probably.
In all fairness he’s done pretty well, for a fish. I’d like to see Jaws get a column in the Mail, but it’ll never happen. Especially now they’ve got Janet Street-Porter toothily gnawing at the festering chum-bucket.
Even for a Parrot it’s dead men’s boots, what with Amanda Platell sitting on her perch, forlornly pulling out her own feathers for want of attention. Every now and then she’ll squawk and lash out at a hapless stranger that dares get too close, but most of the time she just sidles miserably from one end of her cage to another, praying for the sweet release of a vet’s needle.
It’s not suprising, considering the state of the petshop. The dirty wallpaper peels away from the walls, revealing green patches of rot in ever corner. The reek of shit and piss is almost unbearable. The haggard mare behind the counter thrusts filthy creatures into your hands in exchange for a pound, and only glares at you when you ask her whether they’re sick or well.
You eventually fight your way through the squalling beasts, half-blind and covered in slime and greasy dander. You stagger out into the crisp autumn air, blinking hard, eyes and nose streaming. You look down at your prize, a necrotic, putrescent hamster with Michael Hanlon’s face on it.
Gagging, you stuff him into a Starbucks cup. It’s the humane thing to do.