Short version:

Don’t let go. Piers Morgan is a prick. Cat memes like this make me happy and people without legs should use Space Hoppers instead of wheelchairs.

Long version:

Never let go.

Even if the thing you’re holding on to is slimy and weird.

Especially if the thing you’re holding on to is slimy and weird.

Wait. Hold on a mo.

I got that wrong…..

Okay; if the thing you’re holding on to is slimy and weird, you should maybe let go.

A bit.

In fact. If the thing you’re holding on to is slimy and weird, let go immediately and leg it.

If you have legs.

I don’t want to appear discriminatory here.

If you don’t have legs, shuffle that torso away as fast as you can.

Or use a Space Hopper. Unless you don’t have hands either. Then maybe buy a dog and saddle it. Or just use your teeth. If you have any. Your gums? Everyone has those right? Or do they? I give up.

(People sans legs should use Space Hoppers instead of wheelchairs anyway. It would make everyone smile, rescue the failing Space Hopper industry and safeguard millions of Space Hopper jobs.)

Obviously, if you don’t have hands then you wouldn’t be holding on to a slimy, weird thing in the first place so this information is not relevant to you.

Unless you did have hands but they got chopped off somehow. Perhaps in an unfortunate accident involving a Wispa bar and some Deeley Boppers. Then your hands may very well be holding on to something slimy and weird without your knowledge or consent.

(Are your hands still yours even though they are no longer connected or do they become citizens in their own right? It’s a bloody minefield!)

If you suspect that your chopped off hands may be holding on to something slimy and weird without your consent, then you should write to your local political representative.
Then quickly realise that writing to your local political representative is pointless and he/she/it is a complete waste of atoms that could be better utilised as some black dress socks and one of those little plastic castles you put in a goldfish bowl.

Then write to God and see if he can help. If you can find the right kind of stamp. There’s more chance of getting him to do something than your local political representative prying his/her/its naked, fondue covered body off the underage, Thai ladyboy and doing some fucking work for once.

Yeah. God’s the man.
Except he isn’t, obviously. ‘Cos he’s a god. And doesn’t actually exist. Much like your political representation.

I digress.

So…
Hands and legs present? Holding onto something slimy and weird? Leg it.

Keep legging it until slimy and weird things are no longer an issue. Possibly retrace your steps in an hour or two when you’ve had a chance to calm down a bit.

See if the slimy weird thing is still there.

Buy some gloves so you don’t have to touch it.

Better still, buy another person to touch it in your stead.

Buy that person some gloves and a big stick with a nail in the end.
And a sock with half a brick in it.

And a sombrero.

Make damn sure your last will and testament is up to date.

Weird, slimy things are usually dangerous.

And weird.

And slimy.

And slightly porous. (Don’t ask me why, they just are!)

Honest.

Trust me. I’m a parapsychologist with a specialty in ghostly sprouts.

Look. Just steer clear of slimy, weird things and everything will be just dandy okay.

And don’t read the Dandy. Buster is much better.

And whatever you do, and I can’t be too clear on this point, whatever you do, even if you are doing it for a bet, never ever say ‘Piers Morgan’ three times while looking in a mirror.

‘Cos the bastard turns up!

Stupid mug face and lardy, pale, middle class body all squidged into a nasty looking single breasted suit all smug like in that icky way he is. Plopped into existence in my pantry last week.

He never shuts up about me going down to Greggs for some sausage rolls and a cheese and onion pasty.

And I’ve had it with the prick.

It ain’t my job to supply that dickhead with greasy, baked goods is it?

Just because I happened to be having a conversation with myself in the mirror about that new documentary with Morgan Freeman about great British seaside piers.

It could have happened to anyone right?

I guess I should have learned my lesson from that time I was talking to a guy in a mirror shop about Sylvester Stallone and Rocky, Rambo, Cobra and that bloke from Cliffhanger all turned up at the same time groaning and slurring about how their mam looks like she swallowed an anchor.

I’m really sick of this whole ‘famous people appearing out of thin air in your shed just because you happened to mumble something sounding a bit like their name a few times in a mirror’ thing.

There should be a government warning on all mirrors.

“WARNING: Objects in a mirror may appear closer than they are, especially arsehole celebrities.”

Right?

There’s warnings on a fucking power drill not to use it in a lake for fucks sake!

We can’t feel safe in our own homes!

And Greggs is closed ‘cos of Covid. Does that matter to Piers? Noooooo!

He wants me to go to the Greggs in the next town the dumpy little asshat.

I’m not going to do it and that’s that.