Usually my “ticcing fits” are characterised by my inability to speak for the duration of the fits. But sometimes it works the other way round and my tics rattle on all the way through. That’s what happened this afternoon, during a hectic email catch-up session, when my tics clearly decided that a mere fit was no reason to stop being productive. For no clear reason they dictated the following message to John Lewis:

Dear John Lewis,

I want to fuck your brother and twist a lemon into his groin because I’m not happy about the state of the carpet in the living room. I want to get a new sofa for Margaret Thatcher’s graveside. I love cats. I want to refurbish my living room in Santa Claus.

John Lewis what’s your return policy on rheumatoid arthritis? Hey, John Lewis, bulk buy Telly Tubby Tits. Don’t do any emotive ads at Christmas. Suck your thumb and count to five. Equality of opportunity, John Lewis. Swindon branch in the toiletry aisle for a revolution involving water filters. Yes John Lewis, no John Lewis, 33 bags full John Lewis. Hedgehogs are guilty of pleasures John Lewis.

Leftwing Idiot, who was nearby with a laptop at the ready, did his best to keep up but I’m pretty sure he didn’t capture everything. Looking back, I’m sure you’ll agree I made some pretty solid points though.