The Ertha Kitts

I've got 'em. Me Mum says I must have eaten something "dodgy", which it's a bit difficult to narrow down in my case seeing as around half of everything I consume could be construed as "dodgy" in one form or another. Still, pleased to see that it didn't put the boy off his breakfast this morning. Me Mum thoughtfully put some paper down for me in the kitchen (it's the one thing that the Mail on Sunday is good for), just in case I couldn't make it through the night (which I couldn't). So I duly availed myself of said services and left a nice runny mess there for her to clear up in the morning. The boy comes down first, makes himself some poached eggs on toast and sits down happy as Larry at the kitchen table to eat it right next to my steaming puddle of shite. I kid you not. The dirty bastard. It's like living through an episode of the Royle Family in here some days.