I am the bog roll king
by Nathan Muir of Hitchin, Hertfordshire
I AM king of the bog roll. I sit on a throne built from 24-packs of only the softest, most absorbant loo paper. None may challenge my reign.
You panic-bought this weekend? Oh, my child. I have been buying up stocks for weeks. I have more toilet roll than anyone in a 15-mile radius, including small shops. It will never run out.
You’ve filled your garage with it? Ah, your naivety makes me chuckle. You remind me of myself, six weeks ago. I have filled my whole house.
I no longer have a bed. I sleep on bog roll. I eat at a bog roll table. I lounge on a supremely comfortable bog roll sofa. Every room in my house is piled to the ceiling with sweet, wonderful bog roll.
Soon, society will collapse. Banknotes won’t be worth, if you’ll pardon my joke, wiping your bum on. There will be only one source of wealth, only one currency. And I have cornered the market.
They will come to me, the former great and good, laid low by their own foulage. They will give me diamonds, titles, positions of great power in return for a single roll of Andrex Skin Kind with aloe vera and chamomile. I will take all as my due.
I am the bog roll king. I am the emperor of the sh*thouse. All hail me.