Fuckers. Image via WikipediaHowever, seated by my warm fire, it concerned me little. Only the occasional "thud" as a clown was hurled into my wall distrurbed me from my newspaper.
The doorbell rang. It is, as you may remember dear reader, prone to doing that. I rose from my armchair, tied up my smoking jacket and headed for the front door. Upon opening it, I was greeted by a clown. Like most clowns I meet, he was sad, dejected and dripping with rain.
"Come in, my good fellow! Come in!" I said. It was to prove a mistake, such sayings.
The clown entered my house, dripping on the carpet as he did, his big shoes squelching forlornly. I invited him to the living room, where he quickly helped himself to some brandy and took my seat in front of the fire.
"Are you warm enough?" I asked, with only the slightest hint of anger.
"No." he replied. Reaching into his oversized trousers, he pulled out a can of petrol. Emptying this over himself (and my armchair) he proceeded to pull a lighter from his pocket.
"Clowns against bad weather!" he yelled, before immolating himself and my favorite chair.
I waited a few minutes until the fire had extinguished itself, and sweeped up the remains with a broom. I was getting sick and tired of this happening to me, and first thing tomorrow, I was going to buy a sternly-worded sign that told clowns I did not wish them to call upon me. In the meantime however, I made some tea.