A Day In The Life Of…Simon Donald

Simon Donald

My 24 years working at Viz comic brought me success beyond my wildest dreams, but the one thing that has kept me going, the thing that has driven me and kept me on the right track, is without a doubt my working-class roots. Without my close connection to my family’s humble beginnings I don’t believe I could be as level-headed and down- to-earth as I am today. It would have been very easy for a boy making such swift progress up the ladder of aspiration and wealth to lose his head, have visions above his station, and let go of his grip on reality. Here I lay out for you a typical day in the life of Simon Donald stand up comedian, comic magnate and media whore.

I like to be up early, so I rise before 18.00 hours the previous day. The first thing I do on awakening is sack my butler for impertinence, I then telegram the stables and instruct my grandmother to clean my horse. I don’t ride, but I feel the more audacious trappings of wealth are an essential part of a normal life. I usually begin my strict regime of cocaine indulgence and laughing at poor people at around 18.30; I follow this by evicting a few peasants and then I settle down to a breakfast of lightly poached swans’ faces and Kellogg’s Pop Tarts.

Once I’ve shot a few of my dogs (one has to keep one’s eye in) I retire for a power snooze of around 6 to 7 hours. I like to keep fit, so I then send some staff out jogging on my behalf, the last to return is doused in dogs’ nonsense and sent down to William Hill to put some bets on the swan racing for me.

I try not to be extravagant and so rarely have more than two or three pairs of bespoke mink trousers made in any one week. Wednesdays usually see me pop down to Saville Row to collect my latest pair, which I don before popping on my tiger-skin cape and strutting down Regent Street poking the elderly and the children of the poor with the end of my diamond tipped Swarovski crystal walking cane.

When I’m in London I often eat a light lunch made almost entirely from the pets of working-class children. I know this sounds cruel, but what people fail to recognise is that this is a tradition which has been upheld for as much as 15 months now, and therefore its immoral nature is not open to question. As I have made clear I’m not ashamed of my working-class heritage and I have no qualms about ordering a side dish of Goblin Meat Pudding with Tommy K and Woodbines. As evening approaches I will wander down to my private members club where I like to have a few large mint chocolate Baileys and some sinister banter with the young and rather beautiful Polish waiting girls. After 13 or 14 of these I retire to the lavatorial facilities for a couple of sneaky beef dripping sandwiches and to shoot up some heroin.

An evening at the theatre usually follows. I have always enjoyed theatre, as a working-class boy this was considered quite strange in the 1970s, however with my new position in society as a result of my success with Viz comic, I am able to enjoy my theatrical indulgences at a level which I could never previously have dreamt of. The thought of a working-class family arriving at a West End theatre armed with shotguns would be absolutely unheard of, it would probably be frowned on even if they arrived carrying only air weapons. The enjoyment of a performance at the theatre for me now is a fully-fledged sporting experience. I know it’s expected of me to either cut down one of the main characters during a major speech or song, or to pump rounds of 12 bore into the chorus line during a big production number; but as an experienced theatregoer I nowadays sometimes choose to pick off less obvious characters with a sniper rifle, or occasionally simply throw a grenade onto the stage entirely at random. I know some people struggle to understand the reasoning behind the apparent senselessness of this bloodshed, but one thing nobody can deny is the excitement and vibrancy it brings to the West End theatre experience. Nobody can say that I’m not enjoying my wealth to the maximum, and why not? I worked hard for 24 years, there’s no reason why now I shouldn’t be enjoying the pain and suffering of those in a less fortunate situation than myself.

I never like to allow a day to come to a close without reminding myself that despite living in London and enjoying the trappings of wealth, I am at heart a working class Geordie. I proceed to my local pub whereupon I play the traditional old boozer piano – well, I say the traditional old one, I have actually replaced it with a 38 foot chromium-plated brass-framed grand piano with two £46,000 candelabras and white keys made from the bones of West End theatre stars, and black keys made from the blackened timbers of the cottages of peasants I have cleared from my land. I encourage the locals to sing along with my favourite Geordie anthems like The Blaydon Races, Knees Up Mother Brown and the Lambeth Walk. Anyone failing to sing loudly enough has a kettle full of boiling piss tipped down their throat.

I know my lifestyle is probably a million miles from yours, but I have no shame. I came from nothing, and like you I will return to nothing, but what we all must remember is that I am absolutely magnificent, and you, yes you, are a worthless piece of decaying shit, a piece of shit not even worthy of cleaning the shoes of the smelliest piece of shit that’s ever come out of my arse.

My last action every day is to call a recruiting agency to hire a new butler in time for the following morning’s sacking.

I am forever grateful.