by The nation is dying this morning and wishes to be left in a quiet, darkened room, after spending last night drinking enough cheap fizzy white wine to make Pete Doherty dry wretch into his pillow.
Everywhere has the faint smell of vomit, and the country has the distinct taste of kebab in its mouth despite not having eaten one for nearly five years.
We knocked on the nation’s door to ask for a comment, but it told us to “fuck off and die you insufferably smug bastard”
More soon.
Maybe.
