Randrew Andrew

Warming Ups

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I drove to the supermarket today. On the way I stopped off near the chemist to pick up my prescription. I found out that the chemist is closed on Saturday afternoon. Makes sense. You wouldn’t want to be open fully on the day most people aren’t at work.

When I arrived at the supermarket I looked in the usual places for my car key, but I couldn’t find it. In the old days your key would have been in the ignition, but now keys just have to be in the car for the car to work. I emptied all my pockets, looked under the car seats, but no dice. And more relevantly no key.

I started to wonder whether it was possible that I had dropped the key as I got into the car at the chemist and that it had been underneath the car, thus allowing me to turn the car on and drive away. I considered driving back to the chemist to have a look. Or maybe I’d just have to go home and get the spare key and then come back

Then I realised that I wouldn’t be able to drive the car if I didn’t have the key, which made me realise that I could check whether the key was still with me by trying to drive away.

The car was still working and no notice came up saying there was no key, so it had to be somewhere in the car. But where? I’d checked everywhere.

Had my key just become invisible? That was the most likely explanation. None of this could be anything to do with me getting older that’s for sure.

The only place I hadn’t checked was the bags for life on the seat next to me. Surely I hadn’t accidentally put the key in there.

I had for some reason, managed to put the key in there, maybe intending to just toss it on to the seat. But managing instead to toss it into a bag.

That’s ten minutes of my life that I am not getting back. Though that is true of every ten minutes of my life so far. Now I’ve written about it and that’s another 30 minutes of my life I am not getting back. And it’s probably taken you five minutes to read about it and you’re not getting that time back either. Who is it who keeps getting portions of time back?

I think we should say this after everything we do. After winning the FA Cup final players should say to the person giving them the medals, “Well that’s 90 minutes plus injury time that I’m not getting back.”

After getting a first class honours degree, say to the person presenting your diploma “That’s three years I am not getting back.”

After making love with your partner say “Well that’s two and a half minutes I am not getting back.”

If you accidentally travel forward in time to the Planet of the Apes “That’s two thousand years I am not getting back.”

Lying on your death bed say to your family “That’s 95 years I am not getting back.”

That might actually be quite a good epitaph for your gravestone. “That’s x years I am not getting back,” where x is equal to the time you were alive.

You don’t get any of it back guys. Sometimes you have to waste ten minutes looking for a key that you’ve for some reason put in a shopping bag. Would I have done anything more productive with that time if I’d found the key straight away? Does any of it matter in the grand scheme of things?

Why are you still reading this? The clock is ticking. Why am I still writing? What’s the point in anything?

For those of you who prefer your ventriloquism in audio only format (as God intended) we’ve released the first 3 Craven Newsrounds as a podcast.

Or view them all here.

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Look, I sent a few emails to Jeffrey Epstein begging to let me come and party on his island with young women, but please don’t read anything into that. It was perfectly innocent and my enemies will misconstrue it deliberately because they are jealous of how cool and funny I am.

Also they said I couldn’t come and pretended the island had just shut down, so I am essentially not guilty of anything and remain cool and funny. Seig Heil. My enemies will try and claim I said that in a Nazi way. Thank goodness for the many, many tragic men who will defend me whatever I do, because, I don’t know... do they think I am going to share my money with them? Should be perfectly obvious that I don’t share money with anyone, and that I won’t stop until I have all the money. Even though that will make all money effectively worthless and they’ll have to come up with some other system. I will still have all the money.

Which I earned myself and my dad never helped me with money from his emerald mine. Anyway all families have one of those.

This afternoon I managed to secure an interview with the man who everyone wants to talk to, former Duke of Pork, Randrew Andrew.

Watch it here

Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor-Castle-Balmoral has had trouble coming up with a catchy name for himself, so I’d really like to see Randrew Andrew catch on.I It acknowledges his cheeky past, whilst giving himself the formality required for a former Royal.

I just wrote a theme song for him, which I don’t think I have any use for, so here you go

His name is Randrew Andrew

He used to be all fine and Dandrew

As harmless as Andrew Pandrew

And as sweet as cotton Candrew

Then we found out about his modus operandrew

And his proclivity for getting underage handshandrews

And forcing kids to drink cherry brandrew....

He insists he was in TonyPandrew

Shopping for batteries in Tandrew

So why are his legs all bandrew?

And his trousers all Epstein Island sandrew?

It doesn’t take Jessica Tandrew

To work out he’s a rapey nonce.

I am 58 years old. I spent half an hour on that.