Your recent run of bad luck changes when you die suddenly in your sleep and avoid being prosecuted for historic child sex abuse crimes.
Your bank mistakenly deposits £10,000 into your account, so you take your wife on that Caribbean cruise she’s always dreamed of. You return to a letter from your bank manager asking for the money back. You explain that you’ve spent it all and that it was the bank’s fault in the first place. As the bailiffs bang at the door you read the bank manager’s second letter and ponder if it is the first time you’ve read the word ‘bellend’ in official correspondence.
After you are chased out of Mosul by Iraqi forces and narrowly miss being blown up by an allied air-strike you begin to reassess your commitment to the global jihad and wonder if you could get your old job back at Curry’s.
‘Oh what a feeling when you’re dancing on the ceiling’. Technically that’s not a ceiling you’re on, it’s your mother-in-laws grave, but you certainly are dancing. Your plea to the other funeral-goers to ‘lighten up a bit’ doesn’t go down well and that look your wife is giving you can only be described as ‘frosty’.
After he wins best film at Cannes with his acclaimed drama about a family coming to terms with the death of their mother set against the backdrop of the Nazi occupation of Poland, you find you have to take back everything you’ve said about Adam Sandler.
Your request for a further delay in handing in that report on the Iraq war doesn’t go down well. You decide to take that trip driving through Afghanistan in a VW camper van anyway.
As a Leo you believe that children are our future and that we should treat them well and let them lead the way. If only the little bastards would stop pestering you for five minutes when you’re trying to watch the Olympic beach-volleyball on the telly.
You just can’t stop eating cheese. Fuck knows why.
In a quiet moment you reflect on all the things you have achieved and all the lives that you have touched. It seems a shame that you’ll mostly be remembered for that time your put your cock into a dead pig’s mouth.
When you announced your intention to run for President they all laughed at you didn’t they? They said you didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Well here we are in November and it looks like they were right, you got humped. Still, at least your hair looks good.
With Mars and Saturn working hard on your behalf there is nothing you can’t achieve. You decide that you’re going to write a classic and what’s more you’re going to write it in an attic. When you remember that you live in a block of flats with a communal roof-space and that the only person with a key to the access hatch is that grumpy old bastard Mr Johnson on the top floor you decide to write it in the spare bedroom instead.
In mid-December you tell your colleagues about that dream you have every Christmas. The one where Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall is stuffing a photograph of ex-Yugoslavian communist leader Marshall Tito inside a goose while signing the theme tune to ‘Auf Weidersehen Pet’. Afterwards your boss asks for a quiet word.