Fat cat

I know a cat that knows what it likes. What’s more, I too know what this cat likes. What this cat likes is nothing more than eating lots and lots and lots of semi-skimmed milk, and doughnuts, and a few too many helpings of succulent fishy fillets.

I know this because the cat is fat. It’s a fat cat. And I know that this cat is fat because I have seen this cat, doing another thing it likes – sitting on our path. It likes sitting on our path a lot, too, you see – in fact, its adoration of this pastime probably trumps its obsession of necking grub.

The cat just sits on the path, being fat, scratching itself occasionally. Perhaps it’ll burp every so often, or whatever, as it digests all the food it has been recently scoffing to maintain such a blobby physique. Whenever I see out out of the window, I jump outside – sliding down the drainpipe and so0 on, with my special Lycra cape and everything. I’m like some kind of superhero, really, only I’m sensible enough to wear my underpants inside my trousers.

When I get outside I try to take a photograph of it. Don’t you think such a thing would really spice up this article? But the right royal rotter manages to get away. Not sure how this is possible, given that it spends so much of the rest of its time potatoing on the couch of the path – perhaps it rolls. Why won’t it be snapped?

The thing is, I like cats. I greatly prefer them to dogs. My affection for cats is what stops me being some kind of horrible, tragically unpopular, cat-hating monster; the new Sir Fred Goodwin. Now that I have both species getting my goat, my public image is in jeopardy.

Speaking of the over-wealthy bank-killing banker with a pension no doubt bigger tha David Beckham’s penis – who, I would like to point out, is no relation of mine; and I’m glad, too, for his taste in typography is shocking; oh, and something about a silly – I’m wondering whether he is the cat. It is indeed a fat cat, like what they said in the news. Cats are supposedly not very clever, cause it’s not like you get them in sausages or bacon – and no doubt fat ones are even less intelligent, thanks to the blubber perhaps blocking the flow of blood to the head in some way – so perhaps old Frederick thinks a shared surname gives him a right to .

Well, sunshine, that just isn’t true. You have no right to linger. Get off my path.

Although, maybe Sir Fred being on my path and annoying me isn’t such a bad thing. Fat cats are good things to hate, these days, In expressing my disdain I suppose I am in fact garnering public affection. Let’s all unite in bringing these fat cats crashing down into a big food processor! Hurrah!

That means I can write some more about why I don’t like this particular fat cat. Wicked!

It doesn’t actually do a lot. Which is why I hate it so much – it fails to give me much reason to hate it. Grrr.

But it’s pension is obscene. Let’s show this fat pension cat who is boss.