I would watch my parents fuck. I would watch them as they work their way through the Karma fucking Sutra. I would watch them work through the Karma Sutra, as both sets of grandparents – some of whom are dead – lay around watching, or handing out towels.
I’d have a non-essential organ removed with minimal anaesthesia, and then eat a slice of it cooked on mouldy toast.
I’d watch a pissed-up Katie Hopkins heavy-pet Jeremy Clarkson stopping briefly to agree on the worrying scourge of Benefit Scroungers, while an enthused Anthea Turner narrated.
I’d nurse Eamonn Holmes through a particularly nasty bout of gastric flu, whilst he continuously referred to celebrity golf tournaments he’d attended as the guest of Sir Alex Ferguson.
I’d watch a George Osborne/ John Terry role play sex tape. Osborne playing Lord of the Manor and Terry his bit-of-rough gardener, with nothing in common except their unyielding sexual desire, and thinly veiled racism. The money-shot would involve John Terry covered in male ejaculate, sobbing with deep post-sexual joy, resting his head on an equally joyous George, and wearing his full football kit underneath his gardening gear.
I would let my mum see my entire search engine history -unabridged – and talk her through it.
I’d watch Keith Lemon programmes on continuous loop for 48 hours.
I’d listen to Ellie Goulding breathlessly butchering the entire Toots and the Maytals back catalogue in an intimate venue – without booze – as Dermot O’Leary hosted the event and described each performance as a modern day classic, and called everyone buddy.
And I’d get up every morning at 6am, for a year, for a televised Bikram Yoga session with Samantha Cameron and Tim Lovejoy…
… For approximately 24 minutes under here.