Disaster area

I’ve got friends who have boxes set up for the end of the world – tins of food, torch, batteries, spare game of Dobble. They look down their noses at me because I just live my life from tub to tub of hummus, but there’s really no point me being that well prepared.

See, I’m fully aware I wouldn’t last more than five minutes into a disaster movie. I’m the guy that bounces off the propellor in Titanic (which I fully stood and applauded when I saw it for the first time in the cinema in 1997, it was a magical moment), and that’s fine. I just don’t have either the luck or the skill needed to get to the end of one of those. Or the eyes, with my strong prescription I’d be scuppered as soon as my glasses fell off.

Nor do I have the desire to survive, frankly. If anything bad happened I’d be like it’s my time, take me now. And they’d say sir, that’s a fire alarm. And we literally just said we were going to be testing it.