You are requested to attend a disciplinary hearing on Wednesday morning to discuss your timekeeping

Good morning! Top of the morning to you! Rise and Shine!
Get waterboarded, you revoltingly chipper sickpot. I hate the morning. The morning hates me. It’s a simple bond based on incompatibility and the desperation of loneliness. Just like real relationships.

It’s too passé to say I’m an insomniac. No, in today’s moanvironment (I almost went with ‘atmoswhinge’), to cool it up and sound really post-badass I’ll describe my sleeping prowess as THE ANTISLEEP or SLUMBASTARD.

Consequently, in the AM I’m as much use as a tiny cartoon hedgehog trying to teach red apples how to mimic Pee Wee Herman. Getting ready for work, I can barely handle a piss and a wash, never mind eating breakfast or going to the gym to sculpt my cannons. People who do that are definitely lizard based overlords. However, they’re not quite our unconscionable despotic rulers because they’ve mistakenly subscribed to ‘Horrific Banal Slagging Fest Weekly’ or ‘Pectoral Throne’, hence the self induced early bird designer tumour stress.

No sir, my morning routine typically involves me hitting the snooze button like I’m made of slo-mo marshmallow and my head is filled with does-not-compute jam, vaguely hearing housemates leisurely saunter to the bathroom then all of a sudden BOOM! Heart attacking myself out of bed when I realise it’s ridiculous-to-nine. Cue sensation of deja vu kickstarting a groggy call to my boss to apologise. Again. I try to save time by simultaneously weeing and brushing my teeth. I throw on a hideously crumpled shirt and trip over a kitten. My appearance upon arrival to work rivals that of Serpico crossed with Travis Bickle. After a fortnight of POW stress positions.

Inevitably, the time came for a disciplinary. Can’t say I blame my employer, I’m basically a grunting nihilistic misanthrope until lunchtime. Then tea, food and fresh air improve me incalculably into just being a bell end. They shrewdly schedule the disciplinary in the morning, challenging me to be of some (any) use in my hazy, coming-to from anaesthetic demeanour. It went ok. I didn’t cause a severe economic downturn or stab a baby.

I’m still worse in the morning than a chav listening to NDubz booming from his Metro but at least I haven’t been sacked yet. When that happens, to parallel the great depression of the 30’s, I’ll gleefully swandive from my window. I’m on the first floor so might get lucky if a gran breaks my fall. Rise and shine indeed.