One morning last week, I was having an oat milk latte in my favourite coffee shop, on a street of coffee shops (you know the type), when I overheard something rather peculiar. A man who has one of those faces you think you might remember from somewhere but not exactly where from was talking. Out loud. Despite being on a table all to himself. As a journalist, I am naturally of a nosy disposition even when off duty.

I leaned in to try and catch a snippet of what he was saying.

He was muttering the same words over and over again to himself.

“Chip butty…. Chip butteh. NO! not good enough!” he screamed. Chastising himself with a vigour I fear I may have lost in my now more advanced age.

“Excuse me, sir” I called out to get his attention, “just what is it that you think you’re doing?”

“Well it’s Andy Burnham you see” (the Catholic Bishop? I thought at first) “he’s putting me out of a job now he’s Prime Minister”

“How so?” I ask.

“He’s northern. I’ve never had to do one of those. Different types of southern, sure, and I’ve adapted with the times from a public school southern to a grammar school southern. But this might be a step too far.”

He slumped down on his head. “My career of satirical radio shows, tiktok skits, and semi-sold-out stand-up comedy shows is over….”

As he began to cry I took out my notebook and pen and began writing up this very article.

So let this be a warning to you Mr. Burnham, you’re making this man cry. And me have to sit here awkwardly as a result.

Conan Roberts