It’s far too long. The flab hangs off the last third like the sweaty moob of a morbidly obese shut-in feasting on his third chicken tikka masala as he wishes to god he might see his genitals just one more time before his coffin is lowered into its oversized grave by a specially rigged crane.
Then the crane breaks and the coffin smashes into the hole and we all have a look to see if there’s anything we can do about the situation, but all we see is thirty stone of pasty, randomly-haired fleshmeat spread amongst the shards of oak like a duvet stuffed with ice cream.
Oh god, we say, Oh god… I will never be able to cleanse my mind of this sight, it will be with me as long as I live, haunting my days, barging its way unbidden into my thoughts like a crack-crazed paedophile, desperate to interrupt the perfect tranquility of a school sports day with his malevolent tumescence.
No! Begone, errant pederast, for I did not choose this.
Just like I didn’t choose to watch the pointless Lexus ad with Kylie and the drums.