Sitting Duck

In my shallower, more vibrant youth, I harbored a borderline pathological affection for fancy dress parties. My strategy was always a masterclass in tactical negligence: leave the costume entirely to the final, desperate micro-second, and see exactly what level of aesthetic insult I could get away with before being barred at the door.

Yet, my own minor triumphs of procrastination pale in comparison to a bachelor party of legendary, near-homicidal genius.

The plan was elegant in its sheer, unadulterated cruelty. We took the unfortunate groom-to-be, wrapped him securely in a seal costume, and immediately ushered him onto a boat for a spot of Great White shark cage diving.

To say he was a “sitting duck” is to do a grave disservice to ducks, who at least have the good sense to fly away when a massive, razor-toothed apex predator decides they look like lunch. There he was, suspended in the freezing brine, looking like a plump, neoprene-wrapped hors d’oeuvre, while several tons of prehistoric killing machine circled him with what can only be described as intense, culinary interest. Comedy gold, of course. For us, at least. The groom’s therapist has since bought a yacht.

Naturally, through the warped, decaying neural pathways of my brain, this memory of maritime near-death somehow birthed the sketch of a politician in a duck’s costume running for office, flanked by a remarkably well-informed bodyguard.

But then, why demand logic from a mind that clearly thrives on utter chaos? Much like my youthfully negligent approach to party attire, the real joy is in pure spontaneity. Sometimes you just end up somewhere bizarre for no logical reason at all—and it is best to simply embrace the chaos and revel in the glorious silliness of it all.

Though, if you do insist on finding some order in the madness, perhaps you could start by choosing which of our esteemed real-world politicians deserves to take that empty seat?