John Thropmorton had had a vile day.

His dog had vomitted all over his best loafers, his wife had left the toilet seat down (again!) and his son had broken wind most violently at the breakfast table.

And all that was before he even left for work.

The subway was unusually crowded and he had to sit next to an ethnic person who apparently had never heard of soap. Once he got to work he yelled at by the boss because … well, basically because she’s a complete ****.

At lunchtime there was nothing left in the cafetaria except for luke-warm barf stew and after that he had to rewrite the Beijing phonebook as a novel.

On the way home he was hit by a number 17 bus and died on the way to hospital which just goes to show.