Too much salt water?
I’d like to start by saying desert island my arse. It’s surrounded by water. Not a typical characteristic of your average desert. And there’s fucking palm trees on it. Palm fucking trees.? When did you last see a coconut in the Kalahari? Fucking never that’s fucking when.
Excuse my language but it gets right on my fucking nerves.
It always has.
I don’t know why.
I shouldn’t let little things like that bother me. I’d be much happier. I’d have more friends. I’d complain less. I’d start less fights. I’d be much less likely to stab somebody over an argument about the relative merits of solar and wind energy. I’d probably not be thrown of the ship and cast adrift in a leaky lifeboat.
I’d not be on this not desert fucking island.
Deserted island. That’s what it is. Big difference.
I’ve been here for something approaching forever. I’d started off carving notches in a tree to count the sunsets but I gave up when I realised that time was pretty pointless when you had nothing to do and nobody to notice whether you did it or not. I’m not sure how long it took me to realise that. What? Oh yeah. Count the notches.
What can I say, I’m not a patient man. Never have been. I refer you to my renewable energy knife fight.
I’m not unhappy really. Quite suits me. Nobody to justify myself. Well, nobody but you. And I’m not even sure you’re real. Actually you must be. My imagination could not be responsible for those trousers your wearing. Or could it. Perhaps I’ve gone mad?
I’ve not gone mad. I keep myself occupied. I’ve built a shelter, it’s pretty homely. I take regular exercise and I’ve got tree climbing and fishing down to a fine art.
I spend the rest of my time searching for the buried treasure.
Christ you’re a fucking idiot.
There’s no buried treasure. There’s no cannibals. There’s no Man Friday. There’s no flies. There’s no lords. There’s no plane crash. There’s no polar bear. There’s no smoke monster. There’s no fucking laughable excuse for an ending that’ll make you wonder why the fuck you stuck with this shit beyond season three.
You know what there is? Sand and trees. Fuck loads of sand and trees. And hot. Lots and lots of fucking hot. If lots are an appropriate measurement of hots. No I don’t mean heat. I mean hots. My island my rules and if you don’t like it I suggest you complain to the committee.
I’m the fucking committee and don’t you forget it my friend.
Lend us a fiver pal? Oh go on. I’m good for it.
That’s better. Show the committee some respect or you’re of the softball team.
No sit down have a coconut and shut the fuck up. If you want me I’ll be up that tree trying to work out which one of us is a hallucination.
My money’s on you.