Sometimes, I like to question my life choices. And by like, I mean.. you know... panic in desperation. That kind of like. Since the government shut down funding for arts, it became obligatory for everyone to do their bit, so they say. Now, it’s my turn. Like contemporary civil service, except on stage with Davina McCall and in the livingroom of millions of Britons. Nobody saw this coming during the Brexit thing: Mandatory art. And if you don’t have any discernible talents, or at least those not good enough to pass the S. Cowell Test™ then they decide for you. Hence why I’m questioning my life choices… why didn’t I work on singing, or dancing, or even painting?... Oh, by the way, I’m in a cannon. Did I mention that? Probably important to know that. They should be lighting the fuse any minute now. I can see sitting on his thrown in front of the stage, I think he’s wearing a new pair of glasses again. So I’m to be shot out of a cannon over Prince Andrew. Apparently, he’s into that. The crowd are roaring, they seem to be into that too. Any last words, I’m asked. Davina hands me a small touchpad, but it’s only got emojis to choose from. I look up from the barrel at her, our eyes meet for a moment. Emotions are shared etc. She says go on hurry up we’re waiting, with a smile on her face. I go for sadface cryingface lightning bolt.