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Sometimes, I like to question my life choices. And by like, I mean... you know... panic in desperation. That kind of like. Since the UK Government shut down the Ministry of Culture and cut all funding for the arts, it became obligatory for every good British citizen to do their bit, so they say. Now, it’s my turn. Like contemporary jury duty, except on stage with Kat Deeley and in the living room 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 Simon Cowell Test™ then they decide for you. Hence why I’m questioning my life choices. Why didn’t I work harder at singing? Or dancing? Or something easier, like golf or getting followers on twitter?... 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 throne 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 is roaring, they seem to be into that too. Any last words, I’m asked. Kat Deeley hands me a small touchpad, but it’s only got emojis to choose from. I look up from within 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. Her hand reaches down, fishing for my answer. Lights start flashing, a drumroll kicks in and the crowd roar again, waving their little paper Union Jacks around. I go for sad face, crying face, lightning bolt.

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