You ever wonder how the fuck we kept Mr. Blobby around so long? You ever looked into Mr. Blobby’s eyes and feel a twang of recognition not usually felt for seven-foot tall pink monsters? You ever stared at those thick eyelashes, those giant jellyfish eyes, and think: Ah, mate, been there?
I have. I’ve felt pain – true pain – after a few too many milk stout at the Queen’s Head, after a couple butter beers past the line. All fun and games at the time, but the morning after? I’m right there with you, Blob.
In every picture of Mr. Blobby you can see yourself at your lowest ebb. That is why Blobby will never leave us: Blobby is inside us all, just waiting to get out. With every photo, you can hear your own voice.
“Hate it when lads from other departments come over this side of the office and start chatting shite. Pack it absolutely in, lads”
This is not my beautiful house / And you may tell yourself / This is not my beautiful wife
“Wish I was dead, me”
“Is that… Is that a moth? Can’t handle no fucking moths today”
“Don’t look in me eyes. They look like oysters”
“Nothing to see here, mate. If someone’s thrown up over there it was – oh, boy – sure was not me”
“I’m totally fine”
“I’m not fine. My guts are having a mosh pit in here”