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If the days of the week were Top Trumps

How do the days rank, from worst to best?

If the days of the week were Top Trumps
04 April 2017

One thing we all have in common, as humans, is that we all experience each day of the week, every week. This is unavoidable, unfortunately, as otherwise, every day would be Saturday in my world, and judging by the way I treat a week with only one Saturday in, it would spell trouble for almost every physical and mental part of my being.

At present, though, it’s not like that – we have to wander through each and every one, good or bad, and get on with it.

But which is best? Well, it’s Saturday, obviously, but what about the others, where do they come?

It’s a difficult question, but hopefully I’ve found the answer. Behold, every day of the week as a Top Trump playing card.


Might as well start the week off with an absolute shitshow. Monday is the worst day of the week, and there is absolutely no arguing with me on this point. It is the day after the weekend, which if you’ll recall, is a two-day period where you don’t have to go to work. On Monday, you do.

You’re just getting used to lie-ins, junk food and booze before midday, and then you’re thrust into a dank office and forced to work, which is now an abstract concept that holds no meaning anymore. 

Also, if you got drunk on Sunday, BIG MISTAKE, you howling dunce.

Monday is the hernia of days.


Tuesday is the third-worst day.

It’s straight after Monday, and is therefore better, because you’ve had a bit of time to acclimatise yourself to that whole “job” thing that’s currently ruining your life, but the next weekend is still so far away.

You’re not even at the halfway mark yet, are you? You’re trundling, scrambling, dragging yourself up that hill, and it feels like you might not ever make it.

Work-wise, it’s a big one, too – not quite as bad as Monday’s weekend fall-out, but still a damn sight more than the rest of the week. This day is going to draaaaag.

Also, not to make your day worse or anything, but your flies were open ALL THE WAY HOME.


“Happy Humpday!” says the email.

SLAM SLAM SLAM go the fists.

BREAK BREAK BREAK goes the keyboard.

“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP” says the reply.

But aside from the odd mention of that “word”, Wednesday is not all bad. You’re halfway there, buddy, you can stop that weird, irregular sharp whooping that you’ve been disguising as breathing, and resume a more normal pace of living. Hopefully the heart palpitations will stop, too.

Work is slowing, but not too much – you’re still a big dog player in the yard, and make no mistake – it’s just slightly calmer. The day after is Thursday too, and that’s basically the weekend. Just wait till the lads see how many WKDs you can strawpedo after work tomorrow. God you’re a hound.



It’s finally Thursday, a day in which you can go drinking without feeling naughty and/or ruining the rest of the week.

That is because Friday doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s officially recognised as the weekend, and people don’t do any work on the weekend, so get heavy-duty blot-arsed tonight, you flailing munter!


You’re hungover, yes, but as I said before – it doesn’t matter. EVERYONE is in a good mood on a Friday, and also most likely hungover themselves, so work isn’t high on the agenda.

You can write off the first two hours of work – the first one to eat your bacon sandwich and nurse your vendi vendi vendi coffee, and the second to scroll down the sidebar of shame, twice.

Then, oh, it’s lunch: “Pub lunch? Pub lunch? PUB LUNCH GUYS? PUB? POOB? THA PUBES? Burger and beer? Shandy? Come on, you can have a shandy, the sun’s out. Shandy lunch? Pint? I’m gonna have a full pint. You can have a shandy though. PUB LUNCH?”

After that it’s basically home time and then you’re back in the pub. But you didn’t eat dinner, which was stupid, so the night is a write off, you clown. You jester, you toxic, swaying dunce.

Still, at least no work tomorrow, eh?


Woah woah woooooaarrr, last night was silly, wasn’t it? But no matter, you have two full days before having to log into your email account. Bang your head against the wall hard enough to knock the password out of your brain – you won’t need that where you’re going.

Which is anywhere. You can do whatever the hell you want today: you could spend it at the football, in a pub, in a museum, in the park, in bed violating yourself, on the sofa with one hand permanently in a bag of Kettle Chips, on the toilet a lot, or, I dunno, going on a run or something weird.

Saturday is hands-down the greatest day in the week. It’s amazing, I love it, and if there was some physical way for me to rut with it, I would. Lord knows I’ve tried.


Is Sunday the second-to-worst day? Yes it is. 

“But you’ve got the day off!” you squawk at me through an empty loo roll. Yes, you have, but you can’t enjoy a fucking jot of it, because Monday’s huge, sweaty scrotum is looming over the horizon, blocking the sun.

Also, you’re currently experiencing the culmination of two days’ worth of unholy hangover, so your paranoia is in overdrive, your bowels aren’t playing nice and your breath smells like you just ate a plate of uncooked hippo shite.

Sundays need to get off my property, immediately.

Bonus: Sick Day

CURVE BALL! You have lied to your boss and you do not have to go into work.

“I’ve… I’ve been up all night, you know… yeah, that. There’s no way I can *cough* come in. I’m so sorry, I was really looking forward to filling out that fucking piece of shit spreadsheet you foul bastards were gonna lump me with first thing. Really, I was! I love you! OH GOD I’VE SOILED MYSELF AGAIN. MUST DASH.”

Do whatever you want with today, it’s going to be great no matter what. Spend an hour making a very elaborate Lego castle just so you can see what it looks like when you throw it down the stairs, I genuinely don’t care. Knock yourself out. Or knock one out, knowing you.