Snow Would Taste Like Chocolate and be Used as Currency

We’d all be rich and fat right now.

You Could Take Your Bed Into Work

We all have duvet days, some more than others. Duvets have duvet days.

That joke didn't work.

My point is, there are days when you wish you could just stay in bed. However, big boss man is yelling down your lughole that you need to get those reports done by 11am or you’ll be out the door with the imprint of a boot on your right buttock.

So, if I had my way, you’d be able to take your bed into work. You can sit at your desk, get that darn report done, all with a nice thick quilt wrapped around your head.

Although it may be difficult to type with your hands covered by 15 togs worth of down.

The bed would be on wheels, so you can trundle up and down the corridors to get to the kitchen, or whatever. At the end of the day, you’d simply roll out of the door and head back down the motorway, pushing your bed along canoe-style. Then, you’d sleep. At some point in the next week, you may or may not take a shower.

Wars would be renamed ‘Fairy Fights’

War is a bad thing. It makes people sad. It makes other people dead. Half the problem is that the word ‘war’ is great to shout in the heat of battle, especially if you have a beard and a helmet with horns.

Apart from this dude, who shouts "FREEDOOOM!"

So, if I had my way, the word ‘war’ would be banned, and instead replaced with ‘fairy fight’. This would drastically reduce the number of wars in the world, thus minimising the number of deaths as a result of the wars. Confused? Then consider these scenarios.

Scenario One

A Viking runs into battle, a Spartan legs it towards the enemy, a Marine rushes towards a group of Islamic extremists. In the old days, they’d have yelled something along the lines of “This is WAAARR!”, with a really angry face.

Under my new rules, they’d scream “This is a FAIRY FIIIGHT!” Then they’d slow to a trot, then a walk, doubled over in laughter, as they realise just how daft they sound. Their enemies would do the same. One high-five later, and the war is over.

 

*wipes away tear* "Aah, that cracks me up. Now, off to go pillage something."

 

Scenario Two

Obama and Ahmadinejad are sat at a table, trying to broker a peace deal. Negotiations are stalling, and tensions are running high.

“I must warn you, Ahmadinejad,” states Obama, sternly, “that if you do not comply with our demands, it will mean an all-out fairy fight.”

A smile snatches at the corner of his lips. Ahmadinejad lets out a little snort behind his hand. Before you know it, they’re both giggling like schoolkids.

“Oh, you know what?” says Ahmadinejad, slapping his hands against the table. “Stuff all this arguing and that. Let’s go for a beer.”

They go for a beer. World War 3 – I mean, Fairy Fight 3 – averted. Lives saved. Job done.

Rappers Would be Honest

Have you ever listened to a rap song? I mean, really listened? It’s all bling this, hos that. The video is usually some dude with sunshades and a big coat gesturing at the camera as bikini-clad ladies gyrate around him. That almost never happens in real life.

"What the...? LADIES! I'm on the loo!"

So, if I had my own way, rappers would just be honest about their lives. I mean sure, some must love wearing incredibly heavy jewellery, but I would wager the majority simply want to spend their time sat in front of the TV watching Corrie.

So I’ve written the Honest Rapper’s Rap. So far it’s just lyrics, but someone provide me wit’ a slammin’ baseline and I’ll throw down some mouth juice, or whatever.

The Honest Rapper’s Rap

Y’all know me as ‘Rappa Dog’

Truth is my name is Clive

And far from braggin ’bout my life

Just glad to be alive.

 

I drive a Ford Mondeo

Gets me from A to B

Ain’t bothered ’bout no Cadillac

I’m told speed kills, you see.

 

I only really curse and swear

When I’m angry or depressed

And truth be told it’s only two

Or three girls I’ve undressed.

 

Not the multitude or so

I suggest in my songs

And being truthful flip-flops

Are my favourite type of thongs.

 

I’ve settled down with Sandra

I’m sure that she’s the one.

She doesn’t have a bouncy butt

Or bootilicious buns.

 

Don’t get the most attractive girls

Which I understand, you see;

It’s no surprise, considering

My meagre salary.

 

I don’t belong to any gangs

Or fight much, I confess

Unless you count our lunchtime club

Where we play Bridge and Chess.

 

So that is me, ol’ Rappa Dog

Or Clive, as I prefer;

My ideal night ain’t clubbing

It’s watching X Factor.

 

Bo.

Arguments Will be Decided on Trump Volume

People have arguments, like, all the time. If you disagree with me, you’ve just proved my point.

Cue smug face.

Sometimes, these arguments can take weeks to resolve, hour after hour of businesspeople locked away in a meeting room, slugging it out with their words and negotiating on stuff that probably doesn’t really matter anyway.

So, if I had my way, all arguments – whether in the board room of a business, the playground of a school, or the sports pitch of a team – will be decided by who can pass wind the loudest if the two sides can’t agree. Each team will select a member to represent them.

Usually the fattest one.

The teams will toss a coin to see who goes first, and each team gets one chance to let rip the loudest. The volume and intensity of each guff is measured using one of those sound detector decibel things. The loudest fart wins. Simple.

This game takes skill: you could do the biggest guff in the world, but if it’s one of those breezy soundless ones, you’ve pretty much lost. So much as a toot from the opposition would see them crowned as victors. But neither team would care, safe in the knowledge that the world is now a better place thanks to the wonders of natural gas.

The loss of smell is only temporary, don't worry.

Many men already live by this rule, although their partners don’t realise they’ve literally just been trumped. This is the beginning of the revolution. Are you in?

Monday Would be Renamed Funday

It’s a fact of life that Mondays suck. Everyone trudges into school or work, looking all glum. Some people are still a bit bleary-eyed from a heavy weekend. Exclamations of “where did the weekend go?” and “is it Monday already?!” echo off the walls. You get the gist. Mondays pretty much make you want to die.

So, if I had my way, Mondays will be banned. Actually, strike that: Mondays wouldn’t be banned, because then Tuesday would be the new Monday, and everyone would be just as upset, just on a different day.

Instead, Monday would be renamed Funday, and it would be the law that from the hours of 8-11 in the morning people everywhere are allowed to do nothing other than play games. It can be Scrabble, Halo, football, tiddlywinks, whatever – as long as you’re having fun, it’s fine. Those of you who insist on working will be shot. I don’t mean metaphorically shot. I mean actually shot. In the face.

Everyone would also have to dress up in fancy dress. And fire off Party Poppers every hour, on the hour. Basically, Mondays would be awesome. Morale would increase, positivity would increase, and the UK would generally be a happier place.

So break out the Ker-plunk, boys. It’s Monday morning, and things are about to get wild.

Handshakes Would be Replaced by High-Fives

Handshakes are so boring. So business-like and formal. That’s no way to greet someone else, or open a meeting.

Boring.

Plus, it’s a great way to spread disease. Swine flu? The Bubonic Plague? AIDS? All spread by handshakes. You dirty beggars.

So, if I had my way, all handshakes would be banned, and replaced by high-fives. The reason for this is two-fold.

Firstly, it prevents the spread of nasty diseases. Instead of a lingering, clammy handshake, where no doubt one of you hasn’t washed his hands properly after doing a pee, you give a quick hand slap; two, if you know the person really well.

Secondly, it’s super cool.

As demonstrated.

If you’re still skeptical, allow me to paint you a little mind picture with my brain brush. This is Ban Ki-moon. He’s the Secretary-General of the United Nations.

Harro.

Every now and then, when there’s a crisis on or he’s a bit bored, he’ll hold a UN Summit, where all the world leaders get together to have a bit of a knees-up and perhaps the odd thumb war. At the moment, these world leaders have to shake hands.

You'd find more charisma in a sponge.

This takes time, is boring, and – yep, you’ve guessed it, the whole germy thing again.

So imagine this: Ban Ki-moon gets everyone to sit down, and then runs in front of each row with his hand out, high-fiving everyone as he legs it past. Then, when he’s finished, all the world leaders high-five each other. Obama high-fiving Gaddafi. Cameron double-high-fives Sarkosy. In the background, Berlusconi does the whole ‘down below you’re too slow’ thing on Putin, who initially looks grumpy but then realises that it’s a high-five, and so laughs instead.

This also applies to being sworn into office.

Just think about how many lives could have been saved with a high-five. High-fives make everything better. If Obama would only high-five Ahmadinejad, tensions between the two countries would lift and they’d get along like a house on fire. Instead, due to the boring old handshake, houses literally are on fire.

If only Churchill had high-fived Hitler, millions of lives could have been spared. You think about that next time you’re in a stuffy business meeting. You’re ruining the world.