"See you all Monday!" I say to my co-workers, at the place that if I named I would have to kill you, as I head off into the setting sun on Friday afternoon. I let out a little evil cackle inside knowing full well that I don't intend on being in on Monday. It's Superbowl Monday and normally that means that I'll take a day off and watch the game over breakfast. But since I have run out of Holidays this year, I am planning on taking a sickie!

I have yet to decide just how naughty I am going to be. If I am going to be very naughty then I am off all day Monday with something that has kept me up all night. If I am only going to be slightly naughty then it's an emergency optician's appointment and I'm in work after lunch. Both of which are credible lies. The first does not require me to sound ill when I call in, just disorientated and tired. The second is completely understandable because a) my optician is hot and b) I wear contact lenses.

My plan is hatched with extreme deviousness.

It seems much less devious when I'm running from the tram stop back to my flat on Sunday because I need the toilet. This would make visit number 3 in a little under two hours.

"I can't believe I'm ill! There's no point taking a sickie when I'm ill." I say to My Canadian Girlfriend as I try and mask the smell with multiple flushes and a squirt of Glade Fresh. "I'm being punished!"

"It's probably just psychosomatic." she replies.

We head over to my parents for Sunday Dinner. Their toilets are notoriously difficult to flush, I am not sure how I will cope if the pills I have taken don't stop my psychopathic illness. The meal is a pretty normal affair - soup to start, followed by roast chicken, apple crumble as desert with coffee, cheese and biscuits served by the computer as I run Spybot to try and untangle the mess my dad has managed to get himself into. During this time, my Canadian Girlfriend wraps herself up in a blanket and parks herself with all the Saturday and Sunday Magazines my parent's haven't bothered to recycle - they claim that they simply keep them just for her to read but I know that they're just far too lazy to walk to carry them out to the recycling.

Thankfully, due to the number of "MySearchBarWeb" tools and cookies from websites I wish I didn't know my parents had looked at - I have plenty of time to spend trying to figure out how to flush their toilet. I take advantage of this break in proceedings because coupled with the fact that the Diacalm is wearing off I need to head upstairs to leave behind most of the meal I have just enjoyed.

If I was one of my colleagues I would find it very hard to believe that I was really ill the day after the Superbowl. So to prove that I was ill, even if it was psychotropic, I take a time stamped photo of my anal expulsions and using my Parent's patented pump-flush action on the toilet to get rid of the evidence.

My anti-Semitic illness is getting worse. I am home and have just expunged the apple crumble. I am sure I am being punished for thinking about faking illness. One of the things I had planned to do on Monday afternoon when I was fake-sick, before going to the gym, was to clean my en-suite because it needed cleaning. Now it REALLY needs cleaning. It looks like I'm going to have to clean it in between using the toilet in the bathroom my Canadian Girlfriend uses, which will also need cleaning by mid-morning.

The night passes off without incident, thankfully. I ring work trying not to be too graphic but also making sure that they knew something serious was up and it was not a semantic illness. I take my Canadian Girlfriend off to work avoiding the result of the Superbowl by not turning anything but her on.

I arrive home and have my normal post-breakfast poo. The only non-normal characteristic of which is the fact that I do it before breakfast. I sit down and turn on the DVD recorder. The Superbowl has not recorded. I am being punished.

Somehow, using a mix between covering the computer screen with my hand and not being able to see anything without my glasses on, I find out that an edited version of the Superbowl is on Sky Sports at 1pm. I take my Diacalm and plot a return to my parents to borrow their cable.