They head east, immediately get lost, argue about who was meant to pack the tent, and end up at a festival that smells like sunscreen, dust, and poor decisions. One of them definitely tried to cook sausages on a portable speaker.
He’s on infection number ten, which at this point feels less like a virus and more like a long‑term situationship. The boys treat it like a sports stat:
They try to talk about the week’s global drama but it quickly devolves into:
It’s less analysis, more three blokes trying to explain geopolitics like it’s a pub argument.
They wrap it up scrolling through the algorithm’s darkest corners:
The lads collectively agree the internet is cooked.
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