In a flat near the Mersey, where time just stalls,
Lives Josh in his fortress of takeaway calls.
A legend unseen, in his dressing gown throne,
A shut-in, a virgin, and proudly alone.
His gut is a hill, his posture a slump,
He’s level 90 in games, life stuck in a dump.
He once left his room—back in Year Nine,
But Tesco delivers, and that suits him fine.
He trolls on Discord with tactical grace,
Yet panics if someone FaceTimes his face.
Says love is a myth, just pixels and noise,
Yet he dreams every night of connection and poise.
He posts on /brit/pol/ from dusk till dawn,
Threads on race, the Queen, and how Britain’s gone.
Caps lock fury, walls of text,
Refreshing the feed for what comes next.
The flat stays quiet, no knock, no shout,
Just the hum of the fan and the silence about.
The world outside keeps spinning fast,
But Josh lives deep in a screen-lit past.
The lads from the pub? Don’t ask, don’t text.
Josh ghosted them hard round sometime next.
Now Runcorn rolls on outside his shell,
While Josh loads up Skyrim, comfy as hell.
So mock if you must—but know this truth:
There’s peace in withdrawal, and power in youth.
He may be a shut-in, no dates, no fuss—
But Josh has his world, and it’s more than enough.