How To Get Fired from your Job in 4 Simple Steps
Jobs. Who needs ‘em right? For a lot of people another New Year means it’s another year in a job they just can’t stand. Thankfully, I’ve got 4 simple steps to help you get fired.
Give up on hygiene
This step is the foundation for getting fired, as nobody likes working with someone who has body odour. This is even more effective when working in an office, as there’s no escape from the stench. By giving up showering, washing your hair, and shaving, you’ll soon look caveman-tastic.
You can take this to the next level by actively playing sports and working out after hours, and then watch with feigned confusion as people physically recoil from you as you pass them in the corridor. Hey, if they can’t stomach being around you, how can they do business with you?
(Bonus marks are given if flies start to follow you around)
Only take personal calls
It’s one thing to take the odd personal call every once in a while, or sneak a cheeky text message when no-one’s looking, but it’s a whole different world when every call becomes a personal call. Letting everyone around you know about your personal life is a definitive way to alienate yourself from your co-workers.
This works doubly well if you’re ‘loud and proud’; just imagine your boss’ and co-workers face as they listen to you graphically discussing the mole that you had removed, or how your dog was sick everywhere, which then made you vomit as you cleaned it up. That is a priceless face.
(Bonus marks are given if you can make someone in the office throw up whilst talking about the dog/you vomiting)
Start a Social Media hate campaign
Everyone has Facebook and Twitter these days, and unfortunately for us employees our Manager’s tend to monitor them to make sure you’re not bringing the company into disrepute. Well, they’ll be in for a shock when they check your Twitter and discover you’ve started a hate campaign against the company, abusing them with hashtags that have gone viral.
Everyone is laughing at them and their business plummets. You say ‘it was a mistake, someone must have hacked my account,’ and you get a second chance. Well, now you add everyone from work on Facebook and proceed to abuse them and the company, tagging them in derogatory posts, statuses about how rubbish your job is. You know the drill by now.
(Bonus marks are given if you conduct these campaigns whilst actually at work)
As you can see, it’s not too hard to get fired if you really want to. If you follow these four simple steps then you’ll be down job centre in no time!
If you’ve got any more tips that you think would speed up the process of getting fired then leave them in the comments section below.
(Bonus marks are given if you write them in capitals)
An Internship with King Joffrey Part 1
I knocked cautiously on the door
‘Enter,’ came the voice of The Hand of The King.
My hands were full so I rubbed my groin against the door, arousing myself just enough to poke open the latch. I nudged it with my feet and sidled in. The King’s Hand sat facing away from me,
‘Yes, what is it?’ He asked
‘Umm…King Joffrey wanted me to bring this to you my Lord,’
A sigh arose from a chair facing the fire,
‘I hope it’s not what I think it is….’ The Hand trailed off, before jumping down from his chair and waddling into sight.
He was shorter than I’d imagined, almost cute, like a Furby or a Monkey (bush baby). As he approached, I placed my delivery on the floor (ground). Well, I mean, I dropped the lifeless body on the floor.
‘Another one?’ Lord Tyrion asked aloud. I nodded, ‘what for this time?’
‘I believe it was for His Grace’s Bar Mitzvah, My Lord’
‘First Kwanzaa, then Thanksgiving, and now this? I mean, Joffrey isn’t even Jewish…!’ Tyrion kicked the lifeless body in front of him, before adding, ‘He’d only been cleaning windows here for a week and all….oh well, another one for the wall I guess.’
Tyrion gestured to a nearby wall, on which were mounted a large number of Human heads on display shields. Some of the names underneath read: Prostitute 1, Baker, Minstrel, Prostitute 2, Prostitute 3, Fisherman, Prostitute 4.
‘He doesn’t like hookers too much does he”’ I ventured. Tyrion laughed.
‘He prefers beating them to death instead of beating off to them.’
Tyrion walked over to a table and tried to grab a bottle of wine, but he couldn’t reach. After watching him try for about five minutes or so, I walked over to the table and casually lifted the bottle off the table and gave it to him. He held it with both hands, arms wrapped around it like it was his only friend. Cute. He waddled unsteadily across to a goblet on the floor and awkwardly tipped a small trickle of wine into it. Squatting, he placed the bottle on the floor and picked up the thimble-sized goblet. Looking around, I noticed everything in the room – bar the wine bottles – was a miniature. It was like hanging out in Medieval Barbie’s Orgy tower.
Placing my hands on his head, I ruffled his hair as I leapfrogged over Tyrion and onto a nearby couch, twisting myself until I was comfortable. It was a most provocative pose. I stuck a joint in my mouth and lit it off a nearby candle. Taking a drag I pumped a cloud of smoke into the Little Man’s face.
‘So…do you wear Kids’ size clothes or what then?’
He coughed loudly several times, between each cough stuttering ‘who…are…you…again?
‘I’m the new Intern,’ I replied, taking another puff on the joint, ‘Don’t think I do this on the reg, but when Grand Maester Pycelle rolls a zoot you better believe that shit is worth smoking.’
‘Yes, I’ve had enough of Pycelle’s potions and tintures to last me a lifetime. The last one he created - …Meow Meow…I think it was called – was banned. So, I guess that explains your arrogance. Do you know what happened to the last person who was here on an Internship?’
‘Umm….he got made King?’
Tyrion pointed out the window. I gulped, loudly, like in a cartoon.
‘You threw him out a window?’
‘Oh god no!’ responded the Dwarf, ‘He jumped out of the window – King Joffrey made him do it for singing R Kelly’s ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ all day, every day.’
I made a mental note to avoid mentioning R Kelly when around King Joffrey, especially because R Kelly is famous for only two things: ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ and pissing on little girls. I really didn’t want to piss on any little girls, or have Joffrey piss on me.
‘Thanks for the advice’ I said gratefully.
‘I’ll see you around’ replied The Hand of The King, smiling, ‘Oh, and remember, don’t smoke anymore of Pycelle’s stash.’
‘ I have too fucked the Queen!’
‘Fuck you Lancel, you’re full of bullshit.’
I was sat in the staff room (read: partially furnished dungeon) of the Red Keep, arguing with Lancel Lannister. Lancel was the late King Robert’s squire, but in the wake of his death had been noshing his way to the top at a phenomenal rate.
‘Lancel, the girl don’t like you, I don’t like you, nobody likes you. And you telling rumours like that…you’re going to get yourself killed boy!’
‘It’s not a rumour, it’s the truth,’ said Lancel sullenly.
‘You think King Joffrey wants to hear that his cousin is smashing his mum, after having to listen people say his Uncle is really his Dad. What the hell is the matter with you Lannisters? Your lives are like a plot of Eastenders….except everyone is related. Your lives are like Emmerdale!
Lancel was quiet. He was obviously thinking up a reply, but couldn’t quite compete with my own cognitive abilities. He looked up sharply and smiled. Clearly inspiration had arrived.
‘Watch this,’ he said.
Lancel pulled out his Iphone and logged into Facebook.
‘Come on man, I’ve only got like five minutes of my break left,’ I wheedled, ‘This better be worth it!’
Lancel hunched over his Iphone for a few more seconds and then held it out for me to see. I laughed when I saw what was on the screen,
‘You sent a relationship request to your own goddamn cousin? What the hell is the matter with you man! Hahaha’
‘She’ll accept, you’ll see!’
Having sat and laughed at Lancel for what seemed like two hours and thirty-three minutes, I checked my own phone for the time, only to discover I’d actually only been laughing at him for two hours and thirty two minutes. I was also over two hours late coming back from lunch – Fucking Lancel.
‘Well?’ I asked
‘Umm…well…’ was all he could manage before his Iphone beeped at him. With cat like agility Lancel opened his notification, only to sink back into his chair as quickly as he had risen, like a wave or a yo-yo.
‘Well?’ I asked again. He held his phone up for me to read: ‘Lancel Lanister is in a relationship and it’s complicated’.
‘BOOM! I told you she wouldn’t accept a relationship request! You’re such a fucking liar,’ I yelled in his general direction.
‘I’m not! I had my willy in her and everything! You’ll see! I promise’
Lancel’s voice had taken on a pitiful, defeated tone, leaving him to sound like a deflating balloon every time he spoke. Realising that I hadn’t the heart to bully Lancel anymore, I left him to wallow in his self-pity and slowly backed out of the room.
The Queen Regent’s scream of surprise could be heard throughout the Keep.
‘AHHHH!!!’ I said again, still stood in the same star pose I’d jumped into her room with, ‘Guess who’s back with the ill behavior? Seriously though, I bought you some wine.’
Queen Cersei glowered at mine, her coal like eyes hot like hot coals, smoldering like hot coal, giving her a…hot…coal-like façade. Despite all the coal, I could see she was angry at me, so I edged further into the room and carefully placed her wine jug on her dresser.
‘You know, I always imagined you kinda people to be more easy going?’
‘My kind of people?’ she replied aloofly.
‘Well, you know, I just didn’t have you pinned down as being so aloof,’ I said nonchalantly, picking up a jewel encrusted tiara and trying it on. It didn’t fit so I had to try and ram it onto my head. It refused to fit and having bent it more out of shape than Uri Gellar might have, I put it down and asked, ‘I thought you’d have more arms and legs as well.’
‘You know, I thought you’d have like 6 legs and stuff…’
‘Explain yourself before I have you executed,’ Cersei was getting angry.
‘I always thought that people who did incest had six legs’
There was an awkward pause, broken only four times by loud, and prolonged, coughing fits I used to cover up some untimely wind that I was suffering from (the food in the Red Keep was Baked Beans, Smiley Face Potato Shapes and Crispy Pancakes most nights – personally I blame King Joffrey’s delight in beheading anyone who squeezed cheese in his presence for the shit nutritional value of meals. That, and the fact that “Dr” Gillian Mckeith was Sandor Clegane’s sister and worked part time in the Palace. In keeping with Clegane family tradition, Gillian also had her own nickname: The Hound, The Mountain That Rides, and The Fucking Stupid Bitch Who Isn’t A Real Doctor).
Cersei’s grimace was palpable. So palpable that its palpability couldn’t have been any more palpable unless it was constantly palping.
‘I think you mean Insects. Insects have 6 legs,’ said the Queen frostily.
‘Oh. What’s incest then?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You know Lancel said he fucked you’
Cersei seemed shocked, ‘…but…I’
‘Don’t worry, I told him to stop spreading bullshit around the castle,’ I replied, giving her a big thumbs up. Cersei heaved a sigh of relief and slumped onto her bed, sitting on its edge with her legs spread and eyeing me cautiously, as if I was a Shark with a gun.
Seeing the Queen sit here like this gave her a vulnerability that I hadn’t noticed before: She wasn’t wearing a bra. My natural height gave me a perfect view down her cleavage and it was definitely sans bra…or the Medieval equivalent…sans boiled leather strap secured asthmatically tight around her frosty breasticles. This was my chance. I could get laid and make Lancel look like an idiot if I could just seduce the Queen right here, right now.
‘You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful, it’s true,’ I took a breath and continued, ‘I saw your face in a crowded place, and I don’t know what to do, ‘cause I’ll never be with you…’ I winked, and finished with a falsetto ‘….or I could be with you right here, right now……’ (Personally, I thought I held the pitch perfectly, but that’s another discussion for another time)
The Queen didn’t even bat an eyelid. My seduction had failed; I was going to be a laughing stock for the first time in my life. Suddenly, I remembered that there was something in my back pocket. Without missing a beat I pulled out a long blonde wig and slipped it onto my hair,
‘How about now?’ I asked
‘Hmmmm,’ purred Cersei, ‘ You look just like Jaime…’
‘Jaime…your brother? Celibate Jaime of The Kingsgaurd? Your celibate brother Jaime who definitely isn’t the King’s father?’
‘The very same’ purred Cersei again, as she lapped at a saucer of milk.
Maybe the wig had been a bad idea. I was all over getting into Cersei’s pants, but not so keen on pretending I was her brother whilst doing it. I mean I’ve done some wild stuff in my time, I’ve crossed the road when the light was red, I’ve gone through Tesco self-service without paying, but roleplaying insect sex with a Queen..?
‘Is that the time?’ I stuttered, pointing to my left
The queen looked to her right, ‘no that’s a wall,’ she replied
‘Really? And what an intriguing wall it is! Maybe if I look a bit closer I’ll be able to decipher its time revealing abilities.’ I wandered stiffly over to the wall and started to examine it up close: touching it, licking it, smelling it, ‘…doesn’t look like it’s going to give up it’s secrets easily,’ I told her.
‘That’s because it’s a wall,’ said Cersei drolly.
‘IT IS??’ I said with an undetectable amount of feigned surprise, ‘Well I’m going to retire now and think about what I’ve seen.’
Backing out of the room, I swiped the wig off of my head and threw it out of a window. Unfortunately my aim wasn’t the greatest and it landed in the fire, catching alight instantly.
‘For Fuck’s sake,’ I muttered, ‘ probably shouldn’t have covered it in so much hairsp-‘
I didn’t get to finish my sentence because the wig exploded in a fiery blaze, leaving a litany of flaming chunks of hair all over Cersei’s room. Seeing this as quite the convenient distraction, I slipped out of the Queen’s room.
I didn’t meet the Queen’s eye’s over dinner, but Joffrey complained enough about the smell of burning that now followed his mother around everywhere, for me to know that she hated me.
There are downsides to looking this beautiful: Why everyone hates me
On a recent walk down the street, I was delighted to be approached by a foul smelling homeless man who offered me a freshly printed edition of The Big Issue, in exchange for a mere pound.
‘Please sir, ‘elp me put a roof over my ‘ead for the night! It’s so cowld outside ‘n the rats nibble somethin’ rotten on me testicles, look…’
As I examined the scarred, and surprisingly soft, testicles of the homeless man, I cupped them gently in my hands, like a pair of freshly laid bird eggs. I took care to note how many pedestrians gave me a funny look, or ignored me entirely. But what they failed to note was that, in print, their ignorance and funny looks are easily construed as jealousy.
You’re probably thinking ‘what a surprising story, ’. But while it was lovely, it wasn’t a surprise; at least, not for me.
Throughout my life, I’ve regularly had my bags packed for me in the supermarket, or had my post delivered right to my house, all by people I don’t know. Once, I was walking down Canary Wharf when a pigeon shit on my head; I didn’t know the pigeon, and hadn’t asked anything of it; whilst another time, in Englefield Green, I bought a sausage roll from a fair, only to have my money refused by the elderly proprietor, who was having a stroke.
Another time, as I was walking through London’s Portobello Road market, I was tapped on the shoulder and presented with a beautiful bunch of flowers. It doesn’t matter if they were immediately snatched back due to a case of mistaken identity, that incident actually happened.
And whenever I’ve asked what I’ve done to receive such treatment, the donors always do the same thing: They ignore me, preferring instead, to simply imply, that my chiselled jaw, flawless hair, turquoise ‘oasis in the desert of your face’ eyes, smooth skin, winning smile, wrinkle free forehead, succulent lips, pearly white teeth, great personality, and inherent modesty had made their day.
While I’m certainly no Danny Mcbride, I’m tall-ish, somewhere between slim and athletic, brunette, and, so I often tell myself, a good-looking guy. I know, that you know, that I know, that you know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to being this fucking awesome – and that is, that everyone hates me for no other reason that my ‘better than Jesus’ looks.
Or maybe ‘God Like’ – hmm… - ok, let’s go with that:
But there are downsides to being this fucking awesome – and that is, that everyone hates me for no other reason that my ‘God Like’ looks.
If you’re a person who exists, and you’re reading this, then firstly, Well Done! You Exist! And secondly, I’d hazard that you’ve already formed your own opinion of me – and it’s probably that I’m so amazing you must hate me. I’ve never studied Psychology (despite demanding that all my mail be delivered to DR Watts), but even I know that this is textbook stuff. People hate me because I shine so brightly that their own failings are highlighted. A classic case of a Countered Ultra Narcissism Template. Better known as C.U.N.T. Syndrome. I’m like a big, luminous cunt highlighting other people’s flaws – and it’s unfair that people hate me for it.
I’m not ugly and I’m not poor, yet over the years I’ve been dropped by many friends (read: two friends, one parent), who all felt threatened by my gorgeous existence. If their partners dared talk to me, an awkward pause would always ensue.
And it’s not just most people who dislike me. Insecure parents have grounded me and sent me to bed without supper, just for looking like I do.
And most poignantly at all, not one boyfriend (no homo) has ever asked me to be his best man (probably worried I’ll be the ‘better’ man per se).
In the next segment I’ll be utilising a narration technique known as ‘flashbacking’. As a fully qualified writer, with merit, I have been trained in the art of narration, dating all the way back to the Viking tradition. In short, here’s what happened when I turned up unannounced at a co-worker’s party.
The last few cocaine particles flew up my nostril, bidding farewell to the portacabin homes they had, only moments ago, set up on my credit card. My eyes bulged and my heart quickened as I rolled up my sleeves, and slicked back my hair.
Feeling like that guy out of Miami Vice, not the remake, I strode through the front door of Martin-From-Work’s moving in party.
I spied a free bar on the kitchen counter and made a beeline for it, taking note that pretty much everyone from the office was already here. I guess that now I had arrived – Mr T.Watts AKA Mr V.I.P. - the party could really start.
I grabbed a bottle and took a swig,
‘What the fuck man? That’s my beer!’
‘Thanks,’ I replied, flashing a high powered, aggressively gleaming, smile at the offended party – a rather attractive and petite little blonde, an intern most likely, and on the scale of ‘attractiveness relative to me’, maybe a six and a half in five beers time.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Aurora, I’m new’
‘Oh cool…’ I said, feigning interest, ‘what would you shorten that to…Rory?’
I sighed audibly; to show her how exasperated she made me. I knew that she may be a six and a half in five beers time, but I was four down and even-three-ly I would need two do a number one.
‘Your name dear, your name’
‘Oh, well it’s Goldie, actually,’ giggled the increasingly perky blonde.
What an odd choice of name, I thought to myself
‘What an odd choice of name,’ I said aloud, ‘….Why?’
‘Because the first two letters are Au, the chemical symbol for Gold’
I smiled, but internally all my alarms were blaring the word ‘Nutter!’ repeatedly. Suddenly, I was yelling! Louder and louder and louder,
‘Nutter! Nutter! Nutter! Nutter!’
I had become so carried away with own internal monologue that I had subconsciously started yelling my own internal alarm out loud. Aurora had frozen stiff. Her eyes narrowed and her nose flared, like a pair of jeans from the 70s or from That 70s Show.
‘Did I say that out loud? Oh, I’m terribly sorry! It’s just I’ve got these oh, so beautiful cheek bones, you see’
‘So what? You’re still a prick’
‘Well, being beautiful means that I’m automatically better than you, and that you should forgive me’
‘Really? You want me to repeat myself to you? Did you know, that I can hear a train from over a mile away – my ears are that perfect. And you? You can’t even listen to my wonderfully pronounced sentences?’
I left the rhetorical question hanging there, like a fishhook tantalisingly hanging, like a slightly different fishhook tantalisingly hanging in a sea of awkward silence.
The hook dangled, and dangled, and dangled some more, we all agreed later it was the longest dangle we ever did saw.
‘You should see someone about that, get some grommets or something,’ I said to break the silence, albeit at the cost of the arguably more effective rhetorical question.
Once again my pristine, better than Ken (of Ken and Barbie fame don’t you know), looks had thwarted any chance I had at normalcy.
‘Wanker,’ came a shout from the crowd.
It was quickly followed by another, and another, until I was being rained down upon by some almighty curse-word rainstorm.
Well I wasn’t going to stand for that. Not from these peasants…
I once read somewhere that an effective writer enters midway into a scene, and leaves before it finishes. Well, if that makes a good writer, then judging by the quality of the ‘flashbacking’ episode above, the forced entry and the abrupt exit, then you better lock me up for multiple life sentences, throw away all the keys, soak the sponge, grant my last request, and then electrocute me, because I am guilty as charged.
It’s a shame that so many people are biased against beautiful people, such as myself and possibly Demi Moore circa 1992. I mean, it’s a well-known fact that in Ancient Greece, beautiful people were often drugged and then dipped in liquid marble, before being dripped dried into the statues we marvel at today. And what about Pompeii, the most beautiful town to have ever existed? You think a volcano buried so many beautiful people under ground? No, it was a traveling group of makeup artists, who applied so much mud to the Pompeiians’ face masks, they were buried alive.
So, now I’m 23, and only likely to become more beautiful as I become more refined with age, and maybe, just maybe, people will eventually learn to love and worship me, as they probably should. I’m a nice guy ,and as much as you all think you hate me, deep down, you all know that, my chiseled jaw, flawless hair, turquoise ‘oasis in the desert of your face’ eyes, smooth skin, winning smile, wrinkle free forehead, succulent lips, pearly white teeth, great personality, and inherent modesty should be a national treasure.
Unfortunately, only time will tell.
Feel free to use this ‘Cut out and keep Tom!’ mask to look as beautiful as me.
My most successful Valentine’s Day ever
So here it was again, that time of year, I couldn’t believe how fast it had come around, well, I mean I could believe how fast it had come around as I had learnt about it at school – I had been top of the class for triple (not double) science – but, what I meant was that I couldn’t believe how fast it had come around in a figurative sense, not an actual sense. If I had meant it in a literal sense then it would have been 100% more likely that I was typing this on a council estate, alternating every sentence with a quick rant at the benefits cheat on Jeremy Kyle, followed by a rant at the Postman for not having delivered my own benefits cheque. Oh, and if you are on benefits and you’re now moaning inwardly that ‘I don’t get benefits via cheque, I get it bank transferred by direct debit’, well then it just proves that I’m not typing this from a council estate, and that I don’t have an innate understanding of the benefits system, because I’m not poor. Unlike you. No, not you sir, I meant the other reader, the one reading this in his underwear, with half a can of Fosters resting in his lap, like a stubby blue erection, at 11:13am. Get a job you.
Can I start now? Thanks.
So here it was again, that time of year, I couldn’t believe how fast it had come around, but it had (and I definitely understood how it had come around), it was Valentine’s Day. That is, Saint Valentine’s Day if you want to use the full name, Mister Valentine’s Day if you know it through a friend, or Cupid’s Cock-Fest if you know it personally. Well, it was here and as usual I was confronted by two problems:
1) A girl I didn’t know was fast asleep in my bed, most likely tired out from all the sex, rather than the three-hour sexual health presentation that followed (a presentation, that I have been reliably informed, is as arousing as it is informative).
2) I had no Valentine’s Day present for her. Not a card, nor flowers, not chocolate, nor blowers. Not a fingtungle, bintongle, glizzard, or yowers! Not even a fucking Dr. Seuss book. Nothing.
When you’re as romantic as I am – and I assure you you’re not – that’s pretty hard to take. Does it matter that I don’t know her name? Does it matter that I’d known her less than 24 hours? Does it matter that she snored loudly, or her hair was too frizzy, or her breath stank worse than a skunk with a yeast infection? No, it didn’t, because it was Valentine’s Day, and every lady deserves to be pampered on Cupid’s Cock-Fest day (and no, pampering is not a synonym for fucking, the pampering leads to the fucking, duh). I couldn’t let her wake up and realize I had nothing ready for her, on this day of all days. I was too damned romantic not to pamper her. So, I did the only thing my rational and romantic mind could think up. I killed her in the most romantic way I could think: I turned on the theme music from the film ‘Ghost’ (film 8/10, soundtrack 9/10), and shoved a load of clay down her throat, and by clay I mean my penis. I had gorged her to death through fellatio, accompanied by Unchained Melody, and if that isn’t a romantic death, then I bloody well don’t know what is.
That’s when the guilt set in. No, not a feeling of guilt over the fellaticide I had committed, but an overwhelming sense of guilt that I had robbed this poor, and still nameless, girl of her Valentine’s Day. Her one day of pampering for pampering’s sake had been stolen callously, and erotically, from her. I felt awful. I was too romantic not to give this girl the perfect Valentine’s Day – and that’s exactly what I decided, then and there, to do. I would give this nameless, lifeless girl the greatest Valentine’s Day of her life, sort of. I would buy her chocolates and flowers; I would get her a card and treat her to a day out, and even feed her breakfast in bed, all the while pretending to overlook the intrinsic argument against her enjoying herself, aka she was dead. Yes, I would go out of my way to overlook the fact that this girl - dare I say woman? – was a cadaver, and would show her the time of her life.
With the agility of a cat I rifled through her purse and found her College ID, the photo looked exactly like my nameless girl, but it implied she was only 15 years old. Now I can spot a fake ID a mile off (I’ve got loads of them for various business ventures, mainly importing, exporting, and distributing. You may have met my alter ego: Willian del Guilhermo)
and she had plenty of fakes – Provisional Driving Licence, Passport, Birth Certificate, she had all the big hitters, and all of them were fakes, definitely fakes. She had even managed to somehow fake the special Passport computer chip and the holographic cover of the Driving Licence, two things I had thought were impossible.
The discoveries I had made may have led a cynical person to assume I had picked up an underage girl at a bar and then wantonly murdered her through vicious oral love making. I pity you, you cynical bastard. Myself however? I’m a glass half full kinda guy, as in, if the glass is half full I’ll finish it off immediately and order a Tequila Slammer as a chaser. And that’s exactly what I did. After necking the bottle of tequila that I surreptitiously keep under my bed, in case of emergency parties breaking out, my mind was awash with a new sense of optimism, and how could it not be? After all, here was a gorgeous – admittedly dead – but nevertheless gorgeous – possibly underage – but nonetheless gorgeous girl in my bed, adorably cuddled up to the empty tequila bottle that I had slipped into her bosom. She looked the epitome of serenity.
I decided it was time for breakfast. However, the tequila made cooking breakfast a far more precarious and dangerous activity than it usually is, especially since I was pulling out all the stops to give this girl the best damn Valentine’s Day breakfast of her life. Thankfully, it went off without a hitch: I poured the Corn Flakes into the bowl (only spilling a few), I poured the milk in afterwards (only spilling a bit) and managed to stumble back upstairs (only spilling a little bit more on the way) before presenting it to my Valentine. She didn’t seem as keen on it as I had hoped, and I quickly discovered why: there was nothing left in the bowl at all, I must have spilled more than I thought!
I ran (read: drunkenly bumbled) to the door, slipped on a puddle of milk and fell down the stairs. When I think back to it now, I’m sure that the bumping of my head on the stairs sounded identical to the drumbeat in that White Stripes song, you know the one, that song; God I’m talented. The tequila combined with my newly acquired concussion was a potent mix, a mix that, most likely, was as ill advised as Paul McCartney releasing ‘Ebony & Ivory’ in South Africa during the 80s. My head was swimming (thankfully I’ve got my 50m and 100m badges) as I made my way to the Kitchen, where an ungodly scene greeted me. Whereas I had thought, in a tequila infused stupor, that I had spilled only the tiniest amounts of milk and cornflakes, it actually transpired that the scene that greeted me was one that I can only describe as ‘Ed Sheeran exploding after being pumped, beyond breaking point, full of male cum’ – there was white and orange everywhere, a real Corn Flakes and Milk nightmare. It was a mess. I was a mess, both disorientated and drunk, and the situation was a mess. I didn’t know what to do, so, once again, I did the only thing I could think of. I turned Unchained Melody back on, dragged the girl to my car and told her that I was taking her out for the day; Romantic impulses to the rescue once again.
I had no idea where I was driving, but I knew wherever it was had to be romantic. One place immediately leapt to mind: The Fun Fair, but more specifically the Tunnel of Love. What is more romantic than a Tunnel of Love? Not only is it a secret, romantic retreat in which any number of sex acts may be exchanged between two willing partners, but it is also a euphemism for a woman’s vagina, or if you prefer the Latin, her ‘Cunt’. The trip was fairly uneventful as it turned out my Valentine wasn’t the overly chatty type, preferring to maintain a stoic silence – it was clear that I had ballsed up this morning; I mean I look back now and think to myself ‘Cornflakes’? Why didn’t I crack out my Jordans Country Crisp Flame Raisin Clusters cereal? Everyone has one of these moments in their life, and I guess this was mine, my very own Macbeth moment (to Country Crisp, or not to Country Crisp?), and surely a decision that will haunt me to my dying day, or at least until the end of next week.
Anyhow, needless to say, but I had brought the soundtrack to Ghost with us, and was contentedly humming away to Unchained Melody, when I noticed that my Valentine had now begun to enter rigor mortis – her grip on the Tequila bottle was quite formidable. Somehow, through the haze of tequila and constant pain of my cranial injuries, I realized that maybe my Valentine’s rigor mortis might actually be detrimental to any chance I had of a 100% successful seduction in the Tunnel of Love. If I made the move would it be considered rape? Can you a rape a corpse? Can a corpse consent? Is it not just like making passionate love to the ground, or a giant fabric Art Attack, or a seasonally fruiting tree? Questions beget questions, and I was a man who was now panicking ever so slightly…but in a romantic way - I can guarantee that.
In the end I had to do it; it was the only way I could of done it.
My plans for a romantic Tunnel of Love experience had been thwarted by a combination of my fragile, drunken, concussed mind, and my Valentine’s fragile, drunken, deceased body. Now, I may possess levels of agility far beyond a normal human, but even I couldn’t smuggle a corpse into a Fun Fair, on a weekday, during half term, in the summer. It simply cannot be done, and believe me I tried – several times! By my third attempt a hangover had begun to kick in, and, Jesus Christ, I definitely didn’t need that at 11:30 in the morning. The pain was intense, more than enough to knock out any regular man; in fact, I would describe it as being similar to fisting Keira Knightley, but with my head. Agonizing indeed.
My Valentine had begun to get on my nerves: firstly, she hadn’t eaten the ice-cream I had bought her, preferring instead to dribble it all over herself, in what I can only interpret as an act of defiance; and secondly, she was starting to attract flies. I couldn’t be doing with it, romantic spirit or not, she had to go. After about thirty minutes of driving I found a river, probably the most romantic river you’d have ever seen. There were flowers – romantic, singing birds – romantic, and a babbling brook – romantic. As it turned out, I was actually still drunk! The flowers turned out to be weeds, the brook a trickle of dirty water, and the birds, crows. The very same crows that rushed me in a tightly knit formation as I removed my Valentine’s body from the passenger seat; the very same crows that ripped her eyeballs from her sockets, and yes, the very same crows that forced me – FORCED ME – to ditch the body, jump in the car and get the hell out if there.
Looking back, not only can I see that it was my most successful, and romantic, Valentine’s Day ever, but if I squint really hard, and look even further back I can still see the crows jostling for position.
In the words of The Beatles, “it must be love, love, love. It must be…”
My Weekend With Sherlock
I’m fully aware that those of you who read these posts regard me as some autonomous demi-god, a divine being with a razor sharp wit, who slumps himself over a couch eating grapes, dictating each post to an inferior human being, who in turn dictates it verbatim to another, even more pathetic creature. Yet, for all the poise and grace you imagine I have, and which I do have, I still can’t gain direct access to Cumberbatch and his oddly angular face.
The closest I came to meeting him was when I chloroformed his postman, and stole some of his mail. Admittedly, the letters I had stolen turned out to be nothing more than a water bill and a Thai Restaurant menu; but as I sat there slurping on some noodles and shouting down the phone at Thames Water, I felt as if Sherlock and I were the best of friends.
Of course, what this all boils down to is the simple fact that I fucking love Sherlock. It’s a brilliant piece of televisual entertainment, period. I love it so much that I kind of wish that Cumberbatch was really Sherlock, instead of being Cumberbatch. I wanted this so much that I decided to make it a reality, and when I say that, what I really mean is that I decided, then and there, to defraud a charitable organization, say, one that grants wishes to terminally ill children, for my own gain. Simples. I even had a mark. Her name? Let’s just call her Ms. Make-A-Wish-Foundation-UK, and not ask any more questions. Anyway, my wish was simple: To spend a weekend with Cumberbatch, during which he would assume the identity and personality traits of Sherlock, from Sherlock. And my supposed terminal illness? a unique case of Super Cancer AIDS. A fictitious disease so horrible, that it’s not just worse than having Cancer or AIDS, but worse than both combined (that’s what the qualifier ‘super’ refers to).
Needless to say, the nice folks over at M-A-W-F-U-K were very kind and considerate, especially after seeing how debilitating my disease was. I convinced them as to the seriousness of my imaginary Super Cancer Aids through a number of methods:
1. I stopped showering, sighed wistfully and claimed water made my skin burn (I stole this from that witch in The Wizard of Oz)
2. I covered my body with salami slices and claimed they were extra nipples (I stole this from an episode of Family Guy), when this was questioned I claimed I couldn’t lift up my shirt as I was body conscious, before sighing wistfully.
3. I painted a swimming cap pink and wore it as “proof” of my Chemotherapy. I explained away the tufts of hair poking out near my ears as the last few hairs I had left, before sighing wistfully.
4. I bought a Kerry Katona DVD and, instead of watching it to lose weight and account for my AIDS-ridden body, I instead simply showed the M-A-W-F-U-K team that I had bought a Kerry Katona DVD, before sighing wistfully, and being immediately bumped up to ‘critical condition’.
5. I starting sighing wistfully a lot more
I think you’ll all agree that it was quite the perfect crime. So, within a week all the relevant forms were submitted and I started hearing rumours that Cumberbatch might be interested. These rumours were proven true one Saturday morn on which I read an interview Cumberbatch did with that stalwart of journalism, Gordon Smart, from the Sun’s Bizarre pages - the home of the latest showbiz, celebrity and entertainment news – in which Cumberbatch heavily implied, by out rightly stating, that he was very interested in working with M-A-W-F-U-K. His almost perfectly perfect cheekbones were almost perfectly ensnared in my almost perfectly dastardly plot. I could almost smell him (and not just because I knew what aftershave he wore and had bought if for myself).
A fortnight after this I received a letter from M-A-W-F-U-K congratulating me that ‘although you are dying, your wish has been granted! You will be: spending a weekend with Cumberbatch during which he will assume the identity and personality traits of Sherlock, from Sherlock.’ This was the best news I had received since being acquitted of all charges in that unmentionable (rape) court case I might have (definitely) been involved in (I wasn’t) (I was). I checked the calendar on my iPhone 4S – a gift from M-A-W-F-U-K well-wisher, score bitches! – And realized that the weekend that I had been allowed access to Cumberbatch was literally days away! I was so excited I almost pissed myself, and then I decided it would probably just add more credence to my Super Cancer AIDS story, so I did piss myself; and let me tell you, that the hot, wet mess between my legs didn’t dampen my spirits at all, no-sir-ree.
But it did ruin my chinos.
It was three days later and I was all packed and ready to go. I had even packed a small gift for Cumberbatch, to thank him for giving up his time for me, a dying child. Although, to be honest, had he not given up his time for a dying child, I would have given a tell-all interview to Heat Magazine, and made him look like a right selfish prick. But, thankfully, he wasn’t. He and his cheekbones were as friendly as they were sharp. With bag in hand, a smile in my falsely diseased heart, and a skip in my step (not too much of a skip though), I made my way into central London to meet Cumberbatch, henceforth referred to as Sherlock.
I bought a sausage sandwich from a greasy spoon along the way, and upon arriving at 221b Baker Street, I promptly sat cross-legged on the floor and started chomping on my sandwich. Weirdly, as I sat there, tongue wrestling with the rubbery bread, people started throwing coins at me as if I was some kind of homeless charity case. I couldn’t believe the nerve of these people: I’d gotten what I’d wanted – Sherlock – by being falsely terminally ill, not by being residentially challenged. And that’s pretty much what I said to the next person, who threw a coin at me,
“I’ve got Super Cancer AIDS, I’m not fucking homeless,“ I paused, and then added “you twat,” for extra emphasis.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” blustered the man, a balding middle-aged specimen.
“So you should be, it’s not like you’ve got anywhere to be, unlike me. I’ve got big things going on”
“Excuse me?” he stuttered,
“You’ve got nothing on going on. Why would a middle-aged man, his peak earning years, be walking the street at 11am on a Monday? Unless he had no work to go to and was instead meandering to the dole office, just for something to do. Maybe along the way he’ll concoct a tale of how he injured himself and now needs to claim extra money because of his handicap. No, no, your V-Neck sweater and polo shirt combo suggest that you’re not a man who cares to lie to the government, to the man, to the duke of dark corners. You’re just a scared little man, who went so far as to rig up a home painting job so that you would “accidently” fall off your ladder, and thus have a legitimate case in claiming extra, and undeserved, money from a government you fear. Yes, I can see the splodge of red paint on your jogging bottoms sir. And the traces of rust under your finger nails, let alone the t-shirt you’re wearing bearing the slogan “Oxfam Volunteer: Neighborhood decorator” – You sicken me.”
The balding man stood still for a moment and gulped. I knew then that I had Sherlocked his ass.
“H-how, did you do that?” He eventually managed to stutter.
“Never you mind Smee – that is my new name for you: Smee – never you mind Smee. But, away with you now. Tell all your little criminal friends that Thomas Watts, nay Doctor Watson, is here to clean up this town,” as the words left my mouth I screwed up the left side of my face, chewing on an imaginary stick, just like Clint Eastwood did in all those films he done.
Again, the man, Smee, paused before he spoke, “Are you okay mate? Your face has gone all…all, weird. Are you having a stroke?”
“How’d you know all that stuff? You been following me?”
“No, I simply Sherlocked your ass”
“You’re gonna what to my ass? Listen mate I ain’t one of those benders. You’re a freak! That’s it isn’t it! You’re gurning because you’re on those gay pills, the ones the gays take”
I was shocked. Clearly, my utilization of Sherlock’s mind palace technique had been mistaken as a homosexual advance – each to their own, I guess – and as such had brought out quite an adverse reaction in this pathetic, unemployed man.
“What on Earth are you talking about, you pathetic little man”
“Oh, I’m pathetic now am I? Well fuck you, I ain’t gonna let you rape me!” and with that, the once timid man, threw himself at me, raining blows down on me.
I had no idea what was happening, but a second became an eternity, I was falling into the darkness, I felt like Gandalf when he fell off that bridge.
And then it stopped. The blows had ceased. I cautiously opened my eyes and was greeted by the sigh of the little, balding, unemployed, repressed man turning and leaving (scurrying is how I would describe it), without once looking back.
I looked up at the shadowy face of the person who had broken up the fight; could it be? It had to be really, didn’t it! It was Sherlock.
Actually, it wasn’t Sherlock, but a nice man called Simon, who lived in 221a – directly below Sherlock.
I was sat at Simon’s table, drinking hot chocolate and generally recovering from my war wounds, when I noticed the time: It was 4pm and there had been no sign of Sherlock all day. What kind of wish request was this? I turned to Simon,
“What kind of wish is this?” I bemoaned to him
“Yes, wish. I’m terminally ill you see, I’m dying of Super Cancer AIDS,” I sighed wistfully before continuing, “and I was supposed to be hanging out with Sherlock all weekend,” it felt good to get it off my chest, as well as reinforcing my neediness, thus opening up the possibility of exploiting any more of Simon’s clearly altruistic nature.
“Hmm. Umm who were you supposed to be seeing today again, sorry?” asked Simon as gently as a baby bird hitting the floor having fallen out of a nest.
“I was supposed to be seeing Sherlock, the actor Cumberbatch,” Damn, I’d mentioned his name, “Damn!”
Simon just stared at me,
“I mentioned the actor’s name,” I explained.
“Oh. Well, I live here and I’ve never met this Sherlock character,” he paused, and repeated, “And I live here!” This time gesturing to himself by jabbing his thumb into his chest.
That’s when it hit me. It had been staring me in the face for so long: Sherlock’s non-appearance, Simon’s…Simon, all the other things! It all fitted so neatly together, like a jigsaw made entirely of squares. The perfectly tessellated crime.
I took a deep breath, paused, exhaled, then said, “I know you did it Simon”
“Did what,” asked Simon as he casually stirred his own, slightly foamier, mug of hot chocolate. The stench of guilt was written all over him like an alarm siren.
“I know that you’ve recently been around barbed wire as I can see that your woolen sweater has been torn at and caught recently. Barb wire? You may ask, well what better place for a body disposal than somewhere that’s hard to access? And I know that you were carrying firearms as I can detect a whiff of gunpowder in your aroma. I can see the flecks of dirt under your nails, and in your cracked skin. You’re a man who enjoys cleanliness and so such of an oversight in personal hygiene tells me that there’s something on your mind. And that subject is murder most foul Simon, murder most foul indeed!” Without a pause for breath I whipped Sherlock’s present from out of my bug, split the sellotape with a single deft motion, and donned the deerstalker hat that I had so lovingly knitted all last week.
“Murder?” He managed to slip in, before I cut him off,
“The murder of the resident of 221b Baker Street – the murder of Sherlock Holmes. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the dirt on the spade in the corner of the room, and the photos of women with the eyes cut out on every wall, let alone the blow up sex doll you keep referring to as ‘Janice’, and last but not least because you have a mad glint in your eye, a look that say’s “I’m going to kill you now, because you know my terrible secret” but without the foresight to have predicted that I would have already have assumed all this, and placed a phone call to the police alerting them to the murder you committed. The murder I knew you had committed as soon as I noticed you leering out your window upon my arrival to Baker Street. Yes! It was then that I placed my call to the police, and taking into account traffic times, bird migration patterns, earth tremors, tire erosion, gravel deposits, and my intense knowledge of the Earth’s wind systems, I predict that the police will be here in…2…1”
With that the door smashed open and several armed policeman exploded into the room, and encircled the murderer.
I smiled smugly, “Nice try Simon…or should I say: Professor Moriarty?” I felt like a peacock; never had my chest been so swollen before, and never had my tail been spread so regally.
“Moriarty? What? What are you talking about?” Wailed Simon, as the policeman unlawfully beat him a little bit.
“Simon, please, you’re shrieking. It’s really taking the sheen off of my victory,” as if in response a policeman belted Simon in the face with the butt of his gun, “ah, that’s better,” I answered in response to the newborn silence.
By the time all plaudits had finished coming my way it was about 7pm, and though I was a hero to these mortals around me, I still had yet to see Sherlock. But somehow, it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. Sherlock was dead, killed by Simon Moriarty for all I knew, or cared. It made no difference; I had come for the party and been named King of the Prom, did I meet Sherlock? No. Was I certain Simon committed Cumberbatch’s murder? No. Was I certain that Simon had even murdered anyone? No. Was I certain that Simon had at some point in his life done something that was worthy of police caution but no one had been around to see it? No. Did I give shit? No. Had I sent a creepy, yet essentially, harmless weirdo to jail for no real reason? Hell yes. And I’d do it again.
So, drowning in the velvety truffle-like nature of my own ego, I decided to forgo the police offered, taxpayer funded, taxi and instead walk home. Sure I was dying of Super Cancer AIDS, but M-A-W-F-U-K had given me something better than a wish: my life back.
I started walking with purpose, each breath a little deeper than the last, and each thought a little wiser than the one that preceded it.
It was three streets later that one of my salami nipples fell off and I remembered I wasn’t really dying.
In the end, Cumberbatch never turned up - well he might of, but by that time I’d already started walking home so as not to miss the start of Take Me Out – but of more importantce was the lesson that I had learned. And that lesson was how lucky I was (and still am) to have not been caught, and sent to jail, for defrauding a charitable organization for terminally ill children.
A Christmas Tale: When I directed a Nativity play
As many of you may know, I am a very caring and generous individual. I am also a reformed alcoholic. Due to my Jesus-esque nature, and my lenient community service sentence, in my spare time, I help out in many local projects for under-privileged youths. So, it should come to you as no surprise whatsoever to learn that this December I was asked (forced under threat of jail) to direct a local Nativity play for a select group of under-privileged (and might I add very lucky?) youths.
You join me on the first day of auditions:
‘Ok thanks Mercedes, that was lovely! I’ll definitely be in contact.’
As Mercedes waddled off the stage I followed her with an eager stare, a stare that outwardly might have been mistaken for the glazed adoration of a sex offender, but let me assure you that inwardly it was a stare that meant ‘she’s gonna be a star!’
After having let Mercedes leave the stage, I checked my watch - It was 10:42am – we were on time to finish by midday. That was good, I thought, as I took a large sip of mulled wine (my fourteenth glass if you’re keeping count – sue me. In an unrelated incident, and I can’t stress that enough, I actually was sued by one of the children’s parents for my drinking habits, but I can’t say any more for legal reasons).
‘NEXT!!!’ I yelled, and a small boy came bounding out on stage. I could tell instantly that he was definitely not going to be another Mercedes.
‘Please state your name loudly..,please’ I slurred.
‘My name is Bentley, sir’ replied the little boy. I knew he was no Mercedes. I also knew that if I cast him people might read the cast list and confuse it for a car salesroom brochure.
‘Maybe if we start with you telling me what you know about the birth of Jesus, then that’ll be fine….’ I looked at the audition list on the desk in front of me, ‘…Bentley’
The small blond child nodded vigorously and smiled,
‘Jesus was the brother of superman’ gushed Bentley.
I let out a sigh, rubbed my temples and saw off what remained of mulled wine glass number fourteen. Bentley was the twenty-second child I had auditioned today, and depressingly his was the closest to a coherent answer I had heard; it was even better than Mercedes. But that kind of makes sense when you compare horsepower and…wheel size, etc.
‘Ok, now if you could just give me a few lines from the piece you’ve chosen, please Bentley,’ before the sentence was finished I had poured mulled wine glass number fifteen. What can I say? I’m festive, and efficient.
Again Bentley nodded. If he hadn’t spewed the shit about Superman off of his mouth earlier, then I may have believed the child to be a mute. Which, in all honesty, would have suited me down to the ground in terms of casting him as my Joseph, because no-one gives a shit about Joseph – he didn’t get Mary up the duff, that was God. Joseph was a glorified car-pooler on the way to Bethlehem.
Waiting for Bentley to begin, I raised my glass to my ruby stained lips, when suddenly it was shattered. Mulled wine and glass flew everywhere, covering my festive, all white ensemble, in a sticky and glassy redness. It was Bentley’s high pitched, pre-pubescent, and nasal voice repeatedly shouting,
‘GET TO DEE CHOPPA!!!!! GET TO DEE CHOPPA!!!’
He kept squealing until he ran out of breath, falling to his knees dramatically as he sucked air into his tiny, scrotum sized lungs.
‘Um, thanks…Bentley….I’ll be in contact,’ I said.
The little boy nodded his head vigorously again, exhaustedly slobbering dribble all over his T-shirt. As Bentley rose and went to leave the stage, he tripped and fell with a sickening crunch. The blood and the wailing that followed was a sight to behold. It was as if through his sickening and painful injury, Bentley had transformed into Leonardo Di Caprio, or…or that guy who played the main guy who got anally raped in The Shawshank Redemption. Bentley’s emotional range was such that I almost believed he had been raped right then and there.
I later discovered that the play’s costume designer had been inappropriately touching Bentley, amongst others, but I managed to convince the press that it was just a joke the kids had dreamed up in their twisted little minds – a ploy I stole from an episode of The Bill, but don’t try and find it on Youtube as it’s now banned. TV ay? The solution to so many problems and the source of so many more!
Bentley’s tears drew his mother to the stage. She came running on stage lithely in a mini skirt and high-heeled boots; the cigarette ash that trailed behind her was like a winter blizzard; the fake fur coat she wore made her look like an adorably fluffy Polar Bear; and the sports bra she wore under this was reminiscent of Sporty Spice during her prime. What can I say? Bentley’s 17-year-old mother was quite the specimen.
‘Bentley, you stop those tears right now you little shit!’ She quipped lovingly in the boy’s direction. Bentley, selfishly, only cried harder as she picked him by his hair. However, a generous exhalation of smoke to the face soon sorted him out, his tears replaced with the affectionate spluttering of a coughing fit.
‘Madam I love, and want, your child’ I shouted suddenly, in my best director’s voice.
‘You what? What did you say? You fackin’ pervert!’ shouted back Bentley’s mother. Clearly she had misinterpreted my appreciation of Bentley’s method acting skills.
‘No, no, no, I’m the director and young Bentley here has-‘
I didn’t finish my sentence as Bentley’s mother quickly cut me off,
‘What ‘ave I gotta do to get ‘im the part then?’
I paused for a moment, savoring the scene in front of me: this specimen of a woman (don’t forget – fluffy coat, fag ash, stripper boots, etc) was propositioning me. ME, of all people!
‘Madam, are you propositioning me?’ I whispered seductively.
A moment of romantic silence passed.
‘Well, you gonna answer me you pervert?’ Shouted the woman.
I was confused, had she not heard my seductive whisper?
‘Did you not hear my seductive whisper?’ I yelled.
‘Well of course not you idiot, you’re sat like 20 rows back, and I’m on stage! Wass’a’matter with you?’ She replied, before taking a piece of chewing gum out of her mouth and sticking it behind her ears. Her deliciously minty, and sugar free, ears.
Of course, silly me, why would she have strained her ears to listen to me, a mere mortal? A mere handsome and charismatic mortal who donated his spare time (was legally forced) to direct a community children’s nativity play. I was not worthy.
As quick as a flash (maybe a little bit slower but I didn’t have a scientist on hand to say for certain) I was up and out of my faux velvet seat, and running towards the stage. Ignoring the stairs, I leapt on stage and came face to face with Bentley’s mother, who promptly blew a romantic smoke heart into my face (to be honest the smoke stung my eyes and I was blinded momentarily, but I’m sure it was heart).
This was suddenly no longer about a fucking nativity play. This was a love story. So what if was incarcerated for not performing my court mandated civil duties! I would tell the other inmates I had been jailed for love, before being promptly stabbed in the shower. It would be just like Romeo and Juliet.
‘Bentley, leave the stage’ I said in an affectionately and menacing tone.
‘But, but’ began Bentley, before I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and chucked him off the stage, I was a regular Franco Zeffirelli.
‘ere what d’you think you’re doin’ to my son?!’ shrieked his mother. She had nothing to fear, and I reassured her of this by strongly taking hold of both her arms and pulling her close to me, as I had seen James Bond do so many times before. She was so awestruck by my magnetism that even her struggles began to fade eventually, probably due to lust, or fondness, or exhaustion, or something.
Having seduced Bentley’s mother and implanted a little baby brother for Bentley in her - I guess you could say it was an immaculate conception!!! Except I don’t remember the bit about Mary giving God Syphilis – it was time for me to close the auditions for the day. I was spent, and promptly passed out due to my blood alcohol level.
Needless to say, the play was a rousing success, revered by local newspaper reviews; in fact one went so far as to call it a ‘One Star Nativity Play’, a sentiment I took as proof that the play was the best nativity since the actual, real nativity – that only had one star as well.
I never saw Bentley’s mother again, as she was arrested for being a ‘crack whore’ – whatever that is - a few weeks into rehearsals. But being the consummate professional he so clearly is Bentley didn’t let it interfere with his performance. What a star. What a one star guy.
So, to one and all I say:
Merry Christmas, from me and all the other inmates, at Hollesley Bay minimum-security prison.
The Breakfast Club – A Depressing 25th Annual Class Reunion
The Breakfast Club, for those who haven’t seen it, is a hard-hitting John Hughes documentary that detailed what went on in an average American high school detention in 1985. The students in the documentary graduated in 1986, one year after the documentary’s release, and, like most nostalgic, middle age crisis sufferers, they all attend an annual reunion for Shermer High, now run by the son of former Principal, Richard Vernon - creepy. For obvious reasons I wasn’t invited to the reunion (mainly due to the fact that I had never attended Shermer high), but thankfully, I was free that night, so I decided to head down there anyway and find out what The Breakfast Club were getting up to these days. In my head it was research for a puitzer winning article, a real Human interest story; I mean, everybody loved it when Justin Lee Collins bought Grange Hill back together, and now I had an opportunity to do the same thing. Unfortunately, the Grange Hill reunion clashed with the Shermer High reunion, so I had to make a choice between the two. Eventually, after flipping a coin, losing it down a drain, and breaking my knuckle after punching the pavement in frustration, I decided, through a fog of pain, to head to Shermer High as it was closer to my house, and I knew the bus route fairly well.
Unexpectedly (well, not that unexpectedly), I was refused entry by the security guard outside the auditorium, who, I might add, was excessively aggressive in his insistence that ‘[my] name [wasn’t] on the list’. Knowing there was no way into the building I decided to do the next most logical thing. After the auditorium was evacuated due to a bomb threat, issued by a still unknown, and most likely very handsome, terrorist, I found myself surrounded by a giant swarm of middle-aged former Shermer High students. Now amongst the former students, I realised I had no idea how I was going to find The Breakfast Club-ers. Thankfully, I recognised John Bender almost immediately when he tried to steal my wallet. The, still floppy haired, Bender was gracious at being caught and only stabbed me twice whilst agreeing to be interviewed about The Breakfast Club. What he told me shocked me at how libelous it would be in print. So after many minutes of soul searching, the revolutionary inside me (no homo) sat me down, metaphorically, and persuaded me, again metaphorically, that the world should KNOW exactly what happened to the breakfast club.
So here it is:
Then: The Criminal / Now: On the run for Fraud, Embezzlement, Perjury, and Multiple Attempted Murder charges
Bender was always a criminal, and it was hard to imagine he had really changed when the cameras stopped rolling; even his symbolic one-armed salute (non Nazi, I hasten to add) wasn’t entirely believable. This was because he hadn’t changed. He and Claire eloped together a few months later, disappearing into the seedy underbelly of New York City. Before running away, Bender had stolen a swathe of important documents from Claire’s terminally ill father. After forging Claire’s father’s will, Bender assumed control of Mr Standish’s business and proceeded to ransack it’s finances, embezzling half the money into offshore bank accounts, and spending the other half on his and Claire’s drug habits. Claire left Bender in 1998 and disappeared again. Bender, meanwhile, was arrested on charges of embezzlement, which he denied. He was released on bail but arrested again moments later on perjury charges, which he also denied. After, eventually, and I mean eventually, being sentenced to three consecutives life sentences, Bender managed to escape from jail only 2 years later, having hollowed out a tunnel that allowed him to crawl through miles of sewage pipes to freedom. Now on the run from multiple law enforcement agencies, he had decided to return to his old High School to go out in a blaze of glory. He claimed he was ‘annoyed’ that the bomb threat had ‘outshone’ his prepared, now scuppered, Columbine-esque vengeance on the world.
Then: The Athlete / Now: Charity Shop Worker, Transsexual
Andy remained a star Athlete after the documentary, even earning himself a scholarship to California University, where he excelled on the University Wrestling team. Notable among his team-mates was future ‘America’s Best Dance Crew’ host AC Slater. However, after graduating Andrew suffered a mental collapse, that saw him undergo several successive trips to rehab, during which time he decided to undergo a sex change operation. Still just about in the public eye, Andrew’s story made major headlines and a tell-all book was released by the former wrestler. The book, ‘The Broken Fast Club’, revealed the years of macho intimidation Andrew had suffered at the hands of his sexually insecure father, the testosterone supplements he had been made to take, how his entire family stood by and ignored his increasingly blatant Rowntrees Randoms addiction, how he was beaten up at school for masturbating openly in the male changing rooms whilst shouting ‘Mr Winky wants to cryyyy!!’, how a string of homosexual affairs at University had not actually given him HIV as he had previously claimed, but it was in fact due to an illicit sexual practice with an innocent orangutan, and how he believed changing genders would grant him eternal life. Regrettably, his body, having been exposed to so much excess testosterone when younger, could not sustain itself after being flooded with estrogen, and collapsed internally. Andrew was left a genderless freak. His compensation paid for a wig and plastic surgery, but left his confidence shattered. He was last seen working in a British Heart Foundation store under the name Verity.
Then: The Brain / Now: Disciple of Gongzxlorr
We all remember Brian as the nerdy one that wrote the essay to Principal Vernon, which I might add, fell well short of the specifically specified 1000 words. Tut, tut. Brian apparently kept to himself after the documentary aired, becoming a recluse, as the shame of his virginity manifested itself incessantly, through the muffled sniggers of everyone else at school. Brian eventually found his way into teaching, achieving a passable PGCE mark, after wasting years completing a myriad of meaningless degrees online, amongst which he studied ‘Arguing with Judge Judy: Popular ‘Logic’ on TV Judge Shows’, ‘Philosophy and Star Trek’, ‘The Art of Walking’, and ‘Cyberporn and Society’.Brian was entrusted the prestigious position of kindergarten teacher at Sherman Junior – the school offering a lifeline to its former highest achieving student. However, it was in March 1999 that Brian Johnson’s life would change forever. For it was on the 16th of March 1999 that he was arrested on charges of child molestation and possession of child pornography. He evaded capture for several months and even attempted suicide once, but the flare gun he was using misfired and blew off all but the littlest toe on his left foot. The charges were eventually dropped (reportedly after a plea of insanity) in exchange for Brian’s participation in an experimental lobotomy program, designed to remove all predatory sexual instincts from the victim…sorry, subject. An ill-fated, and formerly unknown, side effect of the procedure meant that Brian was also deprived of his only asset – his intelligence. Upon his release back into society, the newly abstinent, and significantly denser, Brian was quickly absorbed into a mid-Western cult, the Disciples of Gongzxlorr, who felt they would benefit from Brian’s ‘semi-celebrity status’. It was an unwise move that forced the, deranged, yet otherwise peaceful, cult to move out to a ranch in the country, rejected and mocked by all of society. There, Brian and the other cult disciples still wait; all of them together, waiting for the world to end (which isn’t actually a remit of the Disciples of Gongzxlorr, but just something they do to kill time).
Then: The Princess / Now: DECEASED / Formerly: Stripper, Drug Addict
They say that weed is a gateway drug; that if you smoke a joint then you’ll eventually end up on heroin. But just as easily, you could be stabbed in the arm with a dirty needle, and pumped so full of heroin, that you eyes pop, and bleed everywhere, as your body twists into a malformed husk. Either way, you end up a junkie. Claire Standish, unwisely and unwillingly, took the latter path. Having run away from home to elope with Bender, the pair headed to New York City, before disappearing for a few years. It wasn’t until 1995 that they surfaced as a married couple living on government handouts, and whatever money Claire bought home from stripping. Ironic, isn’t it, that she was once ashamed of being a virgin? It was during this time that Bender introduced Claire to Heroin, through the aforementioned method. After being robbed of her inheritance, by Bender in 1998, Claire couldn’t afford to take Bender to court and so slipped (read: dived headfirst) into a downward spiral of drug and alcohol abuse. It was such a drastic fall from grace that by the end Claire was drinking heroin and injecting vodka into the veins between her toes. She was discovered dead in 2002, having lain undiscovered under a pile of newspapers, for 2 years. The coroners claimed that it was a miracle she could be identified at all, and that it was only through dental records that the feat was possible. Rest in Peace Ms Standish-Bender.
Then: The Basket Case / Now: Living Beyond the Will of God, Billionairess, Possible Black Widow
In Bender’s own words ‘the make over Claire gave to Allison, changed her forever you prick’, and I am inclined to agree with this statement, knowing what I know. What he told me next was this: Having formerly been a social misfit, Allison found that with a bit of make-up she could control any boy she chose. She finished top of her class, and graduated with merits, distinctions, and even a merinction – something her professor made up on the spot at her graduation. It later turned out he was having a stroke. Armed with a distinguished degree and the malevolent charm of Cat Deeley, Allison quickly worked her way up the corporate ladder. She would hand out blowjobs left, right and centre, simply to move up a pay bracket. She became CEO of Coca-Cola at age 27 but soon left when she married her first husband, Steely White, an oil tycoon from Texas. Unfortunately, her happiness didn’t last long as Steely soon tragically died of poisoning, stabbing and shooting all at once, leaving his entire fortune to Allison. Two short rebound marriages followed, both ending in the Husbands tragic passing away, both due to almost identical cases of poisoning, stabbing and shooting all at once. Come 2006, Allison found herself with an estimated fortune of $1.4 billion and not a single police warrant to her name. Her wealth bought suitors and investors, the latter of whom were always warmly welcomed, whilst any prospective suitor poorer than Allison was swiftly turned away. In fact the only suitor to ever enter Allison’s mansion was Sheikh Abdul Jabeer Naseem, but he too was quickly ejected, when it transpired that Allison was an extreme racist – but the more left unsaid about that, the better. Her investments bought her more wealth, but also more fears: a fear of dying and someone stealing her money, a fear of the outside world that so clearly conspired against her, and a fear of gravity. The last record of formerly reformed basket case, Allison Reynolds, can be found in a National Geographic cover article, that detailed, in great depth, how she now lived inside a bubble in a specially constructed anti-gravity chamber, designed to let her live to the ripe old age of 406.
4 Christmas Jumpers that I wish I could burn
If you’re a hardcore Christmas junkie like myself and my housemate, then each year you will subject yourself to the trial that is the Christmas jumper. “Always garish and never trendy” is the motto of the Christmas jumper (and if it was real it would be in Latin, yes), but despite that we still wear them, because we’re festive damn it! However, there are some Christmas jumpers that take the familiar nativity scene that we are so fond of and ask certain questions of it. The questions they ask range from: ‘what if terrorists flew into the stable in Bethlehem?’, ‘what if Jesus was the result of Nuclear fusion gone awry?’, ‘What if snowmen were malevolent?’
It is these questions, and more importantly, these jumpers, that have led to my sleepless nights developing a Patented Skull Baubel Horror Rating System. The following jumpers are accurately graded using the PSBHRS. Read on..if you dare..to encounter an array of shocking puns!
Jumper 1: ‘Snowmaim’
If you’ve ever seen the film Alien then you’ll be familiar with the scene in which an Alien baby rips trough a soldier’s stomach and emerges, covered in gore, as the epitome of space horror. If you haven’t seen the film Aliens, you’ll most likely know this scene anyway. Well, thankfully, someone has created the Christmas jumper equivalent of this moment. There’s something ominous about the caution the snowman is displaying as he emerges from your stomach. There’s no blood? Of course there’s no blood, he’s frozen your insides solid, the crafty snowy bastard. The most terrifying thing to think about, is the fact that the Alien only emerges from the soldier’s stomach because he has been face raped by another alien. Now imagine a big, veiny, erect carrot-like-phallus getting forced down your throat; its hot, sticky, carrot juices trickling down your gullet to fester in your stomach; you think you’ve just got a stomach ache…and you’re oh, so, so, so cold all the time, so you take a few aspirin. The pain subsides but then…RIPPP, another snowy monster (which you’ve been impregnated with) emerges, slowly and coyly from your stomach, ready to shove his (most likely) erect (it is erect; aspirin is like viagra to homicidal rape snowmen) alien carrot cock down someone else’s throat.
Jumper 2: ‘Hark the herald angels scream’
When you see this jumper you’ll most likely see three cute choirboys singing in the snow. What I see is a child sex abuse scene that asks too many questions for my liking:
- Why are their eyes closed, and why are they screaming (come on, they’re clearly not singing)
- What are the strange red marks on the middle boy’s cheeks. No-one else has them. Are they the bruises from a thrust in the wrong direction by a drunken, albeit festive, child molester?
- Why does the snow look more akin to splatters, then delicate Ice shapes? Was something white and sticky (I’m presuming it was sticky) splattered on the boys’ faces at some point? Possibly in their mouths?
- Doesn’t the text at the bottom look oddly spaced? Were there letters there that have been erased? Was it originally ‘blah, blah, blah’?
- WHY DOES NOBODY CARE THAT THESE CHILDREN HAVE BEEN MOUTH SEX RAPED BY SANTA?????? (an oddly developing theme if you’re keeping score / an oddly developing trope if you’re keeping score and know the word trope)
Jumper 3: ‘Jingle Hell’
This jumper is so bad that its creator couldn’t even be bothered to give it arms. What is left behind is a pseudo-sweater-cardigan-vest that bears striking resemblances to a Mayan prophecy I found under my sink. Notice how Santa is screaming and his nose appears to have been sliced off. Notice how the snowman is holding a broom – is he a witch? Clearly this is a document in need of professional translating; it could be the Rosetta stone that unleashes the horror of Christmas upon the land. Notice how everything is blocky and pixilated…is life real? Or is it a video game? Do we live in the matrix?! Is that the message being conveyed? One thing is clear though: When the boom and the faeces with legs fly in the sky, we must bury our teddy bears and our Alpine chalets, before a screaming, noseless Santa and a witch-snowman arrive to wreck havoc like a frosty apocalypse: Frostocalypse. Which sounds like the name of a sexy, and icy, member of the X-men.
Jumper 4: ‘Santa = Satan’
This is one of the most terrifying jumpers I have ever seen, Christmas themed or not. Santa’s eyes are BLEEDING. What the fuck?! If we turn and face this jumper, so that it faces jumper number 2 up there, then what we’ve done is successfully recreate a scene from a child molester snuff movie – which is very festive. Santa’s hands are too bold and weirdly defined, looking more like claws or metallic pincers than hands; and his look of upmost shock is the paradigm of horror. What can Santa – a fictional character – have seen, that shits him up, so, so much?! Is he warning us to not go looking for him? I don’t know, but his bleeding face and hollow, dead eyes, is doing enough to convince me to burn this sweater and never publish this article, for fear of putting into motion a festive curse much like The Ring, except with more tinsel. It’s as if Santa has been possessed and wherever he goes, he is always telling you ‘you’ve been very naughty this year’ in a wheedling, reedy voice, and then he kills you in your sleep. And don’t try screaming for Rudolph to help. Those eyes tell me he killed Rudolph and ate his nose to gain his strength and courage. This is why the Ghostbusters should exist. To keep this possessed sweater from ever hurting anyone.
Sleeping outside a Cinema (or how I learnt to hate Twilight)
Does any one word maybe conjure up a more iconic literary phenomenon than the word ‘Twilight’, well perhaps ‘Harotter’ but that’s not a real word, and the only person I know who says that has a cleft pallet and his breath smells of Fisherman’s Friends. No, my friends, the word is ‘Twilight’ and its literacy legacy is as permanent as the night sky after which it is named.
Everyone remembers where they were the first time they read Twilight. And me? I was reading over someone’s shoulder on the underground between London Bridge and Old Street. It was at a time I was snorting a lot because I thought it gave me a regal and aristocratic presence, but where I credited myself with an old world charm, other people thought I was deliberately sneezing on them. If there is anything I hate, it is people who deliberately sneeze on one another. Not because it’s gross, but because it’s gross. So after having withstood my solo barrage of snot for two stops, my human library quickly got off at the next available stop – most likely wetter and wiser. We had only been together for two stops, and I had only read half a page of her book, when she abruptly snapped it shut and thrust it in her bag, but not quick enough for my lightning reflexes to have memorised the cover of the book. As she left the carriage, and subsequently my life (she is a plot device, no more – forget about her), I realised that a seed had been sewn. I, of all people was a Twilight fan. A few days later I saw the exact same book, as the Woman on the tube had been reading, in a Waterstone’s on Staines High Street; I thought it odd that Lloyd Grossman model of choice for the cover of a vampiric novel, but I paid it no real thought and ‘The Only Way Is Grossman’ faded into the dark recesses of my mind.
I was a twilight fan damn it, and no-one: not Lloyd Grossman, nor the Woman from the tube who hadn’t been reading Twilight after all, nor the respected editor of online movie blog Ultra Culture, could sway me otherwise.
Eventually I had become so obsessed that I started substituting the word Twilight into my everyday lingo. I didn’t use Twitter, I used Twilitter. I didn’t drink Twinings, I drank Twilightnings, and I certainly didn’t eat Twixs, I ate Bounties (I preferred the texture of the coconut, and still do).
One morning a few weeks later, I awoke, the tang of coconut still fresh on my tongue, to some wondrous news – A Twilight movie was to be released! It was called ‘Twilight: Breaking Dawn’. I marvelled at this title for quite a while; was I to see the literal breaking of dawn after the twilight of the night sky, or was Dawn some kind of equine beast that needed taming. I held no apprehensions over either case as I enjoyed star-gazing and had a natural affinity to animals – my personal motto was ‘If it’s big enough I can ride it’. Sure, it’s a statement of bold and brave intent, but it was also a statement that had met with a muted response and a suspended jail sentence one afternoon in London Zoo.
The newspaper said that the film was to be released in four days and that crowds had already started massing outside the cinema. I had to join them! After quickly rushing upstairs and throwing a few things into a bag – a Terry’s chocolate orange wrapper, some shampoo and a week old Daily Mail into a Marks & Spencer’s bag for life, plastic not fabric – I proceeded to pack what I would need for the next few days: a few t-shirts, reversible underwear and a multipack of Coco Pops cereal bars. I packed sparsely as I imagined that Twilight fans would have their own luxury set up outside the premiere of, what was effectively, their movie – Our movie. I was wrong. How wrong I was. I was more wrong than people who believe Babybels are real cheese and not the product of glue gun orgasm. In other words – Super wrong.
As I hopped off the bus, a homeless man stopped me and kindly showed me his knife whilst asking for a little change equivalent to the value of my watch. Now, I make no claims to be a good guy as I think I’m pretty comfortably nestled in ‘great guy’ territory, so, naturally, when I see another human being suffering I feel I have to solve the situation. So after handing over a little change equivalent to the value of my watch (in the form of my watch) I took the homeless man to get a coffee. He explained how and why he was so bad off in the world, but that has no place here, as this is my story, and not his. Let me assure you though that it was intense, heartfelt, and sincere enough to make me want to aid this homeless hero. This smelly stallion of men. This big issue peddling pioneer. This man, alone in the world. So I did all I could of to help him out: I offered to get him a bacon butty and another coffee to keep him warm, and when he went to the loo I slipped a little cyanide capsule into his drink.
‘Sleep well sweet Prince’ I whispered as I gently removed my watch from his wrist, put it back on my own wrist and left the coffee shop, to a chorus of admiring screams of ‘Stop him! Stop him!’
With a belly full of coffee, a wrist full of watch, and a song in my heart – which might have been the Twilight theme song, but I couldn’t be sure – I arrived at the Odeon cinema in London, and what greeted me shocked me (Ed. Ahh I see you’re finally linking back to the ‘Super wrong’ paragraph now). There were swarms of tents as far as I could see, and moving amongst them, scurrying like plague carrying rats, were girls and women of all ages, and not a man in sight. I thought I might have stumbled into a concentration camp for Amazonian women who were too short of weak to survive in the tribe, but I realised that was a stupid thing to have thought and pushed forward, deeper into the Heart of Twilight (note: Joseph Conrad pun doesn’t work, change later).There were towels and flags declaring ‘Team Jacob’ or ‘Team Edward’, but when I asked who Edward or Jacob were I merely got a disgusted tut, followed by a disgusted slap. This happened six times, but seventh time, as is usually the case in some cases, was the charm. I approached a dark haired woman, who was wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the pale face of a wild haired teenager, a face so common amongst the tents he was like the Che Guevara for the menstrual cycle.
‘Hey’ I said, as mysteriously as I could
‘Er, what?’ she replied
‘Mind if I hang out with you whilst waiting for the film to open? I’m a huge Twilight fan’
‘So am I! And so is my daughter, Tania. Tania come out here’ she yelled, a bit loud for my liking, but I’d only just met her and felt rude telling her to shut up. Whilst my ear drums ached a small, wiry, rat faced little girl emerged from the tent next to the dark haired woman. I presumed her to be Tania,
‘Hi, I’m Tania’ said the presumptuous little bitch, aggressively assuming that I was interested in her life, her story, and her feelings.
‘I like Edward, but Jacob is so fit! I can’t believe Bella marries Edward! I’m sooooo jealous’ she squealed, selfishly hogging the conversation.
‘I’m Tom’ I replied in a tone that I hoped suggested ‘I-might-have-murdered-little-girls-before-but-i-might-not-have-what’s-it-to-you?’
‘And I’m Janet,’ interrupted Tania’s mother, ‘we’ve been here for a week already. Tannny can’t wait to see the stars when they arrive! And to be honest, nor can I! That R-Patz is a dream! What about you?’
‘Yeah, I dig Twilight, I’m probably, like, the number one fan in the world’ I said casually
‘Pfft huh-uh! I’ve got all the films and read all the books. And I’ve got all the dollies and a duvet and, and, a tent and a pillow and a torch, and, and, and…’ Tania’s sentence was cut sort as she had started hyperventilating due to her boasting.
Feeling that Tania probably deserved her current breathing difficulties, as she was a boasting little cow who obviously didn’t know the first thing about Twilight, I left her in her mother’s weeping embrace and wandered off to find someone else who I could connect with.
After, once again, passing row upon row of tents, with middle aged women and little girls sleeping outside them, often alongside life sized cardboard cut-outs of the wild haired, pasty teenager, I finally stumbled upon a campfire. It was late and quite dark so I settled myself in next to the fire, only moving one sleeping girl out of my way, as I reasoned she wouldn’t need the heat, as she was asleep. The conversation around the campfire was insane. It seemed as if the group of people sat around the flames believed themselves to be vampires, and were ceremoniously handing around a jug of cranberry juice masquerading as blood.
‘Pass that here!’ I said, parched from my travels.
‘And who are you stranger, that approaches our fire uninvited, hisssss?’ said a thin teenager wearing an inappropriate amount of black clothing – lots.
‘I’m a weary traveller, who enjoys Cranberry Juice and Twilight’
‘And what team are you on?’
‘What team are thou on?’
‘Are you real vampires?’ I asked as I drank the rest of the Cranberry juice that had been handed to me.
‘Of course we are, Why wouldn’t we be?’ huffed a fat, short haired woman seductively
‘Well you’re drinking cranberry juice instead of blood! I whispered
‘What did you say?’ said a voice accusingly
‘Well you’re drinking cranberry juice instead of real blood!’ I shouted. This raised a few giggles from nearby tents,
‘Not even real blood!’ came from the surrounding darkness, followed by a snort of a laugh.
The vampires were getting restless and agitated. Clearly they felt the urge to feed.
‘What team are you on traveller? What team?!’ asked a small girl, who looked an awful lot like Tania, but the last time I had seen Tania, she had been wrapped up, unconscious, in meaty arms of her mother…there was no way she was here…unless..
‘Oh shit’ I said, ‘you really are vampires.’
The group paused and watched me as I got up slowly. Sure slowly. I wasn’t about to get fucked up by these vampire bitches. But then they started to get up as well, rising on their hind haunches (legs) to slowly approach me for their feeding. I fell to my knees in fear,
‘Look, I’ve got no idea what vampires have got to do with Twilight, but please let me live! I’ve so much more to give’ I pleaded in a brave, masculine voice. This seemed to do the trick as the vampires paused.
‘What have vampires got to do with Twilight? What are you talking about? Said one of the women in a tone of voice I didn’t much care for.
‘Yeah, Twilight is all about vampires stupid’
‘What are you doing here if you don’t like Twilight?’
There were so many voices, I was surrounded…unless they were using their vampire telepathy to confuse and befuddle me. Still on my knees I made the sign of the cross with two fingers, hoping that this would save me.
‘Hey, where’s Kelly gone? She was in her sleeping bag just now!’
‘What Kelly’s gone? Where was she?’
‘Over there where that guy was sitting just now!’
And just like that the vampires were gone. I had done it. The cross I had made with two fingers had worked like some sort of lucky charm. So, finally, I was free to escape and as I made my way out of the camp I noticed that the little girl I had moved away from the fire was no longer in her sleeping bag. I didn’t pay her a second thought, and that night I slept soundly in my own bed.
I don’t know who or what ‘kelly’ was - at the time I assumed it was Latin for ‘forgive us, forgive us!’ – but whatever it was, I never bothered to find out; but I had found something else out They say that before you die your life flashes before your eyes and it’s true; mine did when the vampires surrounded me and (surprise, surprise) it was awesome. I had had an epiphany! And that epiphany was that Twilight is SHIT. I didn’t know what the teams were, who the pale, wild haired teenager was, why these adult women had taken time off work to live in a squealing shanty town, why the young girls weren’t at school, what vampires had to do with the Twilight, where Lloyd Grossman fitted into all of this. I fucking hated all of it, none of it made sense.
Thankfully, I’ve got a bad short-term memory – not as bad as Drew Barrymore in ’50 First Dates’ though, in fact come to think of it, I’ve probably got one of the best short term memories I know – and come the breaking dawn (clever, I know) of the next fair morn, I had forgotten all about it.
Because it sucked.