I will kill

October 27, 2013 § 4 Comments

I’m making a sniffing noise through my nose. The sort of noise a rabbit might make if it was congested. My intention is to show my approval of the joke Rothermere has just cracked. Lord Rothermere of Shitshow to give him his full title. Try as I might this is as best as I can do to signify my amusement. To be honest I don’t even know if it was a joke. It might just have been a snidey aside. Because most of his humour, like his personality, is rooted in a sarcastic sneering at the expense of others.

Why am I making this sniffing rabbit noise? Because Lord Shitshow has just closed a 60 pound deal with us. He’s investing it– a gift as he likes to call it.

Good grief, what a torrid time in the world this is. People want me to discuss finance but I can only look into the dark, twisting recesses of my mind and think– plague. I am plagued. I am shot. I am destroyed, I wish I was elsewhere. I wish I was dead. I truly wish I was dead rather than sitting here in front of this 75 pound dinner, with a chateaux de gateaux beside me, sniffing like a rabbit at jokes that suck and destroy the marrow out from my bones.

Rothermere has been telling us about his part in getting Gordon Brown out of power. He tells us that he hated the way Brown inhaled every time he’d finish a sentence, as though he had something or another. I don’t know. It’s rude. It’s like the bully at school who used to go ZAP! You’re dead– and then punch you in the back of the head.

Snakes crawl from under the tablecloth. The waiter comes over then immediately turns away and runs off. This table is giving off an awful aura. I wonder if, when I am dead, I will get onto the lowest rung of hell? Will I be one of those nightmarish souls that’s chained to a big pulley and have to go around in circles in the eternal mud of hellfire? Am I already doing that? Has my dignity faded? What worth is this dinner that would once have slipped down my gullet like oysters? It now feels like an eel, suffocating my windpipe. I feel falling. I feel ill.

I feel under the table, and there it is. The gun, strapped to the underside, just as I has asked. Now is the time. Without further ado, I rip it out and thrust it forwards shakily. I have shot a gun before– with Ross Kemp on the firing range. But I didn’t know whether it was real before. This one feels real. It feels heavy. This is what guns are for. I put the gun next to my temple. Lord Rothermere looks at me with a bemused expression. It’s hardly even shock. Certainly not disapproval. I mouth “I’ll do it.” He ducks under the table.

The next minute my finger twitches on the trigger. Click. Nothing happens. I try again. Click. Click. Click. Click. I look at the gun. But it’s not a gun at all. It’s a banana. It is the eternal hellfire of damnation mocking me. I try to fire the banana pulp, but it’s too late. The waiters have run over to me and pinned me down. I am screaming for them to let me go. “I just want to kill myself,” I scream. There is pandemonium. There are three of them. One each sitting on my arms, the other on my face. Choking me. “I just want to kill myself,” I whisper. I try. I tried. Then I wake up.


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