Deirdre, you’ve been very lucky.
I know, every day I count my blessings. I’ve had secure employment for years, and at the same time always lived in fear of losing the job. Jobs, decent jobs, they’re disappearing. Last thing you wanna be is the human Domino’s pizza box starting the 7 am shift outside Boozy Busters. Any Size Pizza £6.99. It’s supposed to make you think of lunch!
Highlight of your career?
Playing God in Spamelot. The beard thing was a real dilemma. Do I wait for stubble or use a stick on beard? You worry, though, it’ll fall off
How’s your health?
I have my ailment. I call it my Swiss arm. It’s rotten
Now Deirdre, I should tell you I am cutting into your brain. This is a SIMPLE OPERATION. A showbiz- induced geoblastoma. Normally speaking, it’s inoperable. But I need an excuse to exercise my professional detachment. Using diathermy forceps I’m coagulating the blood vessels as I cut through with a scalpel to make a hole through which I am pushing a sucker (or rather the Controls On Immigration mug). The tumour is buried deep in the middle of the brain. Evoked potentials warn me of damage.
Conditions are good. We’re past the lateral third of the sphenoid wing. The cerebrospinal fluid gin clear. It’s 360 degrees of gorgeousness. What I can see in the binocular microscope, apart from the generalised thinning, the sense of systemic doom, is:
Someone barefoot and bent double throwing up the sound of baby crying, cat’s mouth in tray peck eating, head-darting or cheek filling hamster , farting belching, the relief on the face sung folk song now my love is going crouching spluttering scratching engine noise give it here spluttering washing rubbing hands panting almost salivating blowing hands as if to drive out cold hands like sandpaper washing face trying to put hands down your throat (to make yourself gag?) giving birth out yer mouth singing all I enjoyed distorted gurgling guttured words the church goodbye moaning of sexual ecstasy face reddening throwing up road runner whats up doc squeakish voice bent double trying to get upright sucking sound nik nok nik nok throwing up fingers in mouth trying to extract something teeth? Wolf howls modulate into song eyes close mmmm,mmmmMMM mmmmmmMMMMmm crouching pale rose caught against dark fence audible change in the soundtrack retching high pitched squeaks deep exhales angry drumming noise Georgian chanting continuous you alright?
Do you recognise that person?
Can I ask you about you voting intentions?
Can I ask you about your voting intentions?
A vote for the Body fascists is a vote for controlling the body through your iron will. Fuck Zumba. Fuck kettle bells. That’s what my Spinning Studio instructor says. Vote for hope, and a return to dignity. An end to the years of humiliation.
What did you think of 9/11?
WHAT DID YOU THINK OF 7/7?
What do you think of Israel’s foreign policy?
The trouble is: The cartoonist vote is only an outline, and grotesquely exaggerated.
Why did you go to Turkey?
I prefer the Tuesday class, it’s more lungey.
I don’t believe you. I think you were going to Syria to join Islamic state
Promises, promises, the History of Debt.
What kind of milk do you like?
Full fat milk, gold top. If I haven’t got any milk, I put a bit of butter in my tea.
I am Dark Justice. The person you were talking to was a decoy inviting you to a private space for sexualised conversations. Do you prefer annexes or outbuildings?
My second kitchen, actually. It’s fifty shades of gray
What’s your favourite catch phrase?
You don’t have to pull it for so long
These people are extremists
I know, you put me in the middle of the Costa Rican jungle and I’ve got to catch my own food, what do you expect?
Where is the pain, Deirdre?
Some number (representing GDP) is higher than a previous number. Our growth – and let’s be honest , we’re talking embarrassing bodies here, hairy and half way down - is one of the strongest of …
Where’s the pain, Deirdre?
My underbottom. Right near me foof.
Isn’t that…? You mean horns?
Oooh, I know. Not now. It’s Silent Witness. Love this. (sings) TESTATOR SILENS. Those spacy swirly graphics send me.
Is acting necessary as an assurance you exist? Otherwise you’re invisible, an extra stuck in a long run at the Oldham Coliseum?
Look, I’ve had a hard day’s filming. If you don’t put some hot dinner on the table, I’ll punch you.
Isn’t your real name Anne?
You can’t order me to cut the words out of my life because you’ve fallen out with them. I know your shame: you’re deliberately trying to get rid of the derivational suffixes. You think more of that fucking morpheme you married than your mother.
Copyright © Gareth Twose, 2015.