Hang on… we’re just calling the men in white coats. Our esteemed columnist needs his injection and that nice coat with the sleeves round the back. “Hello? Yes, ambulance again please, and hurry…”
Did I ever tell you about the time I was saved from an upside-down world by a psychokinetic girl and a bunch of fairy lights? I swear, every word of this is true. I was hanging out with my bezzie friends, who just happened to be bike-riding geek kids from the 1980s, when I got kidnapped by a Demogorgon with a collapsed anus for a face. Anyway, Winona Ryder stuck the alphabet to a wall and everything’s okay now.
You’re giving me that look again. The same look as when I told you about the road going on fire when I drove at 88 miles an hour, or when I crossed Mordor to get a ring valued, or the time I flew around space with Harrison Ford while dressed as a seven-foot gun-toting man-bear. Look at you, reading this magazine by swiping your buttery fingers across the screen or sneaking a look in the WHSmith knitted sex toy aisle. Here’s me pouring my heart out, like I did just before me and Susan Sarandon drove our car off a cliff, and you’re just sniffing my words as if they’re gassing out of Trump’s waste-hole.
Thing is, no one believes anything anymore. Theresa May can bang on about how she’s not 600 leeches taped together and shoved into a dress, but she so is. Nigel Farage may try to convince you his insides aren’t full of spiders, but we can hear their little feet. I’m not even sure this magazine trusts me. “We want you to write a column,” said the Electronic Sound editors from the depths of their cryogenic pods. “But don’t make stuff up. People will never believe you.”
Harrumph. I’ll have you know, I said as I high-fived their tentacles, that I’m a brilliant fantasist. I was Milli AND Vanilli. It was four years before people noticed that Wolfgang from Kraftwerk was actually me in a BHS shirt prodding a My Little Pony xylophone. Mike Oldfield never actually existed: ‘Tubular Bells’ is simply me with a baseball bat, some wind chimes and six and half litres of vodka. Ding!
You don’t look convinced. Did I ever tell you I hold the world record for putting a donk on it? Last time I went fishing, I caught a Beyoncé that was THIS big. My uncle’s the fat one from One Direction. Delia Derbyshire? Me in a wig. Winona Ryder? Me in a wig. Donald Trump’s waste-hole? Me in a – you get the idea. You’re giving me that look again. Honestly. Some readers.
