Readers fresh to GP may not be aware but I produced a stunning series some while ago, exclusively for the discerning readers of this blog (the others, you know who you are, mostly ignored it). My insightful but vitriolic series of Septic Eye shattered the status quo of satirical and biting column commentary. Whilst Peter Hitchens dismissed it as a drug fueled cacophony of trivia for the shallow and irrelevant hipster generation, the rest of the world paid no heed (heeds are notoriously expensive to employ). Still even the great man’s dismissal added to the general buzz and vibrance on social media regarding my work.
My now newfound notoriety as a controversial columnist frequently catapulted me even to the attention of minor members of the Royal family and on one occasion James Corden was in a slight altercation with Dermot O’Leary whilst both were trying to get a selfie in my company. I rapidly descended into the usual celebrity malaise, indiscriminate use of Paracetamol, often two every four hours, at the first hint of a headache, and an addiction to purchasing Lottery tickets on final rollover days, as many as three at one time, I was out of control.
The sexual demands of women were unquenchable, at one point every woman over 55 with a fake tan and hoop earrings within a ten mile radius of Nottingham was like a ripe plum just waiting to be picked, some were riper than others. I can assure you that’s a very large demographic and I even contemplated purchasing a moped to meet their demands. Public transport could no longer fulfil my travel requirements (mostly due to delays because of roadworks at Burton Joyce).
I even considered a refurbished NSU Quickly moped on Gumtree at one point but it had gone to a good home in Beeston by the time I made contact. This reminds me whilst that particular moped was discontinued in 1968 its acronym companion NSU, the sexually transmitted virus, non specific urethritis wasn’t and is still quite active. A good friend contracted NSU quickly after a brief encounter with two Pontin’s Bluecoats back in the 70s. A little niche reference for enthusiasts of both mopeds and sexually transmitted diseases, you’re welcome.
Afterwards I could no longer leave my house in daylight because of the continuous attention of media hacks and photographers so I slipped out of the country for a while, there was no other option. I still fondly hoped that one day I could produce just one more Septic Eye edition, perhaps a Christmas Special, a shot of steroids for your jaundiced eyes, it was just an aspiration that’s all, but things changed and very rapidly.
Now I’m back at home again and incognito, the country is in a fever of fever, I step out occasionally but only for essential journeys. Dressed as Lady Gaga, in a coat fashioned from pasta and toilet roll, I stumble up to my friend’s little corner store. Azif’s ‘special customer’ chiller contains some rare examples of the finest Polish beers. Tyskie, a hint of Dettol with a unique metallic finish at a cheeky 5.2%, perfect with a curried egg, is my choice for today. We haggle over the price of a thin blue plastic bag but it ends all smiles and then I’m home again, back in my over heated grade two listed, heat resistant hovel.
Then it rings, the neon turquoise trimphone rings. The BobPhone, I used to dread its purr-purr call, knowing that once more I would have to debase my artistic integrity for some trivial article about planes, guns and other shit I knew nothing about, warily I raised the receiver.
I knew straight away it was him, the graveled voice was unmistakable, thirty thousand Embassy coupons couldn’t hide his identity, although they had enabled him to purchase a Stepserxiser fitness walker. I caught the sandpaper notes of a German budget supermarket heavy whisky drinker in his voice. There was a nuance of ‘Glen of the Moors See you Jimmy’ in those tones, £8.99 a litre. Perfect with a curried egg etc.
“What do you want? I tried to keep my voice steady but when he spoke, a shiver ran up my spine, it sat on my shoulder for a moment and then disappeared in the general direction of the kitchen. “They’re dropping like flies, mate,” he finally rasped.
“What is, who is dropping like flies, is it dead flies? Is this a quiz?”
“GP writers, they are reporting coughs, sniffles, I’ve a couple who are having to decorate their bathroom,” his voice broke, I’d never heard him this emotional.
“What do you want me to do Bob”, I knew this was my call of duty.
“I have this space to fill, between 2am and 6am, we were going to feature Cooking with Al but he can’t get hot dogs anywhere apparently.”
“OK mate, I’ve got this, I can run with this, whatever needs to be done, I have the knife by the handle, sit back I’ve got this, I won’t let you down, I’ve got the whole world in my hands, you can rest easy buddy, when I have to step up to the plate, that’s what I do, you can rely on this boy, this boy wants you back again, this boy wouldn’t mind the pain, oho this boy.”
He cut me short, although I have a Kurdish tailor just up the road who says he can fix that. “Whatever, just like 1000 words will do, the usual padding that you know so well, fill it with some innuendo as you do, couple of puns, usual shtick, on my desk tonight,” and with a cough he was gone. Hope he’s OK?
1000 words? Doesn’t leave me much room for my searing expose of the Chinese Communist Party and the knowledge of the miracle cure for all this crisis, imparted to me by a 120 year old Buddhist master of herbs I met recently in Tibet, guess that will have to wait for the Christmas special.
© Viciousbutfair 2020
The Goodnight Vienna Audio file