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Q. Describe your ideal day to us. A. Not working. No plans. Pizza for lunch. Sleep. More sleep. Possibly more pizza.
The tournament will be noisy and tiring, and will force me to mingle with my least favourite group on the planet – people who work for video games companies. The gamers themselves are fine, if a little twitchy under harsh lighting, but the plethora of individuals surrounding them is quite another story. You’ve never experienced true pain until you’ve been locked in a room with a PR spokesman who is keener than the keenest mustard when it comes to convincing you how great his newest game is. These e-sports tournaments are as much about selling games as they are about allowing basement-dwelling
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‘There’s a rat in my bedroom,’ I inform Calvin. ‘It’s cross-eyed.’ ‘You mean Gnawbones?’ My jaw drops. ‘You’ve named it?’ Calvin smiles. ‘Yeah. Well, Paul did anyway.’ ‘Gnawbones the cross-eyed rat,’ I say, trying to place the concept into a world that makes any kind of sense. ‘Yep. He’s been feeding it cheese.’ ‘No wonder it’s cross-eyed then. That cheddar is about ten minutes away from becoming a sentient life form itself.’ ‘It’s only been in the fridge since Christmas.’ ‘Christmas two years ago, Calvin.’ ‘Fair enough,’ he says a bit dismissively.
My subconscious often chides me for my lack of self-worth, and every time it does I promise to do better next time. I never do.
Never trust a reporter with a story to finish – he’d lie to his own mother for a better scoop.
‘Er, smile?’ I venture. Patrice does his best, but now he just looks like someone’s force-fed him a bowl of cat vomit. ‘Um, smile just a wee bit more?’ I plead. Okay, so now he looks like a vast invisible entity has pulled both sides of his mouth back violently into a rictus grin. It’ll have to do, though, as I can see my phone battery rapidly draining as I speak.
‘Wahaay! Go get him, son!’ Paul shouts in encouragement. ‘You fuck that big old sheep!’ Both of them collapse into giggles.
Q. Describe your dream job to us. A. Nutritional consultant to the stars!
Take Professor Malcolm Hibbersley, for instance. Yeah, that’s his real name. I haven’t made it up. You couldn’t get a more British-sounding name, unless it was something like Basil TeaCupAndSaucer, or Doris DrizzlingAllDay. Professor Hibbersley looks like a saintly old English gentleman, with salt-and-pepper hair and a pleasant expression on his face, but under that facade is an academic monster. Before I’d even spent two hours in his classroom, the maniac had piled me high with books, set two assignments, and given me less than a month to provide a detailed synopsis of my thesis.
What made me doubt my own eyes to begin with was the expression on his face. I am so used to seeing a faint look of disapproval that I got completely thrown by his current appearance. The professor looks like my Aunt Catherine’s old boxer dog Conklin. Conklin always had a look of good-natured, boggle-eyed stupidity, no matter what he was doing. Whether he was sniffing his own ass or trying to screw your leg, he always looked like he’d just been injected with morphine and cocaine at the same time. He was the dumbest-looking dog you ever met – and here I am looking at him again, this time in
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Q. Do you prefer a suit, or something casual? A. Am I allowed to go outside in lounge pants?
Jessica Madison is pretty in the way only women from an exotic place like California can be. When I first heard where she was from, I formed a mental picture of some blonde, pneumatic beach bunny, and my heart sank. My penis did the opposite, but I tried my best to ignore him, given that he is an idiot.
And you’d probably get it, from a priest who wasn’t high on cocaine. ‘Howdy, folks!’ he screams, in what can only be described as the worst American accent in history. This is met with some titters from the less easily shocked in the crowd, but mostly with stunned silence from everyone else. ‘I said howdy, folks!’ Oh good Lord, he’s not taking no for an answer here, is he? Obviously our good friend Julian knows that the bride is of colonial extraction and wants to make her feel at home. This time there’s a few desultory ‘howdys’ from the assembled onlookers. It’s the best response he’s going
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Sadly, I am brought back into the room by the simple expedient of having a twitchy priest smack me on top of the head with a Bible. ‘Ow! What did you do that for?’ I complain. ‘I said you must now hold out the ring, Alan!’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘My name is Adam.’ ‘Hold up the ring!’ Julian demands. ‘You!’ he says, addressing Jessica. ‘Please hold out your hand!’ Jessica does so. Here we go then. The moment of truth. ‘Do you, Alan—’ ‘Adam.’ ‘Do you, Adam, take this woman . . .’ There’s a pregnant pause. ‘Jessica,’ Jessica hisses under her breath. Julian looks flummoxed. ‘Is it? I
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Not a minute seems to go by without him checking what the time is. He’s like Doctor Who without the blue box and sonic vibrator.
Q. If you had a million pounds, what would you do? A. Start worrying about burglars.
