seen this? The world’s so unfair’ and then we’ll get distracted by a car advert on the telly that’s got that bloke who was in that thing in it. What was it again? Was it Holby City? Pass us a Malteser.
We’re pigs.
Perhaps if we’d all been born with a suicide button on the back of our heads—a ‘death button’ that would kill you instantly and painlessly on a single press—we’d all be a bit more grateful; more aware of our good fortune. Yes, a single press and tee hee hee—it’s dead as a cardboard box you be!
Incidentally, it’s a button with its own fingerprint detection system, so only the owner can use it—it’s not like some prankster can hide behind a hedge and prod it with a long stick as you walk by, then laugh as your corpse lands face-first in doggy-doo. It’s yours and yours alone.
Of course, few would make it past adolescence. What? I’ve got to go to school with this huge spot on my chin? Click. And that’s only the first of a long line of push-button temptations. There’s exam pressures—click—your first heartbreak—click—your mid-twenties breakdown—click—your shitty job—click—turning thirty—click—your first grey hair—click. And so on. But it’s all for the best. It thins out the populace and spreads the comfort around for everyone.
Besides, anyone voluntarily pressing their button is a fool, and the world’s got too many of them. Stroke it, by all means. Flirt with danger. Run your finger round the rim and contemplate choice. But don’t press it. Who cares how big that pile of dishes gets? You’re alive, stupid. And you’re lucky to be here. Now get on with it.
Pray for Stumpy Ralf
[18 November 2005]
W ho’s the world’s biggest celebrity? Let’s say it’s Ralf Little. Obviously it’s not, but for the sake of argument, imagine a version of Ralf Little that had made some different career choices, and starred in a string of hit movies, and written fifteen best-selling albums, and was better-looking and taller and had a different head and face and voice and outlook and mind. Imagine that Ralf Little.
Right. So Ralf is the world’s biggest celebrity. Wherever he goes, bedazzled plebeian scum congregate to take photos of him with their phone cameras and scream themselves to death. He’s on the cover of Heat magazine so often they end up incorporating his face into the logo. In a survey, more people can tell you what Ralf Little got for Christmas than can tell you what ‘milk’ is. He’s insanely bloody famous.
Then some ghasdy accident occurs and Ralf loses a leg. But hey—he’s still Ralf Little! And the way he hops is so cute, people love him all the more. Then a week later, during a garden party, he inadver-tendy hops into a gigantic whirring fan and loses all his other limbs. PRAY FOR STUMPY RALF scream the tabloids. It looks like he’s finished.
But men they wheel him onstage at the Oscars—in a brightly coloured toy truck pulled by Hilary Swank—and everyone leaps up and applauds. The worldwide audience sheds a tear and Ralf’s still completely famous.
But on the way home from the ceremony, Ralf’s limo somersaults into a tanker full of concentrated acid. He’s almost completely dissolved. All that’s left is a single lip that, miraculously, is still alive. So now Ralf Little consists of nothing but a lip. Surely his career is finally over?
Not necessarily. A single lip could maintain a decent profile. He could do cameos. He could slither down a window in the next Ben Stiller movie. Or play a small pink slug that befriends Dakota Fanning. He could even star in his own action blockbuster—a new Die Hard . Just dangle him from a bit of fishing wire at face height, shoot his scenes as normal and fill in the rest of his body later using CGI. Easy.
Failing that, his agent could glue him onto an orange, draw some eyes over the top, ram the orange onto a pencil, and hey presto—he’s a puppet. Book him onto a hip, ironic, late-night
We’re pigs.
Perhaps if we’d all been born with a suicide button on the back of our heads—a ‘death button’ that would kill you instantly and painlessly on a single press—we’d all be a bit more grateful; more aware of our good fortune. Yes, a single press and tee hee hee—it’s dead as a cardboard box you be!
Incidentally, it’s a button with its own fingerprint detection system, so only the owner can use it—it’s not like some prankster can hide behind a hedge and prod it with a long stick as you walk by, then laugh as your corpse lands face-first in doggy-doo. It’s yours and yours alone.
Of course, few would make it past adolescence. What? I’ve got to go to school with this huge spot on my chin? Click. And that’s only the first of a long line of push-button temptations. There’s exam pressures—click—your first heartbreak—click—your mid-twenties breakdown—click—your shitty job—click—turning thirty—click—your first grey hair—click. And so on. But it’s all for the best. It thins out the populace and spreads the comfort around for everyone.
Besides, anyone voluntarily pressing their button is a fool, and the world’s got too many of them. Stroke it, by all means. Flirt with danger. Run your finger round the rim and contemplate choice. But don’t press it. Who cares how big that pile of dishes gets? You’re alive, stupid. And you’re lucky to be here. Now get on with it.
Pray for Stumpy Ralf
[18 November 2005]
W ho’s the world’s biggest celebrity? Let’s say it’s Ralf Little. Obviously it’s not, but for the sake of argument, imagine a version of Ralf Little that had made some different career choices, and starred in a string of hit movies, and written fifteen best-selling albums, and was better-looking and taller and had a different head and face and voice and outlook and mind. Imagine that Ralf Little.
Right. So Ralf is the world’s biggest celebrity. Wherever he goes, bedazzled plebeian scum congregate to take photos of him with their phone cameras and scream themselves to death. He’s on the cover of Heat magazine so often they end up incorporating his face into the logo. In a survey, more people can tell you what Ralf Little got for Christmas than can tell you what ‘milk’ is. He’s insanely bloody famous.
Then some ghasdy accident occurs and Ralf loses a leg. But hey—he’s still Ralf Little! And the way he hops is so cute, people love him all the more. Then a week later, during a garden party, he inadver-tendy hops into a gigantic whirring fan and loses all his other limbs. PRAY FOR STUMPY RALF scream the tabloids. It looks like he’s finished.
But men they wheel him onstage at the Oscars—in a brightly coloured toy truck pulled by Hilary Swank—and everyone leaps up and applauds. The worldwide audience sheds a tear and Ralf’s still completely famous.
But on the way home from the ceremony, Ralf’s limo somersaults into a tanker full of concentrated acid. He’s almost completely dissolved. All that’s left is a single lip that, miraculously, is still alive. So now Ralf Little consists of nothing but a lip. Surely his career is finally over?
Not necessarily. A single lip could maintain a decent profile. He could do cameos. He could slither down a window in the next Ben Stiller movie. Or play a small pink slug that befriends Dakota Fanning. He could even star in his own action blockbuster—a new Die Hard . Just dangle him from a bit of fishing wire at face height, shoot his scenes as normal and fill in the rest of his body later using CGI. Easy.
Failing that, his agent could glue him onto an orange, draw some eyes over the top, ram the orange onto a pencil, and hey presto—he’s a puppet. Book him onto a hip, ironic, late-night
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