looking through a telescope at the asteroid coming to wipe us out, youâre going to need somebody like Stevie. Youâre going to need him to laugh. Because if Stevie can laugh, I can laugh. If Stevie doesnât care, I donât care. If Stevie can admit to a customer that he doesnât know what his shop sells, despite knowing that it could lose him his job, his wages, his house, his girlfriend, well ⦠fuck it. Fuck it. In the happiest way possible, I say fuck it all.
Now Stevieâs asking me if I want to buy something, something that I donât think I need, but I said yes. I donât know what it was; I wasnât really listening, I was smiling. Could have been batteries, even though the thing doesnât take them. Could have been some insurance thing that sticks an extra hundred quid on the price, even though Iâve already got insurance. Could have been anything. Fuck knows.
And fuck cares.
Cos see Stevie?
Stevieâs all right.
THE FAKE
I have these burglars. They burgle my house.
Or so they think!
It started a while back. I canât remember the first time they did it, but they obviously enjoyed it so much that they decided to do it again, and again, and again. It must be like a pair of comfy old slippers. Each time they smash one of the windows and invite themselves in, well, it must be like a trip down memory lane for them. I can imagine them casting their minds back to that very first time, and all the times thereafter, reminiscing, telling stories, filling the house with laughter at my expense. Aye, I can just imagine them thinking about all those memories wrapped up in that very house.
And theyâd be wrong!
See, I got myself an alarm. Thatâs how it began. I decided to get myself an alarm, just to give these chaps a subtle indication that I didnât want them around, that Iâd rather have the house to myself, thank you very much. But when I went to the shop and saw the prices of these things, these alarms? Jeezo! The guy said to me, âWell, you canât put a price on peace of mind.â But at that price? I think Iâd rather be robbed! Then I said, âHere, hold on, what are those alarms over there? Theyâre not even half the price.â The guy told me thatâs because they were fake. Oh, I liked that. These burglars thinking my alarm was real when it wasnât, I liked the idea of that very much. The guy recommended against it, he recommended getting the real deal, but no no no. A fake one, please. That would show them. I donât like lying, but for breaking into my house, my private property, thatâs what they get.
Anyway, it didnât work. They must have seen right through it, the way those experts on
Antiques Roadshow
can spot a phony from a hundred yards. Thatâs prisons for you: universities of crime, arenât they?
So I went back to the shop and complained. The guy said, well, he did recommend getting the real deal, and that it would have saved me money in the long run â a right smart arse. He tried to punt it to me again, the alarm, the real one, but this time he also advised me to get some cameras, all that CCTV carry-on. My God, if I thought the price of the alarm was bad, the cameras? He was obviously trying to get me while I was down, it was worse than being mugged at knifepoint. Then I said, âHere, wait a minute, what are those cameras over there? Why are they so cheap?â And he told me it was because those were fake, just like the fake alarm. Oh, I liked that. He advised against it, but then again, he would: commission. No, Iâll just have the fake one, if you please. I couldnât wait to get it home. I just imagined the burglars seeing the flashing red light and running for the hills. I just pictured them watching
Crimewatch
that night, biting their nails down to the knuckles, waiting for their faces to appear. But their faces wouldnât appear, because it was a trick! And
Now Stevieâs asking me if I want to buy something, something that I donât think I need, but I said yes. I donât know what it was; I wasnât really listening, I was smiling. Could have been batteries, even though the thing doesnât take them. Could have been some insurance thing that sticks an extra hundred quid on the price, even though Iâve already got insurance. Could have been anything. Fuck knows.
And fuck cares.
Cos see Stevie?
Stevieâs all right.
THE FAKE
I have these burglars. They burgle my house.
Or so they think!
It started a while back. I canât remember the first time they did it, but they obviously enjoyed it so much that they decided to do it again, and again, and again. It must be like a pair of comfy old slippers. Each time they smash one of the windows and invite themselves in, well, it must be like a trip down memory lane for them. I can imagine them casting their minds back to that very first time, and all the times thereafter, reminiscing, telling stories, filling the house with laughter at my expense. Aye, I can just imagine them thinking about all those memories wrapped up in that very house.
And theyâd be wrong!
See, I got myself an alarm. Thatâs how it began. I decided to get myself an alarm, just to give these chaps a subtle indication that I didnât want them around, that Iâd rather have the house to myself, thank you very much. But when I went to the shop and saw the prices of these things, these alarms? Jeezo! The guy said to me, âWell, you canât put a price on peace of mind.â But at that price? I think Iâd rather be robbed! Then I said, âHere, hold on, what are those alarms over there? Theyâre not even half the price.â The guy told me thatâs because they were fake. Oh, I liked that. These burglars thinking my alarm was real when it wasnât, I liked the idea of that very much. The guy recommended against it, he recommended getting the real deal, but no no no. A fake one, please. That would show them. I donât like lying, but for breaking into my house, my private property, thatâs what they get.
Anyway, it didnât work. They must have seen right through it, the way those experts on
Antiques Roadshow
can spot a phony from a hundred yards. Thatâs prisons for you: universities of crime, arenât they?
So I went back to the shop and complained. The guy said, well, he did recommend getting the real deal, and that it would have saved me money in the long run â a right smart arse. He tried to punt it to me again, the alarm, the real one, but this time he also advised me to get some cameras, all that CCTV carry-on. My God, if I thought the price of the alarm was bad, the cameras? He was obviously trying to get me while I was down, it was worse than being mugged at knifepoint. Then I said, âHere, wait a minute, what are those cameras over there? Why are they so cheap?â And he told me it was because those were fake, just like the fake alarm. Oh, I liked that. He advised against it, but then again, he would: commission. No, Iâll just have the fake one, if you please. I couldnât wait to get it home. I just imagined the burglars seeing the flashing red light and running for the hills. I just pictured them watching
Crimewatch
that night, biting their nails down to the knuckles, waiting for their faces to appear. But their faces wouldnât appear, because it was a trick! And
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