It's not easy being an internet sensation, y'know. One minute you're a nobody, spending your days staring out the window, occasionally throwing things at the cat from number 55, the next you've got bare-breasted groupies camped outside your front door, waving banners proclaiming your genius and speculating at the humongous dimensions of your tummy banana. Such is the nature of celebrity.
Naturally, I take it all in my stride and remain the embodiment of modesty and humility, but still the people cry out to know more. "Who are you?" they ask; "Do you have your own range of action figures?" and "Have you got 50 pence for a cup of tea?"
I can't answer those questions, folks - but I can present you with some more choice extracts from my diaries. May the sharing of these experiences bring us closer in ever more beautiful and sweaty ways.
* * * * *
12th February, 1973
A prison guard cracks his baton against the wooden frame of the bunk bed and I blink wearily to life.
Hòa Ló. Shit. I'm still in Hòa Ló.
Charlie assembles us in the exercise yard for roll-call. As our names are read out that punk John McCain makes a loud fart noise with his armpit, much to the displeasure of the camp commandant. He demands to know who it was and McCain says it was me. I tell McCain if this is revenge for substituting his revolver for a water pistol during our game of Russian Roulette last night then I can go one better, and inform the commandant McCain's been hiding a gold watch up his ass for the last three years. McCain wisecracks that my momma's so ugly she walked into a Hall of Mirrors and it blew up. As I retort that his momma's so fat she's got her own eco-system, two guards drag us out of line and crack our heads together. The commandant walks over and says he has orders to release all prisoners from the camp, but asks for one good reason why he should let two imperialist pigs like us back into the world. I reply that I've got a really great idea for a Korean-Vietnamese fusion restaurant, and if he wants in we can split the profits 50/50. The commandant nods sagely then points at McCain.
"This man has a gold watch up his ass, you say?"
"Son of a bitch took it from a dead V.C.," I whisper conspiratorially, flashing a shit-eating grin at McCain.
The commandant orders McCain placed in irons and strip-searched. As they drag him away, the little squirt threatens to get me for this and warns me to watch my back. I smirk that he's got more chance of becoming President of the United States.
Later, as I board the helicopter waiting to deliver me from the horrors of the camp, I take a moment to reflect on my time at Hòa Ló. I have been in a world of shit, but I am alive. When we finally lift off and I take one last look at North Vietnam, I do so in the sure and certain knowledge that the memories of the terrible things I saw there will stay with me for the rest of my week.
* * * * *
13th July, 1985
Backstage with Queen at Live Aid. Freddie's been crying for a good twenty minutes, inconsolable at their poor reception from the 72,000-strong crowd.
"It's just not fair!" Freddie sobs, burying his head in my shoulder as Brian May smashes his Gibson Les Paul against the wall of the dressing room. "WHERE DID IT ALL GO WRONG-?!"
I suggest that playing South Africa was a mistake as a lot of people saw it as support for P. W. Botha's continuing policy of apartheid. Freddie is incredulous, explaining that Queen are an apolitical band and only agreed to the concert for tax reasons. I can see he's not buying it, so I decide to give it to him straight.
"You want the truth, Freddie?" I ask him, placing my hand softly on his shoulder. He looks up at me, tear tracks running down his cheeks and a trail of snot hanging from his moustache. "You've either got it or you ain't," I tell him, handing the poor sod one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs. "And take it from me, kid: you ain't got it."
"Teach me!" Freddie pleads with me desperately. "Tell me how to be a showman like you!"
A stagehand suddenly pops her head round the door.
"Five minutes, Mr English!"
I adjust my bowtie, put on my shoulder-mounted mouth organ and check my banjo is correctly tuned.
"Do yourself a favour, Freddie," I say, "Give it up before you make a complete arse of yourself."
I pass row after row of dressing rooms and ascend the stage, where I find myself confronted with a stadium full of people chanting my name.
"GOOD EVENING, WEMBLEY!" I shout to an enormous cheer, and launch into the opening bars of "Knees Up, Mother Brown".
* * * * *
30th January, 1990
"So let me get this straight," Gorbachev says, munching away at his fourth Big Mac. "You can order the same meal at an identical branch anywhere in the world-?"
"Pretty much," I reply, dipping a french-fry in borscht sauce. "That's free market enterprise, Mickey Boy."
"Trembling Trotskyites!" he exclaims. "This Ronald McDonald must be a genius!"
I ask him if the Politburo ever thought about sanctioning a state-owned chain of fast food restaurants.
"Oh, sure!" Gorbachev laughs, a sliver of relish dripping from his chin. "Comrade Stalin proposed a franchise after hearing of the success of Kentucky Fried Chicken. He was obsessed with the parallels between himself and your Comrade Sanders. They were both military men, turned themselves into icons; Stalin yearned to see himself on fun buckets and variety boxes, but then he died, so Comrade Khrushchev inherited the Kremlin Fried Chicken program. Of course, Nikita wanted to end Stalin's Cult of Personality, so he decided to put a rotating series of Soviet heroes on the buckets: Eisenstein, Shostakovich, Gagarin - but the project stalled because we couldn't crack the secret recipe. We sent undercover KGB agents to KFCs all over the world but never found out Comrade Sanders' secret. Kim Philby came close, but he had to defect to the Soviet Union after disposing of a worker in the deep fat fryer for fear of having his cover blown. When Comrade Brezhnev became General Secretary he increased defence spending by cutting back on unessential programs, including Kremlin Fried Chicken. For a time we tried to come up with our own ingredients, but boiled vodka and wheat grain just didn't compare. In the end, we admitted failure."
He shakes his head sadly and picks up a Chicken McNugget, staring at it with a mixture of anguish and frustration. "So close, and yet so far..." he mutters wearily.
I tell him not to be so downhearted when a scrawny, acne-ridden employee mopping the floor bumps into the table, spilling Gorbachev's Coca-Cola all over his trousers.
"Clumsy oaf!" he yells, patting himself down.
"Apologies, General Secretary, Mr President!" the homunculus says, gripping nervously at the handle of his mop. Gorbachev looks him up and down frostily, then breaks into a cheery smile.
"No harm done, Comrade!" he chuckles, and motions the employee to carry on with his duties. After he leaves the table, Gorbachev leans over and says I know what to do. I reach into my breast pocket and pull out a miniature radio.
"Gayaneh, this is Firebird. I want that little turd Putin off the premises now..."
* * * * *
2nd May, 2011
A plume of smoke coils and drifts into the cool, dark night over Pakistan as our HU-60 spins out of control 50ft. above Bilal Town.
"We're hit!" the pilot shouts into the radio amidst a hiss of fire extinguishers. "Abort the mission! Repeat: ABORT THE MISSION!"
"Bullshit!" I yell, forcing my way into the cockpit. I wrestle the radio from the pilot's fear-drenched hands and address the squadron. "Cancel that last order, fellas - I'm going in myself."
"But it's suicide!" a young marine whimpers behind me. "You're gonna die! We're all gonna die!"
"Get a hold of yourself, soldier!" I command him, grabbing his lapel and slapping some sense into the little pipsqueak. "What's your name, son?"
"O'Neill, sir. Robert O'Neill... My friends call me Bobby."
"Listen, O'Neill," I reply. "This isn't about you or me: it's about justice. If we don't take down that son of a bitch right now, all the O'Neill's and the Robert's and the Bobby's in this world won't live to see tomorrow. You get that, soldier-?"
"Aye, sir!" he exclaims, clicking his heels together with renewed vigour.
"Good on you, son," I say, and slap him again. As the Black Hawk levels out above the compound at Abbottabad, the other Navy SEALs salute me as I strap on a parachute and leap out of the chopper towards my destiny. I free-fall for what seems like an eternity before crashing through the Waziristan Haveli skylight. I land on my feet amidst a shower of broken glass that handily despatches everyone else in the room save for my target.
"Osama," I purr, raising my .48 with a sardonic twinkle in my eye. "Hope you don't mind me dropping by..."
"So we meet again, English! I should've killed you when I had the chance."
"Well, I'm sorry if I gave you the run around..." I retort, dashing round the room as he exhausts the magazine in his 1979 American-issue AK-47. Catching the last bullet between my teeth as a show of defiance, I kick him in the balls and take aim at his forehead. His tongue suddenly shoots out of his mouth and squeezes itself around my gun hand, forcing me to drop the .48 and fall to my knees.
"Not tho fahtht..." he lisps, raising himself above me as he seizes hold of my throat. His tongue snaps back into his jaw, licking his lips with a malevolent glee. "Uncle Sam should've known it would take more than a superman to defeat me, English! It would take... a god!"
"Then you're all Allah luck," I quip, and spit the bullet I caught into his right temple. He falls to the ground, still clutching my neck.
"The horror..." he murmurs, the light in his eyes starting to fade as his hand slackens. "The horror..."
I close his eyes, strike a match with my chin stubble and light a cigar. A sudden burst of static pierces the eerie calm as my radio crackles to life.
"White Lightning, this is Strongbow. Do you copy?"
"Copy that, Strongbow. This is White Lightning. Tell the President it's over. Tell him... democracy is safe once again."
