News from Nowhere

This week, Richard has a short but spectacular mental breakdown and picks a fight with the entire western hemisphere.

I'll say one thing for this current crisis: it makes you take a closer look at your personal politics. I've been at odds with the so-called liberal media for some time now, particularly in relation to its empty virtue-signalling, but I'm really growing to despise their cant and supercilious rhetoric. (It amuses me, for example, how the BBC and The Guardian have been calling for a full-on China-style lockdown for some time now, only to get cold feet once cabin fever sets in, the ruinous economic cost of a forced quarantine suddenly dawns on them, and the police start acting like the fucking Stasi.) Conversely, I'm equally as fed-up with conservative commentators peddling stories about socialist takeovers and/or extranational conspiracies (which the UK media have done nothing to dispell, even in the face of idiotic backlashes such as the recent 5G mast-burnings in Liverpool and Birmingham: let's face it, they were handing out free petrol on that story months before anyone took a match to it.) When will these double-standards end?

Like most people, I was shocked to wake up to the news on Thursday that Trump had remarked during his latest press briefing that injecting disinfectant into the bloodstream was a way of combating Covid-19. Of course, anyone blessed with even a modicum of close-reading skills (or, y'know, had actually watched the footage and listened to what he said) can see for themselves how his admittedly clumsy choice of words has been twisted by partisan media to suit their own agenda. And this doesn't stop at individuals, either. Consider the sheer volume of pro-EU propaganda being churned out by many of the same news outlets who have conveniently taken it upon themselves to side-step how Italy has effectively been hung out to dry by other major nation states yet still denigrates them for receiving humanitarian aid from China and Russia. And don't even get me started on the intense criticism of Orbán's emergency measures in Hungary, which it must be emphasised aren't all that different from the ones enacted in France under President Macron. Why is one a problem but the other isn't? Could it be that the media can't seem to move beyond this view of Eastern European states as something unknowable, alien and 'problematic' because they can't be bothered to consider history, context and social perspective? Then to cap it all, just to tighten the throat and send tremors down the left arm, we're bombarded with poorly-argued, space-filling editorials asking if female heads of state such as Angela Merkel and Jacinda Ardern are better suited than their male counterparts to handle the outbreak (falling back on tired stereotypes identity politics is supposedly meant to be a reaction against), pieces asking why the virus seems to be disproportionately affecting BAME people (failing to take into account population density in the inner-cities) and, most bafflingly, outrage at the postponement of gender realignment surgeries for trans individuals despite the very obvious fact that the health service has had to free up space to deal with the pandemic (which, hypocritically, a lot of the pundits complaining about this have been lecturing us about for several weeks).

But aside from the many frustrations listed above, if there's one thing that's really starting to piss me off about the media's response to the current crisis it's the endlessly repeated, dumb-ass assertion that this is "The New Normal". Now, I've treated that statement rather flippantly for the last month or so, but my blood really ran cold when I heard foreign secretary Dominic Raab use it on The Andrew Marr Show - and I say that beause... Well, it's not the sort of expression you want to hear used by a member of government (it makes one think of dictators like Nicolae Ceauşescu and Idi Amin justifying measures that led to the curtailment of civil liberties and the deaths of thousands of people under the pretext of 'security'). The fact is that many people, guided by the corrupting hand of the MSM, seem to think this is a sort of interim period between what used to be 'normality' and the geopolitical/-social/-economic climate that will come afterwards - one that's already being touted as a more egalitarian society by hopeful doves who seem to think a global recession will increase awareness of social injustice. But to quote Marx: "The birthmarks of the past still exist."

I'm done with ideology, and I'm finished with projections of what this/that means in the eyes of the media. When this is all over and there's at least a semblance of normality, it's going to take more than a few tired slogans and empty rhetoric to convince me that any political party or media outlet is worth my investment or trust. As the great reformer Tom Mann observed: "A sensible man is not anxious that any particular '-ism' shall prevail, he is only anxious that the right conditions shall obtain."

Amen, brother.

WordJam: Tomorrow's Fake News Today!

Stay safe, folks.

WordJam in Lockdown: Volume 2

Monday, 6th April

My first day delivering food parcels for the local community support service. It's hard not to feel a bit like Jesus feeding the 5000, really. (Well, if he'd been cycling back and forth to Bethsaida with bags full of Tesco's own brand, that is, but the point still stands.)

Mrs Edgerton at No. 17 isn't happy she didn't get the grouse she asked for. I try to explain we are limited in terms of the food items we can supply, but it does little to placate her.

"I suppose veal's out of the question as well, is it?" she asks testily.

"...I can get you some liver-?" I offer somewhat feebly.

"Don't bother, I'll use that other delivery boy in future," she says before slamming the door in my face. This unfortunately turns out to be the pattern for every delivery I make today. If it's not grouse or veal they're expecting it's oysters or lobster, and each time there's a reference to this other volunteer they'd rather use instead of me. Mr Rayner at No. 37 mentioned the name Kevin, but told me to bugger off before I could ask any more.

I go home feeling deflated. Later I get a phone call from Keir Starmer, who begs me to reconsider taking him up on his offer of becoming Deputy Leader of the Labour Party. I tell him I'm not in the mood to discuss it right now and hang up.


Tuesday, 7th April

After yesterday's events I resolve that if I'm going to carry on volunteering I really need to up my game. Disregarding the list of food items recommended by the community support service, I head down to the supermarket as soon as it opens and buy up every piece of Kobe steak, Iberian ham, king salmon, etc that I can get my hands on. Altogether it comes to just over £13,000, but I figure what the hell: you can't put a price on charity. Besides, if my housemate doesn't want me to use his credit card he shouldn't leave it lying around.

Mr Nigmatulin at No. 43 is so delighted with his curried Moroccan lamb cutlets he asks me to shop for him again next week. It's the same story with Mrs Brand at No. 57, who's moved to tears by my Japanese cod filets. As the day goes on I receive more requests for future food drops, promises to recommend me to friends, and even the odd comment about the level of my service being far superior to Kevin's.

I get home and crack open a well-deserved bottle of Stella when the phone rings. It's Starmer again, and he wants to know if I'm ready to talk now. He butters me up by saying he needs a strong right-hand man to steer the Labour Party towards electability and heal the rift on the left (not to mention give him a few pointers on policy since he's hopelessly out of his depth). I politely decline, informing him I've found a greater, more worthwhile calling than anything Westminster has to offer. Plus I wouldn't be seen dead next to that tosser Ed Miliband.


Wednesday, 8th April

Just having breakfast when there's a knock at the door. I open it to discover a box of Sainsbury's Taste the Difference chocolate assortment with all but the bloody horrible coffee ones removed. Is this random happenstance, or is someone trying to give me a message? I ponder on this over my boiled egg, pausing only to change my shirt after spilling yoke down it.

I deliver food parcels to Mr Sanders (Colonel, retired) at No. 71 and Mr Nando at No. 73. When I arrive I hear loud, angry voices coming from the back garden. Out of concern I slip through the alley into the snicket, only to find Mr Sanders (Col., retired) and Mr Nando yelling at each other over the fence. I ask what this is all about, and Mr Nando informs me it's an ongoing disagreement they have about who's the best cook. I tell them there's a simple way of solving this and hand them both a food parcel containing a frozen Ayam Cemani chicken.

"Gentlemen, this is the best and most expensive breed of chicken in the world," I announce like a referee at a boxing match. "The man who cooks this to perfection without resorting to using peri-peri sauce or a deep fat fryer will earn his title as the greater gourmet..."

"Obrigado, Senhor!" Mr Nando shouts with an impish glee. "I'll make this clapped out cabron's tastebuds bitter with jealousy!"

"Bring it on, ya pixellated varmint!" Mr Sanders (Col., retired) hollers before firing his Smith & Wesson into the air. "YEE-HAW!"

When I get in I decide to have a shower. I'm about to get undressed when there's another knock at the door. I run to open it, only to discover my phantom visitor has scarpered once again. I look down at the doorstep, this time finding myself presented with the severed head of a My Little Pony doll and a note that reads:

'BACK OFF.

-K'

It looks like this Kevin means business.


Thursday, 9th April

I'm just about to leave Mrs Fulci's Wagyu rib-eye steak on her doorstep when a sack is suddenly placed over my head and I'm bundled into a van. After what feels like a half-hour drive we arrive at our destination. My abductors remove the sack to reveal we're at the local community centre, which is only a five-minute walk down the road. In the middle of the hall a plump man about my age is sat at a table eating a large plate of pasta. Light from one of the tall windows shines off the top of his bald head, giving him a strangely imposing look.

"You're Richard, right?" he says, motioning his henchmen to bring me closer. "The great humanitarian!"

"That's what they say," I shrug, puffing out my chest in a display of machismo. "And you must be Kevin, yeah? You know, you ought to give your goons a lesson in social distancing some time. I don't think forcibly abducting people off the street and shoving them into a dirty old van is recommended under current health guidelines..."

He glares at me for a moment before bursting into a huge belly laugh.

"You're a real funny guy, Rich!" he chuckles, wagging a finger at me. "But you want me to tell you what isn't funny? Some good-for-nothing mook muscling in on my territory. This street's mine, you hear? I deliver the food parcels in this district. And when this is all over, it's me who's gonna win the Community Spirit Award."

"Is that what this is about?" I ask incredulously. "Delivering expensive goods to vulnerable people just so you can win a prize?"

"You got it," he says, rising from his chair and walking towards me. "And I was doing real well till you poked your nose in. You're a real nosey fella, Rich. Do you know what happens to nosey fellas? They lose their noses..."

He suddenly tweaks my nose, squeezing it so hard it starts to bleed.

"Now, I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse," he says, wiping the blood off his hand with a tissue. "Either join my outfit and help me win that trophy, or hang up your bicycle clips."

"And if I carry on?"

"Then you won't like the look of your face no more."

One of his goons hands me a card with a mobile number on it.

"Think about it," Kevin says, returning to his pasta. "But not for too long. I got mouths to feed..."


Friday, 10th April

I receive call after call from irate residents demanding to know what's happened to their food parcels. I lie that I'm out of action for a few days because I've twisted my ankle. That should buy me some time until I decide what to do. Who thought charity could be so dangerous?

I call an old friend for advice. Someone with inside knowledge of the criminal underworld.

[Dialling tone, then-]

"'Ello. My name is Michael Caine. And if you're from the bleedin' HMRC the cheque's in the post."

"No, Michael - it's Richard."

"All right, son? Long time no rabbit! You still knockin' about wiv that Emma Watson bird?"

"No, she's 'self-partnered' now."

"What's that? Code for being left on the shelf?"

"...Kinda. Listen, Michael: I need your help."

"What's the matter? You ain't Pat and Mick, are ya? 'Cos I'd love to help, but y'know - extradition and all that..."

"No, I've been volunteering for this community scheme delivering food parcels. It was going pretty well at first, but it turns out I've been muscling in on this local gangster's patch."

"'Ere, you wanna stay away from them fellas, son. If you're not careful you could end up brown bread."

"That's just it, they're forcing my hand. Either I go in with them or I end up looking like Andrew Lloyd Webber. And I don't just want to give up. This feels like a real calling."

"So what exactly is it they're runnin' down there? An extortion racket or summink?"

"No, the boss wants to win a Community Spirit Award."

"Farkin' ell! This geezer sounds proper mum and dad if you ask me."

"What do you think I should do, Michael? I mean, you know these people."

"Yeah, well... That was a long time ago, son. Besides, it was never proved. But if I was you I'd ask meself if it really is a sense of community spirit that's givin' me the hump about this nutjob, or if it's pride. 'Cos if that's what it is you've gotta man up, Rich, and hit this bastard right where it hurts. You hear what I'm sayin'?"

"I think so... Cheers, Michael."

"Don't mention it, son. 'Ere, listen, I've gotta go: the old cows and kisses is puttin' me Yul Brynner out. Stay lucky, okay?"

With Michael's words still ringing in my ear I call Kevin and tell him I've made my decision. I ask to meet him on his own in the park at 2pm tomorrow to discuss it. He seems happy with the arrangement. Afterwards I crack open a bottle of Stella and stare moodily out the window for several hours, each minute counting down towards my destiny.


Saturday, 11th April

Kevin arrives bang on time and we take a stroll along the canal.

"I knew you'd come to your senses," he says, beaming in apparent triumph. "I mean, that was a smart idea buying all that expensive food and trying to cut me out of the market, but in the end it's just not a sustainable business model."

"Well, that was before I realised what I was up against," I reply, smiling at my own dumb luck. "But I see now going it alone would never have worked out. You need a network of people for an operation like that. Not to mention someone ruthless and single-minded acting as the brains, of course..."

He stops walking and holds out his hand.

"Welcome to the family, Rich," he says warmly. We shake on it.

"No hard feelings?" I ask.

"None. That's not the way I do business!"

"It's the way I do it, though," I reply, raising myself up to my full height.

"Sorry, what-?" he says, genuinely taken back.

"Here's how it's going to be, Kevin. Your fat arse works for me now, okay? You and your goons, the food parcels, the van, the community centre: all of it. I'll cut you in at, say, five percent? And if I get the Community Spirit Award I might even consider raising it to seven or eight..."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" he says with a bemused smile. "This is my business, that's my award, and no man is gonna take them away from me! Especially not a furloughed bum like you."

"Well, I suppose we'll just have to settle this the old-fashioned way," I sigh, discreetly slipping a hand into my coat pocket. "Where's your tool?"

"Wh- What tool?" he says, eyes widening with alarm.

"This fucking tool," I snarl, pulling out a tennis ball in a sock and smacking it in his face. He falls to the ground, dazed and confused, whimpering like a dog with toothache.

"Right, Kevin, you bastard!" I shout, standing over him like a colossus. "I'm the fucking daddy in this street now, see? Tell your goons to meet me at the community centre first thing on Monday morning to sort out the new arrangements, or next time it'll be a fucking snooker ball, pal..."

Back at home I crack open a celebratory bottle of Mer Soleil (courtesy of my housemate's credit card) and put my feet up in front of the TV. It suddenly dawns on me it's Easter weekend, and I find myself thinking what a mug Jesus was not charging people for the loaves and fishes.

In-Between Days #2: 10 TV Series to Take Your Mind Off You-Know-What

Since it's becoming increasingly clear we're in our current predicament for the long haul, this week's WordJam is following up its recent article offering film recommendations to readers who want a much-needed distraction from ongoing events with a selection of TV shows that deserve wider critical or popular attention. As with the previous post, each entry dates from the last ten years and should be available through on-demand or streaming services. Once again, though, if this isn't the case there are other means at your disposal:

I mean, seriously - who's really paying attention right now? Anyway, enough of the recycled jokes: on with the show...

Bellamy's People

(UK: BBC Two, 2010)

A spin-off from Paul Whitehouse and Charlie Higson's brilliant Radio 4 spoof phone-in show Down the Line, Bellamy's People is a beautifully observed satire of celebrity travelogues and the inanity lurking behind their populist pretensions. With the advent of Brexit six years after its first broadcast, this faux-documentary's examination of Britishness in the 21st century has since taken on an unexpected but deliciously subversive edge. Television comedy at its finest.

* * *

Half in the Bag

(US: RedLetterMedia/YouTube, 2011-)

If Siskel and Ebert At the Movies felt like a sitcom about two film critics who live in a cinema, Half in the Bag takes this strange cross-pollination of genres to its logical conclusion. Written, directed, edited and presented by Mike Stoklasa and Jay Bauman, the premise of each episode involves two VCR repairmen whose beer-soaked discussions about recent releases take centre stage to the increasingly bizarre events happening on the periphery of their lives. Essential viewing for movie hounds.

* * *

1864

(Denmark: DR1, 2014)

Ostensibly a drama about the Second Schleswig War between Denmark and Prussia, 1864 also features a parallel story set in the present day about a troubled teenager unearthing her family's history. The two don't always gel, often to the detriment of the period narrative, but as small screen epics go 1864 feels like genuine event television where the eye, the intellect and the emotions are all catered for. A welcome antidote to the sausage machine that Scandinavian noir has sadly become.

* * *

The Honourable Woman

(UK: BBC Two, 2014)

As dense as a John le Carré novel and boasting the character intricacy of Dostoevsky, writer-director Hugo Blick's labyrinthine thriller about Anglo-Jewish businesswoman Nessa Stein (Maggie Gyllenhaal) negotiating family secrets and mixed allegiances against the backdrop of the Israel-Palestine conflict is one of the most searingly intelligent dramas to have graced our screens in a very long time. It also proves once again you don't need more than ten episodes and multiple seasons to tell complex stories. Eight episodes, bish-bash-bosh: job done.

* * *

Penny Dreadful

(UK/US: Sky Atlantic, 2014-16)

The concept of bringing together characters from 19th century gothic fiction has been explored in numerous media, but Penny Dreadful writer John Logan uses this wealth of source material to fashion a series that stays true to the spirit of its literary forebears and substantially expands upon them. The result is ferociously intelligent (how many TV dramas can you name that demand a knowledge of European Romanticism?), achingly erotic and visually sublime. Just ignore the entirely misplaced Dorian Gray subplot, though.

* * *

Ash vs Evil Dead

(US: Starz, 2015-18)

Given the Evil Dead franchise built its fanbase on home video in the '80s and '90s, it feels apt that the continued adventures of Ash Williams found their home on the small screen. Brilliantly funny, unrelentingly gory and packed with invention, Ash vs Evil Dead was a perfect antidote to the stodgy self-importance of The Walking Dead and the forced quirkiness of American Horror Story, quietly blazing its own path to become one of the most original shows on television. Its subsequent cancellation is still inexplicable.

* * *

The Deutschland Trilogy

(Germany: RTL/Amazon Prime, 2015-)

Anna Winger's gripping Cold War drama about an East German intelligence agent going undercover in the West may have been overshadowed by the success of FX's similarly-themed show The Americans, but Deutschland's emotional and political scope far outstrips its US rival. I'll level with you, this is my favourite TV series of the last 15 years. And since I intend to write an article about the entire trilogy after the last season has aired later this year, I'm going to hold off on any further commentary except to reiterate you really must check it out. Superb drama.

* * *

The 1990s Trilogy

(Italy: Sky Italia/Sky Atlantic, 2015-)

Beginning with the Mani Pulite investigations and leading us through the subsequent reconstruction of Italy's political and cultural landscapes, the 1990s trilogy is one of the most ambitious television dramas of the last decade, interweaving a wide array of themes, plot strands, characters and even genres to such a degree of intricacy you'd assume it was based on a series of novels. What emerges is a rich, complex portrait of a nation in transition that makes The West Wing or The Wire pale in comparison.

* * *

O.J.: Made in America

(US: ABC/ESPN, 2016)

There's an ongoing debate in critical circles whether director Ezra Edelman's epic documentary is a miniseries or a 7½ hour film. Personally, I'd place it in the latter category, but since I'm getting irritated at people singing the praises of the staggeringly absurd American Crime Story dramatisation of the O.J. case, I'm cheekily altering my position here. O.J.: Made in America isn't just the story of a hideous crime and its pantomimetic aftermath, it's an examination of race, class, power and privilege. In short, essential viewing.

* * *

This Time with Alan Partridge

(UK: BBC One, 2019)

Arguably the best Partridge vehicle since Knowing Me, Knowing You in 1994, This Time is a brilliant pastiche of the self-important banality of current affairs programming. But at the heart of this circus is Alan himself: petty, conceited and ignorant, but all the while retaining the sense of vulnerability and unswerving optimism in the face of his own ineptitude that's made the character so fascinating for the last 25 years. This Time's dark subtlety and wry satire may be too much for some viewers, but if you're willing to laugh at yourself as well as others it's a scream.

* * * * *

And that's your lot for today, folks. Look out for another entry in this sporadic series at some point in the next week or so. Until then, stay safe, everyone.

WordJam in Lockdown

Monday, 30th March

I decide to keep a journal detailing my thoughts, feelings and activities over the coming weeks. Who knows, in generations to come it may prove to be an invaluable document of the extraordinary times we're living in, perhaps even equal in importance to Samuel Pepys' diary or Casanova's memoirs.

Had an egg for breakfast. Went out for a run. Came home. Stared out the window for a bit. Went back to bed.


Tuesday, 31st March

I wake up to an email from work informing me I'm covered under the UK government's employee retention scheme. I call my accountant, who tells me my finances are in pretty good shape but I may want to reconsider investing in that hula-hoop factory in Seoul.

I make myself a cup of tea and seize the opportunity while my housemate's having a shower to watch some TV. Channel 4 are showing back-to-back episodes of Come Dine With Me, which is just taking the piss if you ask me. Elsewhere on what quaintly used to be referred to as the Palace of Varieties, Cagney and Lacey are close to cracking another case and a man starts shouting at me for paying too much for my car insurance. I try to tell him I don't have a car, but I'm not sure he heard me because another advert came on. I'll just have to catch him later.

I switch off the TV and decide to catch up with some reading. I've just finished Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory, and now I'm torn between Evelyn Waugh's Scoop and Harry Hill's Tim the Tiny Horse. This is a bit of a conundrum because I like Evelyn Waugh's darkly satirical tone, but then I also like Harry Hill's blithe whimsy. But which is better? There's only one way to find out... Read both, obviously.


Wednesday, 1st April

In the middle of making lunch when I get a phone call from Buckingham Palace.

"Lizzy Baby!" I exclaim brightly, giving my spaghetti hoops a good stir. "How's things? You keeping okay?"

"Fuckin' hell, Rich," she says. "This year's turnin' into a right annus horribilis and no mistake."

I politely suggest she watches her language in case there are corgis listening, but, undeterred, she launches into a foul-mouthed tirade about Harry and Meghan "squatting" at Frogmore House, Andrew "knocking around with that fuckin' kiddie-fiddler" and Charles' recent brush with coronavirus.

"With all that coughin' we thought it was the fags at first," she says. "Well, you know Camilla's on sixty-a-day, don't you? Wills gets 'em for her from the duty-free."

I tell her we've all just got to hang in there and wait for this to blow over, but she starts going on about missing her bingo on a Sunday night and how the Duke of Edinburgh just sits around all day in front of the telly watching documentaries about Nazis and sharks. Mercifully my dinner comes to the boil, allowing me to cut the call short.

I empty the saucepan onto a plate, but as soon as I'm about to tuck in another call comes through, this time from a restricted number.

"Hello-?" I answer warily.

"Richard, it's Boris!" a cheerful but croaky voice replies. "Listen, I don't suppose you know anything about boiling eggs, at all? It's just I popped a couple in the microwave before and they've made a terrible mess..."


Thursday, 2nd April

I discover an old ouija board while cleaning out the attic. My housemate's apprehensive about using it, but I manage to convince him it'll make for a great evening's entertainment alongside a few bottles of Stella and a takeaway pizza.

We make contact with Henry VIII, who reveals he's going steady with Marilyn Monroe, and Michael Jackson, which gets awkward at one point when he mistakes us for a Channel 4 news team. Then another voice comes through the ether, one that refuses to identify itself but takes an immediate liking to my housemate.

"Trust in me," it says, making my housemate's hands tremble with every move of the planchette. "I've always relied on the kindness of strangers..."

I kick the ouija board away and hand my housemate a fresh beer to calm his nerves.

"You know what this means?" I ask him, a bead of sweat trailing down his ashen, panic-strewn face. "Either that was Kaa from The Jungle Book or Liz Taylor's on the prowl for a new husband..."


Friday, 3rd April

[Dialling tone, then-]

"Hello, NHS 111," the operator says. "Are you calling on behalf of yourself or someone else?"

"Someone else, actually," I reply awkwardly, lighting a cigarette. "I found this ouija board up in the attic, you see, and I thought it would be a bit of a laugh messing around with it. Now my housemate seems to be possessed by a malevolent spirit who insists on vomiting green bile, keeps making outrageous claims about my mother and violently moves bedroom furniture around by psychokinesis."

"Mm-hmm," she says, tapping at a keyboard. "And where's your housemate at the moment?"

"I've bound him up in his bedroom," I reply.

"Any other symptoms, like a cough or fever?"

"Nah, just the diabolism, really."

"Well, you were right to call the service," she assures me before detailing a series of easy to digest instructions on how to perform a home exorcism using only a clothes peg, a funnel and a cooked chicken. Since we don't have one until the weekly shop on Monday I'm forced to improvise.

When it gets dark I sneak into the garden with a bin bag and wait for next door's cat. Let's be having you, Mr Mackenzie, you little bastard.


Saturday, 4th April

My housemate's cured, thanks in no small part to my bravery and courage. (Hard to explain, and there doesn't seem much point since this is a first-person narrative and I was there, but suffice to say the next door neighbours didn't get much sleep with a demonic cat to contend with.) Just to be on the safe side, I keep my housemate tied up in his room for the rest of the day, allowing me access to Netflix for a change.

At 4pm I  get a phone call from Trump asking if I want to join him, Boris, Putin, Xi Jinping, Angela Merkel, Emmanuel Macron, Narendra Modi and Kim Jong-un in a Skype-poker game later.

Bring it on!


Sunday, 5th April

I drag myself out of bed, bleary-eyed and sick to my stomach, and head downstairs for a rejuvenating cup of tea. Suddenly my mobile starts ringing, the aggressive thrum-thrum of the ringtone against the kitchen table cutting through my hungover brain like a chainsaw.

"What up, blud!" Putin says jovially, clearly trying to disguise his own delicate state. "That was some game last night. Just spoken to Donald: he's buzzing about discharging America's national debt onto you!"

"Shit, I forgot about that," I reply, taking one drag on a cigarette before queasily stubbing it out. "What the fuck am I going to do?"

"Don't sweat it, dog!" he says. "Just give your bank a call in the morning and ask if you can extend your overdraft by $22 trillion."

"That's not very likely, is it?"

"Okay, then, I'll buy the debt off you. For a small favour, naturally..."

"What kind of favour?"

"Oh, I dunno," he says disingenuously. "Maybe you could ask the Olympic Committee to reconsider St Petersburg's bid for the 2032 Games-? Like I say, it's no biggie..."