Is there anything worse than spotting a flock of charity clipboarders in the street, then ducking off to the side to avoid them, only to have one jump out from around the corner by H. Samuel? You look at her and she’s all beautiful like a swan. She says ‘I’m not going to hassle you to sign up. I just want someone to talk to. I’m so bored.’ So you talk to her for a bit and it turns out that you both really like the White Stripes. As you start to walk away she mentions that she has a spare ticket to a White Stripes concert that evening. Even though you wouldn’t normally accept this kind of invitation from a stranger you say yes, because it’s sold out and you really want to go. It’s a great concert, followed by some great walking home with her. You don’t sleep with her, but you agree to go out again. Fast forward six months and you’re living together. Skip another ten years and you’re married with two kids. You’re sitting at the breakfast table drinking coffee and reading your mail – a brochure for Center Parcs and your bank statement. According to the bank statement, £2 was taken out by direct debit to something called Help The Aged, a charity you’ve always been against. You go to confront your wife about this, but she isn’t in the living room and she isn’t in the bedroom. The wardrobe is half empty and her wedding ring on the bedside table. It’s the long con and you can’t believe you fell for it. To make matters worse you don’t even cancel the direct debit, because apart from the ring and two children, that’s all you have left of her.
Michael, Leeds.
297
When Paulo heard a man’s voice coming from the seashell he was both surprised and disappointed. Paulo had wanted only to hear the sound of the ocean. He wanted to be soothed. The confident and powerful voice told him to stand back immediately. These words, and the tone of the hidden voice, did not soothe him. The anxiety that he was trying to rid himself of was more pronounced than ever. As Paulo placed the shell back on the sand, a man with extraordinary features emerged from it. The man from the shell announced himself to be a genie, one who had come to grant Paulo three wishes.
“But before you make any wishes, I must warn you that I am an evil genie.”
“What does that mean?” Paulo asked, looking at the genie’s waistcoat which was made of rubies and sheepskin.
“Whatever you wish for will have an unpleasant evil twist. No good will come of anything your heart desires.”
Like all men who seek the sounds of the ocean for relaxation, Paulo wished for a million pounds. He could not imagine a negative side effect of such a bet.
“Your wish is done.” the genie told Paulo. “Check the credit on your mobile telephone.”
“But I’m on contract.” Paulo declared.
“Not anymore.” Paulo entered three digits into his phone and pressed call. His balance was one million pounds. Knowing that there was no way he could ever use this million pounds without hanging around phoneboxes and offering strangers phonecalls at cut rates, Paulo became saddened. He had been tricked, and the fact that he had been warned about being tricked made his sadness even more painful. Paulo could take no comfort in the thought that he would never have to go through the motions of topping up his phone again. He hadn’t had to worry about that since 2001, when he left his Pay as You Go for a monthly contract, after learning that he could get twice as many text messages for the same price.
Paulo was not a good man; he was alone in the world. His first thought after discovering he had three wishes was money, his second was Rachel. Money had always come before the only woman Paulo had ever loved. Paulo’s second wish was this: “I wish that Rachel still loved me.”
“It is done.” the genie said. His words were followed by a smile, the smile of someone who had just committed evil. He had forced eternal love into the heart of a woman.
At that very moment, somewhere on the other side of the world, that woman fell to the floor, spitting coffee from her mouth as the love in her heart was pumped into every molecule of her being.
Two days went by before Rachel came knocking on the door of the man she had sworn to never see again. The last words she had spoken to the man were the opposite of “I love you.”, but those were the words she was now speaking. Not only did Rachel want to see Paulo again, she wanted to see nothing else.
Within an hour of being together, Paulo knew that it would not last. Rachel loved him more than anyone had ever loved anything. Her love was so intense that when he made love to her for the first time in three years, he felt claustrophobic, the anxiety was too much to bear. His panic attack prevented either of them from climaxing.
Although he was a millionaire on paper and he had the love of a beautiful woman, Paulo was four times more depressed than when he had met the genie just two days ago. Determined to at least try to make it work with Rachel, he asked her to move in with him.
A week passed, a week filled with gentle sobbing whenever Paulo used the bathroom. Rachel could not be apart from him for one second, and so, she removed all the doors from the house. There was nowhere for him to be alone, nowhere for him to hide, not even his own thoughts. Every gap in conversation was met with “What are you thinking?”
A week was all Paulo could stand, love had torn him apart. Calling upon the genie, he wished for Rachel to stop loving him.
“Your wish is done.” the genie spoke.
Paulo soon settled back into his life of a week ago. All the while, Rachel was back on the other side of the world drawing up plans. The genie had not only removed Rachel’s love, he had injected her with hate. Rachel hated Paulo more than anyone had ever hated anything.
While Paulo spent his days offering offpeak phonecalls to the homeless, Rachel was gathering an army. She was preparing to launch a war against the man she had recently promised to love forever. It was not hard for her to find supporters for her cause. Women will always come to the aid of one of their kind, and men will do anything for a pretty face.
News of a fifty thousand strong force marching towards Paulo’s location reached Paulo’s television. The reporter spoke of angry men and women armed with guns and broken bottles, even small children waving flags of hate had been called up to the fight. This worried Paulo.
In a panic, Paulo used thirty-seven pence of his remaining £999,989.67 balance to call the genie’s shellphone.
“You’ve got to help me.” he said. “They’re a mile away from my house!”
“I’m not really supposed to do this, but I like you and I feel bad. I will grant you a fourth wish.”
“How should I stop this army of hate marching on my house?” Paulo asked, his anxiety worse than ever.
“I probably shouldn’t answer that. I am an evil genie after all. Whatever answer I give will surely be rooted in evil.”
“Ok, ok, fine. Can you give me superpowers?”
“It would be the easiest thing for me to do. To show you how truly sorry I am for this whole mess I will give you powers beyond even Superman. It is done.”
Feeling uncharacteristically brave, Paulo put on some trousers and left his house, ready to wait for the battle. Soon there were fifty thousand men, women and children standing at the entrance to Paulo’s street, a cul-de-sac with no escape. At the head of the impeccably organised angry mob was Rachel, her white t-shirt was stained with raccoon blood, the only thing she had eaten in days. Hate had driven her mad. Just like everyone else in the crowd, she was pointing a rifle at Paulo’s heart.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” Paulo shouted. “I still love you, you know.”
“Too late.” she replied.
“Fine. Give me your best shot.” Fifty thousand guns fired, flashes of light, thunderous explosions and a strong breeze, but nothing else. The air between Rachel and Paulo remained empty except for the hate. For a moment Paulo laughed to himself. Blanks. She still loved him and wanted only to scare him. Not even a genie could take away their love. Then he noticed the ground at his feet, a river of red ran from the curb to his toes. Moving his hand along his chest he felt the holes where the bullets had entered, his torso had become the bloody surface of the moon. There were no blanks. As he fell to the floor he realised what the genie meant when he said he’d have powers beyond Superman - he could see through lead.
James, England.
“But before you make any wishes, I must warn you that I am an evil genie.”
“What does that mean?” Paulo asked, looking at the genie’s waistcoat which was made of rubies and sheepskin.
“Whatever you wish for will have an unpleasant evil twist. No good will come of anything your heart desires.”
Like all men who seek the sounds of the ocean for relaxation, Paulo wished for a million pounds. He could not imagine a negative side effect of such a bet.
“Your wish is done.” the genie told Paulo. “Check the credit on your mobile telephone.”
“But I’m on contract.” Paulo declared.
“Not anymore.” Paulo entered three digits into his phone and pressed call. His balance was one million pounds. Knowing that there was no way he could ever use this million pounds without hanging around phoneboxes and offering strangers phonecalls at cut rates, Paulo became saddened. He had been tricked, and the fact that he had been warned about being tricked made his sadness even more painful. Paulo could take no comfort in the thought that he would never have to go through the motions of topping up his phone again. He hadn’t had to worry about that since 2001, when he left his Pay as You Go for a monthly contract, after learning that he could get twice as many text messages for the same price.
Paulo was not a good man; he was alone in the world. His first thought after discovering he had three wishes was money, his second was Rachel. Money had always come before the only woman Paulo had ever loved. Paulo’s second wish was this: “I wish that Rachel still loved me.”
“It is done.” the genie said. His words were followed by a smile, the smile of someone who had just committed evil. He had forced eternal love into the heart of a woman.
At that very moment, somewhere on the other side of the world, that woman fell to the floor, spitting coffee from her mouth as the love in her heart was pumped into every molecule of her being.
Two days went by before Rachel came knocking on the door of the man she had sworn to never see again. The last words she had spoken to the man were the opposite of “I love you.”, but those were the words she was now speaking. Not only did Rachel want to see Paulo again, she wanted to see nothing else.
Within an hour of being together, Paulo knew that it would not last. Rachel loved him more than anyone had ever loved anything. Her love was so intense that when he made love to her for the first time in three years, he felt claustrophobic, the anxiety was too much to bear. His panic attack prevented either of them from climaxing.
Although he was a millionaire on paper and he had the love of a beautiful woman, Paulo was four times more depressed than when he had met the genie just two days ago. Determined to at least try to make it work with Rachel, he asked her to move in with him.
A week passed, a week filled with gentle sobbing whenever Paulo used the bathroom. Rachel could not be apart from him for one second, and so, she removed all the doors from the house. There was nowhere for him to be alone, nowhere for him to hide, not even his own thoughts. Every gap in conversation was met with “What are you thinking?”
A week was all Paulo could stand, love had torn him apart. Calling upon the genie, he wished for Rachel to stop loving him.
“Your wish is done.” the genie spoke.
Paulo soon settled back into his life of a week ago. All the while, Rachel was back on the other side of the world drawing up plans. The genie had not only removed Rachel’s love, he had injected her with hate. Rachel hated Paulo more than anyone had ever hated anything.
While Paulo spent his days offering offpeak phonecalls to the homeless, Rachel was gathering an army. She was preparing to launch a war against the man she had recently promised to love forever. It was not hard for her to find supporters for her cause. Women will always come to the aid of one of their kind, and men will do anything for a pretty face.
News of a fifty thousand strong force marching towards Paulo’s location reached Paulo’s television. The reporter spoke of angry men and women armed with guns and broken bottles, even small children waving flags of hate had been called up to the fight. This worried Paulo.
In a panic, Paulo used thirty-seven pence of his remaining £999,989.67 balance to call the genie’s shellphone.
“You’ve got to help me.” he said. “They’re a mile away from my house!”
“I’m not really supposed to do this, but I like you and I feel bad. I will grant you a fourth wish.”
“How should I stop this army of hate marching on my house?” Paulo asked, his anxiety worse than ever.
“I probably shouldn’t answer that. I am an evil genie after all. Whatever answer I give will surely be rooted in evil.”
“Ok, ok, fine. Can you give me superpowers?”
“It would be the easiest thing for me to do. To show you how truly sorry I am for this whole mess I will give you powers beyond even Superman. It is done.”
Feeling uncharacteristically brave, Paulo put on some trousers and left his house, ready to wait for the battle. Soon there were fifty thousand men, women and children standing at the entrance to Paulo’s street, a cul-de-sac with no escape. At the head of the impeccably organised angry mob was Rachel, her white t-shirt was stained with raccoon blood, the only thing she had eaten in days. Hate had driven her mad. Just like everyone else in the crowd, she was pointing a rifle at Paulo’s heart.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” Paulo shouted. “I still love you, you know.”
“Too late.” she replied.
“Fine. Give me your best shot.” Fifty thousand guns fired, flashes of light, thunderous explosions and a strong breeze, but nothing else. The air between Rachel and Paulo remained empty except for the hate. For a moment Paulo laughed to himself. Blanks. She still loved him and wanted only to scare him. Not even a genie could take away their love. Then he noticed the ground at his feet, a river of red ran from the curb to his toes. Moving his hand along his chest he felt the holes where the bullets had entered, his torso had become the bloody surface of the moon. There were no blanks. As he fell to the floor he realised what the genie meant when he said he’d have powers beyond Superman - he could see through lead.
James, England.
296
I never had any reason to believe real life wasn’t like the movies. I always thought that people fell in love whilst dancing, and so, I trained to become the best dancer in the world. Dancing is easy if you’re willing to put in eight hours a day for ten years.
My evenings were filled with dark and smokey adventures in ballrooms and nightclubs. I was locked in the search for the woman of my dreams. Often a lady would approach me and ask me to dance, to which I assumed I was always supposed to reply “I don’t dance.” Just like in the movies they were supposed to beg me to come and dance, and eventually I would reluctantly agree. Then we’d dance and fall in love. Life isn’t like the movies. In real life, when you say “I don’t dance.” the lady of your dreams will simply say “Okay.” and walk away.
It wasn’t until I’d been failing to dance with women for three years that I finally decided I’d start accepting their invitations. I could see no other way of getting to display my dancing talents without going into showbusiness.
Soon enough, I met the woman of my dreams on the dance floor. Her hair was long and wild, like a nightmare waterfall. We kissed, and, as the movies had promised me, I felt fireworks inside my chest. Sadly, fireworks are designed simply for looking at in the sky. To have them explode in your chest is not a pleasurable experience at all.
After the kiss, many years passed, years filled with kisses from the same woman. As she became older her hair became shorter and less wild, like a tiny well maintained white picket fence. Although life was good and I was happy, I can’t say it was exciting. There were never any car chases, sex montages or incredible twists. Life wasn’t like any film I'd ever seen. It was boring, like a book without pictures.
On my 31st birthday, the woman with whom I had danced , kissed and fallen in love with gave me a present, as is the custom in and outside of cinema. It was a signed first edition copy of The Hungry Caterpillar, my favourite childhood book. According to every film I'd seen a similar situation, I was supposed to say “I don’t deserve you.” and so, I said it. Life may have not been a film, but I didn't want to risk straying from the script.
For a moment the woman of my dreams became lost in deep and silent thought. She got up from the breakfast table and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her body. “You’re right.” she said. She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. That was the last time I ever saw her. Life just isn’t like the movies.
John, Glasgow.
My evenings were filled with dark and smokey adventures in ballrooms and nightclubs. I was locked in the search for the woman of my dreams. Often a lady would approach me and ask me to dance, to which I assumed I was always supposed to reply “I don’t dance.” Just like in the movies they were supposed to beg me to come and dance, and eventually I would reluctantly agree. Then we’d dance and fall in love. Life isn’t like the movies. In real life, when you say “I don’t dance.” the lady of your dreams will simply say “Okay.” and walk away.
It wasn’t until I’d been failing to dance with women for three years that I finally decided I’d start accepting their invitations. I could see no other way of getting to display my dancing talents without going into showbusiness.
Soon enough, I met the woman of my dreams on the dance floor. Her hair was long and wild, like a nightmare waterfall. We kissed, and, as the movies had promised me, I felt fireworks inside my chest. Sadly, fireworks are designed simply for looking at in the sky. To have them explode in your chest is not a pleasurable experience at all.
After the kiss, many years passed, years filled with kisses from the same woman. As she became older her hair became shorter and less wild, like a tiny well maintained white picket fence. Although life was good and I was happy, I can’t say it was exciting. There were never any car chases, sex montages or incredible twists. Life wasn’t like any film I'd ever seen. It was boring, like a book without pictures.
On my 31st birthday, the woman with whom I had danced , kissed and fallen in love with gave me a present, as is the custom in and outside of cinema. It was a signed first edition copy of The Hungry Caterpillar, my favourite childhood book. According to every film I'd seen a similar situation, I was supposed to say “I don’t deserve you.” and so, I said it. Life may have not been a film, but I didn't want to risk straying from the script.
For a moment the woman of my dreams became lost in deep and silent thought. She got up from the breakfast table and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her body. “You’re right.” she said. She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. That was the last time I ever saw her. Life just isn’t like the movies.
John, Glasgow.
295
You’ve all heard of amnesia, even if you’ve forgotten about it. What most people don’t know is there are hundreds of different types of amnesia. The most common, the one that everyone has heard of, is American Amnesia, where the sufferer develops complete memory loss which will often serve as a cheap plot device in the story of their life. With this type of Amnesia, all memories will return by the end of the life episode, be it a day or significant chapter in their life.
Perhaps the most dangerous type of amnesia is Amnesia-467a, which erases only one part of a person’s memory: the part which tells them how to ride a bike. It is so dangerous, because the sufferer will often get on a bike, quite unaware that they’ve forgotten how to ride it. It then becomes only a matter of time before they fall off or collide with a fire engine.
In a bid to cure the world of Amnesia-467a, I dedicated a year of my life to creating an antidote. I began by grinding down an elephant’s trunk into a fine powder, which is what I believed to be the cause of an elephant’s inability to forget. I took this powder and added it to a kettle of nuclear waste (the most useful substance known to man in terms of science shortcuts). Knowing that heat will often cause a reaction of some sort, I switched the kettle on. As I expected, the liquid came to a boil. After a final stir and adding a drop of bicycle tire, I poured the sticky green sludge into a goldfish bowl, along with a goldfish, the worst sufferer of amnesia in the animal kingdom.
As I had hoped, the experiment was a complete success. Not only did the goldfish never forget a single thing ever again, he regained every lost memory. His name was Rudolph. Instantly he became heartbroken. Longing to be re-united with the only fish he’d ever loved, he escaped into the toilet and fled into the sea. For a long time he searched for her, moving from pet shop to carnival stall. It wasn’t until he gazed upon a newspaper that he realised he’d been searching for over one hundred years. She was gone. The nuclear radiation had caused him to become immortal, trapped with the memory of first love that could never be.
There were two results of this adventure:
1) Disney has bought the rights to Rudolph’s story and hope to have a full length animated feature out next fall. Due to Rudolph’s status as a fish, he will receive nothing.
2) Rudolph spent so much time in the ocean that every drop of water in the world passed through his body. This water would eventually run through the taps of human beings. The nuclear anti-amnesia fish water changed the genetic makeup of all who drank it, which is why you’ll never forget how to ride a bike.
Dr. Grong, L.A.
Perhaps the most dangerous type of amnesia is Amnesia-467a, which erases only one part of a person’s memory: the part which tells them how to ride a bike. It is so dangerous, because the sufferer will often get on a bike, quite unaware that they’ve forgotten how to ride it. It then becomes only a matter of time before they fall off or collide with a fire engine.
In a bid to cure the world of Amnesia-467a, I dedicated a year of my life to creating an antidote. I began by grinding down an elephant’s trunk into a fine powder, which is what I believed to be the cause of an elephant’s inability to forget. I took this powder and added it to a kettle of nuclear waste (the most useful substance known to man in terms of science shortcuts). Knowing that heat will often cause a reaction of some sort, I switched the kettle on. As I expected, the liquid came to a boil. After a final stir and adding a drop of bicycle tire, I poured the sticky green sludge into a goldfish bowl, along with a goldfish, the worst sufferer of amnesia in the animal kingdom.
As I had hoped, the experiment was a complete success. Not only did the goldfish never forget a single thing ever again, he regained every lost memory. His name was Rudolph. Instantly he became heartbroken. Longing to be re-united with the only fish he’d ever loved, he escaped into the toilet and fled into the sea. For a long time he searched for her, moving from pet shop to carnival stall. It wasn’t until he gazed upon a newspaper that he realised he’d been searching for over one hundred years. She was gone. The nuclear radiation had caused him to become immortal, trapped with the memory of first love that could never be.
There were two results of this adventure:
1) Disney has bought the rights to Rudolph’s story and hope to have a full length animated feature out next fall. Due to Rudolph’s status as a fish, he will receive nothing.
2) Rudolph spent so much time in the ocean that every drop of water in the world passed through his body. This water would eventually run through the taps of human beings. The nuclear anti-amnesia fish water changed the genetic makeup of all who drank it, which is why you’ll never forget how to ride a bike.
Dr. Grong, L.A.
294
Comedy has become very popular these days. You can even get it on TV. Sadly it's now more profitable to sell the space where the punchline goes, instead of telling a traditional funny joke. I heard the following jokes at a standup show last week:
Knock Knock
Who's there?
BT, we're here to talk to you about our great broadband packages.
Did you hear about the Irish gambler? He opened an online William Hill poker account and got £50 of free chips.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to the HMV summer sale (3 dvds for £20).
What do you get when you cross a blu-ray player with a next generation games console?
A PS3, now in stock.
A priest, a nun and a rabbi are sitting on an airplane. It's lands safely. Qantas Airways.
It's all quite sickening, but I must admit that I laughed at all of them. It was just the way he told them.
Tony, Peteborough.
Knock Knock
Who's there?
BT, we're here to talk to you about our great broadband packages.
Did you hear about the Irish gambler? He opened an online William Hill poker account and got £50 of free chips.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to the HMV summer sale (3 dvds for £20).
What do you get when you cross a blu-ray player with a next generation games console?
A PS3, now in stock.
A priest, a nun and a rabbi are sitting on an airplane. It's lands safely. Qantas Airways.
It's all quite sickening, but I must admit that I laughed at all of them. It was just the way he told them.
Tony, Peteborough.
275
People say that romance is dead, but it’s just evolving. Candles have been replaced by LEDs, poetry has been replaced by txt spk and long walks on the beach have been replaced by the 100m sprints in Asda carparks. It’s just how things go. Pretty soon compliments and doing fun things together will be replaced by the simple Facebook poke. This much I know.
In a bid to kick it back to the old days I decided the take my lady friend for a Spring stroll on a cliff, the third most romantic generic location (behind a hilltop and a frozen lake respectively).
Knowing that hunger could very well be an issue in this isolated location I prepared a picnic basket filled with the most romantic foods (Toblerones, Mint Aeros and Flakes). To increase the romance tenfold I decided to have the basket already planted there, which meant leaving it unguarded. This thought worried me. Although this was not a popular spot, I could not cope with the idea that some stranger might stumble upon my romance hamper, and so, I buried it. Precaution is my middle name, so I buried it far deeper than I needed to. I also buried the shovel in a separate less deep hole, for fear that someone might find the shovel and decide to go on a random dig, which could unearth my basket.
The day of the date came, and we walked hand in hand, staring out at the bleached white sun. Maybe I’ve imagined this, but a tiny lamb leapt into my arms and we both stroked it whilst laughing manically at the joy of such a thing.
We reached the spot where I’d buried the shovel in a shallow grave. “Look over there!” I yelled as I pointed at a bush. As she turned her back I got to my knees and began to dig with my bare hands. “Well, will you look at what I found” I said. “I bet there’s some treasure around here.”
I set about digging, as the woman of my dreams looked out at the sea. “Come and see this view.” She said.
“In a moment” I replied “I think I’ve found something.”
Minutes passed, and I was still far from unearthing the picnic surprise. My date was losing patience. Half an hour had gone, and the treasure was still far my grasp. I’d been too cautious with my burying. By this time I’d become quite manic. Her pleas for moving on or conversation were met by screeches of “Leave me. Let me work. I’m onto something.”
The sun began to set and the sky became a rainbow of purple, violet and peach. “Come and enjoy this sunset with me, please” she begged, but I gave no reply. It was officially dark and getting cold, so after two hours of digging I looked up to offer her my jacket, but she’d already gone. I’d gone too far to give up now.
You’re probably expecting some funny twist, like I dug all the way to China or I’d been digging in the wrong place, but there was nothing humorous about what I found after eight hours of hard digging. Someone had stolen my picnic basket. Maybe romance really is dead.
James, Lincoln.
In a bid to kick it back to the old days I decided the take my lady friend for a Spring stroll on a cliff, the third most romantic generic location (behind a hilltop and a frozen lake respectively).
Knowing that hunger could very well be an issue in this isolated location I prepared a picnic basket filled with the most romantic foods (Toblerones, Mint Aeros and Flakes). To increase the romance tenfold I decided to have the basket already planted there, which meant leaving it unguarded. This thought worried me. Although this was not a popular spot, I could not cope with the idea that some stranger might stumble upon my romance hamper, and so, I buried it. Precaution is my middle name, so I buried it far deeper than I needed to. I also buried the shovel in a separate less deep hole, for fear that someone might find the shovel and decide to go on a random dig, which could unearth my basket.
The day of the date came, and we walked hand in hand, staring out at the bleached white sun. Maybe I’ve imagined this, but a tiny lamb leapt into my arms and we both stroked it whilst laughing manically at the joy of such a thing.
We reached the spot where I’d buried the shovel in a shallow grave. “Look over there!” I yelled as I pointed at a bush. As she turned her back I got to my knees and began to dig with my bare hands. “Well, will you look at what I found” I said. “I bet there’s some treasure around here.”
I set about digging, as the woman of my dreams looked out at the sea. “Come and see this view.” She said.
“In a moment” I replied “I think I’ve found something.”
Minutes passed, and I was still far from unearthing the picnic surprise. My date was losing patience. Half an hour had gone, and the treasure was still far my grasp. I’d been too cautious with my burying. By this time I’d become quite manic. Her pleas for moving on or conversation were met by screeches of “Leave me. Let me work. I’m onto something.”
The sun began to set and the sky became a rainbow of purple, violet and peach. “Come and enjoy this sunset with me, please” she begged, but I gave no reply. It was officially dark and getting cold, so after two hours of digging I looked up to offer her my jacket, but she’d already gone. I’d gone too far to give up now.
You’re probably expecting some funny twist, like I dug all the way to China or I’d been digging in the wrong place, but there was nothing humorous about what I found after eight hours of hard digging. Someone had stolen my picnic basket. Maybe romance really is dead.
James, Lincoln.
293
I was reading my newspaper at the bus stop, which is never an ideal situation. To make matters worse, I was forced to do it standing, because the seat was wet. There was only one thing which could have made the situation even worse: a talking man. Wait, that’s a lie, there were two things, the second being a strong wind.
As a mighty breeze blew the pages of the newspaper in fifty different directions, an old man had been carried into the bus stop.
He spoke. I’m not sure what he said, but I was sure it was something to do the rain. Somehow my brain has evolved to censor out any words connected with the weather. It saves me from the terrifying mind-numbing boredom at bus stops, but sadly my sister’s name is Gail, and I couldn’t tell you a single thing that’s happened to her in the last five years.
“That’s disgusting, isn’t it?” he said, pointing at the front page of the paper. Today’s main news story was about how the CEOs of the major banks were still getting millions of pounds in bonuses, despite the economic crisis.
“I have no opinion on that.” I told him. Realising that all hope of reading my paper in peace was gone; I folded it up and placed it under my arm. Sadly the headline on the back page was still visible: Scolari Sacked.
“It’s ridiculous. He’s only been there six months.” the man said “They’re not even out of the title race.”
“I have no opinion on that.” I replied. All roads were now leading into an unavoidable conversation.
“Heard about Jade Goody? She’s not the greatest woman who ever lived, but how can people be so cruel about her now? Do you..”
“I’m afraid I must stop you right there. I have no opinions on anything you could possibly say.”
“Abortions?”
“No.”
“Israel? Iraq? Come on, you must have some opinions about one of them.”
“I don’t. I don’t have any opinions.”
“But why?”
“Having an opinion is just one step away from having a wrong one. I’m playing it safe. Imagine feeling very passionate about something, only to find out that you’re completely wrong. No thanks.” I could see that I had pushed a button inside him. His face was turning red.
“That’s the problem with young people today! You don’t care, you just don’t care! No wonder the country’s going down the pan.” He waved his umbrella at me and walked off. “No opinions…” he mumbled to himself. “Did my father die in the war just so…” I couldn’t hear what he said next, because the bus had arrived. I got on and smiled to myself. Of course I have opinions. I just like winding people up.
Andrew, London.
As a mighty breeze blew the pages of the newspaper in fifty different directions, an old man had been carried into the bus stop.
He spoke. I’m not sure what he said, but I was sure it was something to do the rain. Somehow my brain has evolved to censor out any words connected with the weather. It saves me from the terrifying mind-numbing boredom at bus stops, but sadly my sister’s name is Gail, and I couldn’t tell you a single thing that’s happened to her in the last five years.
“That’s disgusting, isn’t it?” he said, pointing at the front page of the paper. Today’s main news story was about how the CEOs of the major banks were still getting millions of pounds in bonuses, despite the economic crisis.
“I have no opinion on that.” I told him. Realising that all hope of reading my paper in peace was gone; I folded it up and placed it under my arm. Sadly the headline on the back page was still visible: Scolari Sacked.
“It’s ridiculous. He’s only been there six months.” the man said “They’re not even out of the title race.”
“I have no opinion on that.” I replied. All roads were now leading into an unavoidable conversation.
“Heard about Jade Goody? She’s not the greatest woman who ever lived, but how can people be so cruel about her now? Do you..”
“I’m afraid I must stop you right there. I have no opinions on anything you could possibly say.”
“Abortions?”
“No.”
“Israel? Iraq? Come on, you must have some opinions about one of them.”
“I don’t. I don’t have any opinions.”
“But why?”
“Having an opinion is just one step away from having a wrong one. I’m playing it safe. Imagine feeling very passionate about something, only to find out that you’re completely wrong. No thanks.” I could see that I had pushed a button inside him. His face was turning red.
“That’s the problem with young people today! You don’t care, you just don’t care! No wonder the country’s going down the pan.” He waved his umbrella at me and walked off. “No opinions…” he mumbled to himself. “Did my father die in the war just so…” I couldn’t hear what he said next, because the bus had arrived. I got on and smiled to myself. Of course I have opinions. I just like winding people up.
Andrew, London.
292
It's all well and good telling me I need to stop living in my brother's shadow, but when your brother is a ten thousand feet tall government supersoldier cyborg who blocks out half the sun, the shadow's kind of unavoidable.
Lee, Shade.
Lee, Shade.
291
Waking up in a hospital bed is the second most terrifying thing in the world. The first most terrifying thing being a snake which gives birth to spiders, and, seeing as such a creature will probably never exist, we have to take the hospital bed threat very seriously. Even if you were fully expecting to wake up in a hospital bed the shock is still the same. Not many people know this, but the reason that hospital beds cause so much alarm is because it’s physically and emotionally impossible to masturbate in them. I apologise for raising the issue of masturbation so early in the story, but it’s an important one that needs to be addressed. You might think that it’s impossible to carry out the act of self love in a hospital bed simply because of the fear and disease filled atmosphere that hospitals are famed for, or the lack of a private room, but it’s actually something to do with the fundamental design of the bed itself.
I remember some time ago, when I was just a student, I found myself drunk and in the bedroom of the third most attractive girl I’ve ever kissed. She had a typical student bedroom filled with posters of films she’d never seen and a TV supported by a pile of red bricks. The centrepiece of the room being her bed: a hospital bed. As far as I could tell she wasn’t ill. When I asked her what was up with the bed she explained that it was all she could afford. Hospital beds tend to be cheaper because of all the people who have died in them. We soon got down to business, or at least we tried to, but I was having trouble making myself a man. It was pretty clear to me that the bed was to blame. Minutes went by and I could see that she was getting frustrated and offended. To avoid hurting her feelings any longer I had to abort the mission by telling her that in my drunken state I’d forgotten I was gay. It wasn’t until a month later that I realised I could have done without the last part.
Hopefully I’ve got my point about hospital beds across to you now, because I’m about to tell you about the time I woke up screaming and I need you to understand why.
I woke up screaming. I was in a hospital bed with all the trimmings, tubes going up my nose, a needle stuck in my arm, a bunch of grapes to my left and the memory of being shot in the leg by a pimp. I should probably explain the whole getting shot thing, even though it’s not particularly interesting.
Last month I found myself in the waiting room of a brothel for the first time in my life. I’d always been half-heartedly against paying for sex, probably because of my lack of money rather than any moral reason. Still, I was only there because my friend Peter begged me.
“I’m not sure about this.” I said. “It’s a bit creepy.”
“Lighten up, it’s just a normal thing that normal people do all the time. It’s the oldest profession in the world.”
“But none of these girls look very happy.”
“That’s because they’re at work, nobody’s happy at work.”
The tiny Asian woman behind the counter called out “Number fifty six.” which happened to be the number on the pink ticket in my hand.
I was led through a narrow badly carpeted corridor with doors on both sides. Between the doors were portraits of famous prostitutes, but I’d never heard of any of them. The Asian woman unlocked the sixth door on the right and told me to go in. I’m not sure what I was expecting, maybe an exotic mini-palace with Persian rugs, soft lighting and the stench of sex, but what I found was an attractive woman sitting behind a desk in what looked like a doctor’s office. It even had an examining table. I couldn’t help but notice that the walls were covered with crucifixes. Maybe I’ve finally found my soul mate I thought a woman who shares my unnatural fear of vampires.
“So how do we do this?” I asked.
“You’ve had sex before?”
“Yes, but never for money.”
“Well it’s exactly the same, except you pay me. Just undress and lay down on the table.”
She noticed the look of panic on my face. “What’s wrong?” she asked. There was no sane way of telling her that an examining table was too much like a hospital bed, so I told her that I’d prefer to stand, because I had a bad back. “Would you like me to take a look at your back?” she asked.
“Are you a doctor then?”
“Well you’re in a doctor’s office.”
“I’d better not. If my doctor found out I was paying someone else for medical help he’d probably get quite upset.”
We got to kissing, which surprised me, because I was sure prostitutes didn’t do that. Then again, everything I knew about prostitution I got from Pretty Woman, a film riddled with historical inaccuracies. After a few minutes we were naked and she was telling me she loved me. She was coming on too strong, but it was definitely great value for money.
“Have you got a condom?” I asked.
“No.” she said. “I’m Catholic.”
“Oh, is that what all the crosses are about?”
“Yes, what did you think they were for?” Maybe this girl wasn’t my soul mate after all. I thought I’d test the ground by bringing up the vampire thing.
“Vampires?”
She laughed. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. “So I can’t use protection?”
“Against what? Vampires?”
“No, it’s just that...” There’s no nice way to tell a girl that you think she might be full of sexually transmitted diseases, so I stopped the sentence there and had unprotected sex in the spirit of politeness.
A month later I get a phone call. She’s pregnant. My first thought is to ask her how she got this number, but clearly there are more important issues to discuss.
“Why aren’t you on the pill?” I cry down the phone.
“The thought of burning in Hell for all eternity kind of puts me off.”
“How do you even know it’s mine?”
“You’re the only guy I’ve slept with.”
“But you’re a prostitute!”
“Only part time. Most of my clients are patients for my surgery.”
She explains that she wants to keep the baby, although she doesn’t expect me to play the present father, which is kind of a relief. I’d make a terrible father. She does, however, expect me to compensate her for being out of work for the next eight months.
“I don’t have a lot of money.” I tell her “I don’t really have any money at all.”
We come to the only honorable agreement. I have to take over her job until the baby is born. The prostitution part of it, seeing as the height of my medical training is having the ability to tell people not to run with scissors. I thought about suggesting she carried on working whilst pregnant, because there are probably all kinds of weirdos who’d pay extra for that, but it’s not the kind of thing you can say to the mother of your unborn child.
Yesterday was my first day. As you already know, it ends with me being shot by a pimp, so it was as bad a first day as any.
I roll up on time, showered, shaved and presentable. I tell the tiny Asian woman that I’m not sure about any of this. “Maybe I could just answer the phone?”
“You’ll be fine. Everyone gets nervous on their first day.”
My first customer was awkward, the second was easier, but by midday things have started to get pretty bad. Most men, when expecting to have sex with a woman, especially when they’ve paid, can get a bit annoyed when they’re led into a room filled with crosses, an examining table and a naked man. Half of them would straight up ask for their money back, the other half would carry on, but I could tell most of them didn’t enjoy it.
I got a break at three o’clock, which is when I got to meet my pimp. I didn’t even realise I had one. My only wish was that he was one of those nice friendly pimps that you never hear about. Sadly he was the other kind. We got into an argument about the refunds. He told me I wasn’t trying hard enough, my customer service levels weren’t high enough, I needed to try harder, Targets! Targets! Targets!
“You’re not the boss of me!” I told him.
“Son, do you even know what a pimp is?”
“Yes, a very rude man!” I yelled, which is the last thing I ever said before I could no longer say that I’d never been shot in the leg by a pimp.
Anthony, Swansea.
I remember some time ago, when I was just a student, I found myself drunk and in the bedroom of the third most attractive girl I’ve ever kissed. She had a typical student bedroom filled with posters of films she’d never seen and a TV supported by a pile of red bricks. The centrepiece of the room being her bed: a hospital bed. As far as I could tell she wasn’t ill. When I asked her what was up with the bed she explained that it was all she could afford. Hospital beds tend to be cheaper because of all the people who have died in them. We soon got down to business, or at least we tried to, but I was having trouble making myself a man. It was pretty clear to me that the bed was to blame. Minutes went by and I could see that she was getting frustrated and offended. To avoid hurting her feelings any longer I had to abort the mission by telling her that in my drunken state I’d forgotten I was gay. It wasn’t until a month later that I realised I could have done without the last part.
Hopefully I’ve got my point about hospital beds across to you now, because I’m about to tell you about the time I woke up screaming and I need you to understand why.
I woke up screaming. I was in a hospital bed with all the trimmings, tubes going up my nose, a needle stuck in my arm, a bunch of grapes to my left and the memory of being shot in the leg by a pimp. I should probably explain the whole getting shot thing, even though it’s not particularly interesting.
Last month I found myself in the waiting room of a brothel for the first time in my life. I’d always been half-heartedly against paying for sex, probably because of my lack of money rather than any moral reason. Still, I was only there because my friend Peter begged me.
“I’m not sure about this.” I said. “It’s a bit creepy.”
“Lighten up, it’s just a normal thing that normal people do all the time. It’s the oldest profession in the world.”
“But none of these girls look very happy.”
“That’s because they’re at work, nobody’s happy at work.”
The tiny Asian woman behind the counter called out “Number fifty six.” which happened to be the number on the pink ticket in my hand.
I was led through a narrow badly carpeted corridor with doors on both sides. Between the doors were portraits of famous prostitutes, but I’d never heard of any of them. The Asian woman unlocked the sixth door on the right and told me to go in. I’m not sure what I was expecting, maybe an exotic mini-palace with Persian rugs, soft lighting and the stench of sex, but what I found was an attractive woman sitting behind a desk in what looked like a doctor’s office. It even had an examining table. I couldn’t help but notice that the walls were covered with crucifixes. Maybe I’ve finally found my soul mate I thought a woman who shares my unnatural fear of vampires.
“So how do we do this?” I asked.
“You’ve had sex before?”
“Yes, but never for money.”
“Well it’s exactly the same, except you pay me. Just undress and lay down on the table.”
She noticed the look of panic on my face. “What’s wrong?” she asked. There was no sane way of telling her that an examining table was too much like a hospital bed, so I told her that I’d prefer to stand, because I had a bad back. “Would you like me to take a look at your back?” she asked.
“Are you a doctor then?”
“Well you’re in a doctor’s office.”
“I’d better not. If my doctor found out I was paying someone else for medical help he’d probably get quite upset.”
We got to kissing, which surprised me, because I was sure prostitutes didn’t do that. Then again, everything I knew about prostitution I got from Pretty Woman, a film riddled with historical inaccuracies. After a few minutes we were naked and she was telling me she loved me. She was coming on too strong, but it was definitely great value for money.
“Have you got a condom?” I asked.
“No.” she said. “I’m Catholic.”
“Oh, is that what all the crosses are about?”
“Yes, what did you think they were for?” Maybe this girl wasn’t my soul mate after all. I thought I’d test the ground by bringing up the vampire thing.
“Vampires?”
She laughed. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. “So I can’t use protection?”
“Against what? Vampires?”
“No, it’s just that...” There’s no nice way to tell a girl that you think she might be full of sexually transmitted diseases, so I stopped the sentence there and had unprotected sex in the spirit of politeness.
A month later I get a phone call. She’s pregnant. My first thought is to ask her how she got this number, but clearly there are more important issues to discuss.
“Why aren’t you on the pill?” I cry down the phone.
“The thought of burning in Hell for all eternity kind of puts me off.”
“How do you even know it’s mine?”
“You’re the only guy I’ve slept with.”
“But you’re a prostitute!”
“Only part time. Most of my clients are patients for my surgery.”
She explains that she wants to keep the baby, although she doesn’t expect me to play the present father, which is kind of a relief. I’d make a terrible father. She does, however, expect me to compensate her for being out of work for the next eight months.
“I don’t have a lot of money.” I tell her “I don’t really have any money at all.”
We come to the only honorable agreement. I have to take over her job until the baby is born. The prostitution part of it, seeing as the height of my medical training is having the ability to tell people not to run with scissors. I thought about suggesting she carried on working whilst pregnant, because there are probably all kinds of weirdos who’d pay extra for that, but it’s not the kind of thing you can say to the mother of your unborn child.
Yesterday was my first day. As you already know, it ends with me being shot by a pimp, so it was as bad a first day as any.
I roll up on time, showered, shaved and presentable. I tell the tiny Asian woman that I’m not sure about any of this. “Maybe I could just answer the phone?”
“You’ll be fine. Everyone gets nervous on their first day.”
My first customer was awkward, the second was easier, but by midday things have started to get pretty bad. Most men, when expecting to have sex with a woman, especially when they’ve paid, can get a bit annoyed when they’re led into a room filled with crosses, an examining table and a naked man. Half of them would straight up ask for their money back, the other half would carry on, but I could tell most of them didn’t enjoy it.
I got a break at three o’clock, which is when I got to meet my pimp. I didn’t even realise I had one. My only wish was that he was one of those nice friendly pimps that you never hear about. Sadly he was the other kind. We got into an argument about the refunds. He told me I wasn’t trying hard enough, my customer service levels weren’t high enough, I needed to try harder, Targets! Targets! Targets!
“You’re not the boss of me!” I told him.
“Son, do you even know what a pimp is?”
“Yes, a very rude man!” I yelled, which is the last thing I ever said before I could no longer say that I’d never been shot in the leg by a pimp.
Anthony, Swansea.
290
My first novel blew the minds of all who read it. It was a conventional coming of age tale set in 1950s suburban America filled with carnivals, lost baseballs and first kisses. Just an ordinary story, right up until the last chapter where I unleashed the biggest twist in literary history: it turned out that the main character had been a lizard the whole time.
My second novel was a traditional love story set during the First World War. Nobody could have predicted that I’d use the exact same twist as my first novel. It blew their minds.
A lot of publicity surrounded the release of my third novel, which I still regard as my greatest work. Bookmakers were taking bets over whether or not my main character would be revealed to be a lizard. You could get odds of 1000 to 1 on there being a lizard twist, because nobody could believe I would dare to use the lizard twist three times in a row. I’d like to say a lot of people got rich off that bet, because come the final chapter there were lizards everywhere, but not a single person took the bet. It was just too unlikely.
In 2010, at the actor’s request, I wrote Al Pacino’s biography. I explained that I would almost certainly add a twist at the end, most likely a lizard. He said that would be fine. The book blew people’s minds, because soon after its release Al Pacino revealed himself to be a lizard.
Homer, London.
My second novel was a traditional love story set during the First World War. Nobody could have predicted that I’d use the exact same twist as my first novel. It blew their minds.
A lot of publicity surrounded the release of my third novel, which I still regard as my greatest work. Bookmakers were taking bets over whether or not my main character would be revealed to be a lizard. You could get odds of 1000 to 1 on there being a lizard twist, because nobody could believe I would dare to use the lizard twist three times in a row. I’d like to say a lot of people got rich off that bet, because come the final chapter there were lizards everywhere, but not a single person took the bet. It was just too unlikely.
In 2010, at the actor’s request, I wrote Al Pacino’s biography. I explained that I would almost certainly add a twist at the end, most likely a lizard. He said that would be fine. The book blew people’s minds, because soon after its release Al Pacino revealed himself to be a lizard.
Homer, London.
289
The setting sun has burst its shell, covering the sky in a messy lilac yolk. My footsteps on the gravel sound like a thousand Roman soldiers as I march up the driveway. Every day is an exact replica of the last, mass produced in a day factory somewhere by a man with no imagination. The cycle of tomorrow becoming today and today becoming yesterday is happening far too quickly, like a revolving door I can’t escape from. I’ll be thirty nine next week.
I enter my unlocked house to the smell of boiled vegetables. Every room is filled with steam. I throw my briefcase under the stairs and loosen my tie. Through the cloud enveloping the kitchen my wife emerges, smiling and holding my son. He’s nearly three and looks bigger than he did ten hours ago. Something doesn’t feel right.
After dinner I melt into the couch, still in my work clothes. There’s no beer left in the house, so I open a bottle of red wine. I hate red wine. My daughter, Stephanie, sits in front of the fireplace watching the TV. She’s sitting too close. I tell her she’ll go blind if she sits any closer. She doesn’t listen, because she has the newfound wisdom of an eighteen year old. Superman Returns in on at 9. All four of us watch it. I can’t remember that last time we all sat down to watch a film together. Michael falls asleep after twenty minutes, and Linda drops in and out, but Stephanie’s is caught up in the film.
“Well that was boring.” I announce as the credits start to roll. “You’ll never beat the original.”
Stephanie disagrees and we get into an unecessary arguement. She says the only reason I didn’t like it was because I have some kind of blind nostalgic allegience to the Reeve films, which she insists have aged very badly.
“In thirty years time people will realise how Returns is a much better film.” she says.
As I get into bed I ask Linda if Stephanie has always hated me.
“She doesn’t hate you.” she says, as she pulls herself close to me. We make love, but I’m not there.
Afterwards, as I lay on my back staring at the black ceiling which could be a mile or an inch away from my face I become equally claustrophic and agoraphobic at the same time. Something feels wrong. I feel trapped, trapped in a week that has only just started, trapped in a life that I never planned on having.
Then it hits me, a shiver runs down my spine when I realise that I’ve walked into the wrong house. This is not my family. Panic digs her hands into my chest, stopping me from running. What the hell is going on? Why didn’t they say anything? After I’ve had a minute to think I realise that I have no choice but to stay. Just like when someone calls you by the wrong name and you don’t correct them immediately, you’re stuck with that name forever, forced to play along.
Six months go by and the bluff continues. The awkardness has subsided and it almost feels like home. I still keep in touch with my old family on Facebook, but I’m trying to make a go of it here. I could be happy here.
Douglas, Preston.
I enter my unlocked house to the smell of boiled vegetables. Every room is filled with steam. I throw my briefcase under the stairs and loosen my tie. Through the cloud enveloping the kitchen my wife emerges, smiling and holding my son. He’s nearly three and looks bigger than he did ten hours ago. Something doesn’t feel right.
After dinner I melt into the couch, still in my work clothes. There’s no beer left in the house, so I open a bottle of red wine. I hate red wine. My daughter, Stephanie, sits in front of the fireplace watching the TV. She’s sitting too close. I tell her she’ll go blind if she sits any closer. She doesn’t listen, because she has the newfound wisdom of an eighteen year old. Superman Returns in on at 9. All four of us watch it. I can’t remember that last time we all sat down to watch a film together. Michael falls asleep after twenty minutes, and Linda drops in and out, but Stephanie’s is caught up in the film.
“Well that was boring.” I announce as the credits start to roll. “You’ll never beat the original.”
Stephanie disagrees and we get into an unecessary arguement. She says the only reason I didn’t like it was because I have some kind of blind nostalgic allegience to the Reeve films, which she insists have aged very badly.
“In thirty years time people will realise how Returns is a much better film.” she says.
As I get into bed I ask Linda if Stephanie has always hated me.
“She doesn’t hate you.” she says, as she pulls herself close to me. We make love, but I’m not there.
Afterwards, as I lay on my back staring at the black ceiling which could be a mile or an inch away from my face I become equally claustrophic and agoraphobic at the same time. Something feels wrong. I feel trapped, trapped in a week that has only just started, trapped in a life that I never planned on having.
Then it hits me, a shiver runs down my spine when I realise that I’ve walked into the wrong house. This is not my family. Panic digs her hands into my chest, stopping me from running. What the hell is going on? Why didn’t they say anything? After I’ve had a minute to think I realise that I have no choice but to stay. Just like when someone calls you by the wrong name and you don’t correct them immediately, you’re stuck with that name forever, forced to play along.
Six months go by and the bluff continues. The awkardness has subsided and it almost feels like home. I still keep in touch with my old family on Facebook, but I’m trying to make a go of it here. I could be happy here.
Douglas, Preston.
288
There comes a time in the life of every man when he will reach his lowest point. It can come at any stage in his life, childhood, middle age or his deathbed, but for every man it’s caused by the exact same event: the moment when he realises that he will never become the world's strongest man. Even men who have never expressed any interest in becoming the strongest man in the world will, for a moment, find themselves heartbroken. It’s the moment when they realise that everything is no longer possible and it’s all downhill from now. The worst sufferers are the 40 year old weak men who have been consciously aware of their limited strength all their lives, but had often convinced themselves that if they ever needed to they could become simply put in the work to become mighty. Nine times out of ten they’ll come to this realisation on their 40th birthday, which will not only ruin the day, but the next thirty years. This is why it’s important to make it very clear to children that they will never become the world’s strongest man. Now go forth and tell every child you can find before it’s too late.
Roman, Oxford.
Roman, Oxford.
286
I remember when Being John Malkovich came out back in 99 . I went crazy for it. I must have watched it fifty times. I knew every line like the back of my hand. I became obsessed with portals, they filled my every thought. I had just one dream: build a portal into John Malkovich’s brain. I tried. I failed. I succeeded only in building a portal which could take me inside the film Being John Malkovich. I must admit that I was pretty well suited to being in Being John Malkovich, because my knowledge of the script and direction was second to none. I don’t think Charlton Heston was right for the part anyway.
John Cusack, Being John Malkovich.
John Cusack, Being John Malkovich.
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