The Lost Diaries of King Nigel the One-Eyed

The Committee Celebrity in 2019

A Salute to Lee Child

I entered the Wall-Mart at 11:17am on the 2nd of June 2012, which made it ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 17 minutes and 31 seconds since the day it all changed. The day when the towers fell. I paused just inside the door. Civilians were everywhere, a throng of Saturday shoppers milling around, picking things up, putting them into carts, taking them to the registers and paying for them. I glanced left and right: lots of security on hand to keep an eye on the shoppers. Just the amount of security you'd expect ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 17 minutes and 39 seconds after September the 11th. Also just the amount of security you'd expect to be looking out for a certain Sam Ripcord, the one thorn in the side of a problem which just needed a bow slapped on it. The security guards were looking away, not showing their hand too soon, but I knew better than to buy their feigned disinterest. I also knew better than to believe that one guard stifling a yawn was doing only that. I could practically see the microphone which was probably taped to his wrist as he mumbled a codeword to his superiors. I had expected them to pull out all the stops for a lone-wolf anti hero like myself. Using the crowd to my advantage I began moving through the store, using my rugged tough guy training to find the most efficient route. Before long I had reached my target: aftershave. Highly flammable, irritating to the eyes. They wouldn't dare shoot in a crowded space if a stray bullet might create a blinding firestorm. I slipped it under my jacket along with three other bottles. Sometimes a hard-eyed outsider has to drink whatever's handy, especially when he's sitting round a barrel fire under a turnpike. I turned to go, sensing the situation to be too risky, even for somebody accustomed to being a gritty renegade. But my chisel-jawed plans fell apart when I saw the security guards suddenly close in around me. This was it. They had sprung the trap. And I was caught. Like a rat. In a trap. 9/11.
"Would you mind coming with us, sir?" The guard was polite, too polite. "I'm only being polite until I shoot you" his politeness seemed to say. Obviously none of them were armed, that would be too obvious, but I could feel the eyes of a dozen snipers on me, half aiming for my chest, the other half aiming for my head. And if they opened fire they'd have no choice but to eliminate every witness in the store. As I was led through a side door to the manager's office I wondered if any of the shoppers realised that they owed their lives to me.

As I entered Sheen's office I was struck by the realization that it had been ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 27 minutes and 31 seconds since 9/11. Then I noticed that the clock on the wall read 11:30 and reflected that it had really been ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 30 minutes and 31 seconds since 9/11. Sheen noticed where my gaze was directed.
"That clock is two minutes slow." He said. I couldn't believe it. That must mean that it had been ten years, eight months-
"Ripcord, this is the third time we've caught you." Sheen barked. Interrupted in my thoughts, I said nothing. Finally my iron will broke him. "What did he take this time?"
"Aftershave." Replied a guard. Hands forced their way into my pockets and the bottles were taken. I now had no way of dissuading them from opening fire.
"I suppose this is where you shoot me." I growled.
"For god's sake Ripcord, we're not going to shoot you." This didn't add up. I was at Sheen's mercy, and he wasn't going to take my ass down. Was somebody else pulling Sheen's strings? The CIA? MI5? Russians? Chinese? There was only one way to know what he was going to do- I was going to have to ask him what he was going to do.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm afraid we're going to have to call the police." The police? How did Sheen end up in the police chief's pocket? Had deals been cut underneath the table? Money changed hands? Had somebody bitten the hand which fed him? Maybe Sheen had bitten his own hands.
"Did you bite your own hands, Sheen?" I screamed, lunging forward. "Show me what's under your table!" I was forced back into my seat. Sheen sighed. I could see the mockery behind his apparent pity.
"Sam, we've given you a lot of slack. I've allowed you to continue living in the parking lot, even after head office told me to move you on. Last Christmas I gave you the leftover chocolate we didn't sell-"
"Yeah, the chocolate. Nice try with that poison Sheen, but I was onto you from the start. I tried some on a stray dog. It died. Funny coincidence, huh?"
"Well of course the dog died if you gave it-" He broke off and buried his face in his hands. He was rattled by how easily I had seen through his assassination attempt. He must have realized I was no ordinary grunt, and I could see his confidence collapse as I met his gaze.
"Just... get him out of here." He said at last, waving a hand at the door. My grizzled gambit had checkmated his trump card.

As the goons pushed me out into the parking lot and I began the long walk back to headquarters I knew two things for certain: Sheen was out of his depth, and it had been ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 20 minutes and seven seconds since 9/11.         

Reflections on a Found Schoolbook

Now that poverty has settled itself back into my life, and the next few months will inevitably descend into drudgery and penny-scraping, all I can think about are the weeks leading up to now and how they ate all my money. A leading factor was my borderline occupation of the Moorings, where ten pound cocktails and twelve types of absinthe made me feel like a connoisseur, rather than a simple drunkard. The temptation to eat out has also scuppered me. Even with a full fridge at home, the open door of too many takeaways and bistros saw me roaming in and unsheathing my bank card, muttering my PIN number to the tune of “we're in the money”. Simply put, my personal finance skills display the lack of foresight which has destabilized governments and collapsed empires. This is why on a rainy Friday afternoon, when my poverty has placed me under house arrest, far from any bar or deli, I'm glad to have dug out my old Business Studies jotter. It dates from my second year of school, when I would have been just 13, and if I remember the nature of the class correctly it should provide all the advice I've been ignoring until now.

The coursework inside begins with a case study of two individuals, Ben and Sarah, and how they first supplemented then spent their pocket money. We learn that Ben wound up with a pound more than Sarah after taking on the more demanding tasks of grass cutting and washing the car. Was this an example of government-planted propaganda about the gendered pay gap? I am loathe to comment. However when we turn to our heroes outgoings we observe this:

Ben's spending for the week:

Crisps- 60p

Can of coke- £1.60

Mars bar- 78p

Magazine- £1.00

Bus fare- £2.00

Apples- 60p

Youth club- £1.00

Total- £7.58

Sarah, on the other hand, breaks down as follows:

Sarah's spending for the week:

Bottle of coke- 90p

2 bags of crisps- 40p

Disco- £1.00

Make up- £2.00

Bus Fare- £1.00

Total- £5.30

Sarah comes across as the hero of this tale, though I'm sceptical as to why. If Ben spends twice as much on bus fares to go to his youth club, is that his fault? Just because Sarah has a cheaper taste in crisps does that make her a saint when she gets tarted up for her nearer, but but equally expensive disco? But perhaps I'm getting carried away. Perhaps I see too much of myself in Ben, as I picture him bloated with Kettle Chips, thumbing through Shoot! on a three hour bus journey. Particularly when just below this analysis, a question has been answered in all capitals with a phrase which screams to me across the years:

“PLANNING YOUR SPENDING IS CALLED BUDGETING”

I would swear my former self was reaching out from the past to shake me by the shoulders, were I not just as sure that his mind at the time of writing was focused on masturbation as a potential cure for acne.

Whatever priorities were distracting me during the class, I can still see the pattern of some kind of Cassandra complex in my answers. In a list of questions on unnecessary expenses, I have repeatedly reused 'alcohol' and 'eating out' as examples. But this is paired with answers which clearly show a lack of commitment to the questions posed. My responses to questions 18 and 19 are “they were blown up” and “starve” respectively. I doubt these responses were of any relevance to the questions posed. Unless it was stated that Ben and Sarah were required to traverse an artillery range between themselves and the bus stop, or build explosives to fend off malnutrition, then a more likely explanation is that I was simply bored. Bored and not paying attention to a lesson which would have allowed me to go to the pub tonight.

So what have I learned from this examination of my school life? Firstly, if I should ever foolishly suggest that the pay gap is due to women not working hard enough, I shall back-pedal by blaming subliminal messages fed to me as a youth. Second, if a young man prefers to go to a youth club rather than a disco even though it's further away, the issue is one for the town planning committee of his local authority. But above all I have learned that I will never learn, and when money next comes my way it will inevitably vanish into the tills of various bars and buffets. I just haven't the sense to spend it on makeup and teenage discos.

Mary Shelly had no Kind of Business Mind

The Rules and Principles of Competitive Walking

Being a living adonis, with the build of a natural athlete, it is inevitable that I should have a walking speed slightly faster than the common or garden gait. Walking is one of those things which most of us do unthinkingly in everyday life. But standing out among the leg-borne there are my people, a privileged subset of steel-thighed juggernaughts who stroll from place to place at a blistering speed. If you have ever had cause to say to someone "slow down, we're not in any rush you know", then chances are you were speaking either to me, or somebody just as handsomely swift.

The only problem I have found with being so locomotively blessed occurs on the rare occasions when I encounter another with a stride roughly equal to mine, and I start becoming competitive. While it is jarring for somebody so used to breezing past other pedestrians to be overtaken, there is sometimes little to be done to regain ground. Swinging a kick at the back of your opponent's knee as you sprint past with a triumphant roar can become a hollow victory if the police are allowed their say; but at the same time, in the world of insignificant social annoyances there are no stoic defeats. My preferred coping mechanism in the past has been to make a sport of the thing, which over time has developed a small list of core rules.

 I propose these rules for anyone who finds themselves alongside someone with an equal walking speed:

1) At no point should one intentionally increase one's velocity above their natural pace; the core principle of competitive walking is to be the tortoise, not the hare.

2) Do not fabricate reasons to increase one's pace unless absolutely necessary. Jogging to avoid a speeding livestock truck is acceptable. Breaking into a brief trot after hopping onto a kerb is not.

3) Cutting corners is forbidden.

4) Do not use makeup mirrors or other reflective surfaces to force someone behind you into tailgating.

5) Related to 4), victory is decided by whoever is ahead when the competitor's routes diverge. Therefore backward glances to ascertain victory is not only permitted, but necessary. I once walked for five miles before realising the guy was no longer behind me.

6) If you are being overtaken by somebody wearing heels while you are not, do not even try to compete. You will be soundly crushed.    

My Dragon's Den pitch

I am here to ask for a £1 million investment in a venture which I believe will synthesise two industries with almost unlimited resources and profit potential; undertaking and celebrity culture. What if when you died, instead of being cremated or buried, you had yourself either liquified, powdered, or sliced up really thin? Then- and here's the good bit- for a fee you can arrange to have the celebrity of your choice eat you over the course of, say, six months. Clients can have themselves mixed into meals or protein shakes, and interred in the bowels or your favourite singer or Hollywood star.

I already have a number of ideas for marketing this service. Basically what we want to sell is that people can actually become part of their celebrity idol, as their proteins are converted into energy which will create the good looks and ideas of celebrities. Here are a few draft examples:

•   A modelling photo of Naomi Cambell's face. Caption: “Why try to get skin like this when you could be skin like this?”

• Close-up black and white photograph of Eric Clapton's finger callouses. Caption: “You will never get closer to the music than this”.

• Close-up photo of Robin Williams' chest hair. Caption: “Wish you were here?”

Your one million pound investment will cover the start-up fees required in hiring a number of reasonably priced celebrities for the service. I know for a fact that Jimmy Nail isn't up to much at the moment. In time, as the brand grows, we can start aiming for the Scarlett Johanssons and Johnny Depps, with an average cost of £50,000 per deceased. We're also going to need a team of chefs able to prepare meals to a standard expected by the showbiz elite, but we can make this cost back by offering families the chance to subscribe to a webcam feed showing the celebrity in question at mealtimes, laying their loved one to rest.

I have given a great deal of thought to this idea and can think of no way that it could fail to take off. Everybody loves celebrities, everybody dies, and what I have found is that when death and famous people go together, the profit potential is enormous; just look at Diana. Also, if I could get my one million in cash, that would be ideal.