I’ve been busy all week, tidying the house and garden, putting a fresh lick of paint on the fence and hanging up the red, white and blue bunting. After all, it’s not every day my favourite big cousin visits from his home in the United States. When we were younger we used to play together in the park, and if anyone tried to bully me my big cousin would always stick up for me and punch them on the nose.
My mum always said that’s what family is all about and what separates us from those unfortunate enough to come from dysfunctional families. When I pointed out our relations have also experienced splits through the years she said that was different. Our extended family is special and not to forget it.
Anyway, I’m really looking forward to seeing my big cousin. For although we occasionally keep in touch via Facebook and the United Nations Security Council nothing beats that feeling of being in his actual presence. He’s such a handsome man now and has done a lot recently to appease those who have always despised him just because of his size. Of course, lots of others still think he’s nothing but a bully, but I don’t see it like that. The way I see it is he’s not afraid to stick up for those less fortunate. Some say he doesn’t do enough to help others, but what more do they want? He can’t be everywhere. And even if he could there would still be those who bring him down for trying to impose his values on the rest of the world.
He’ll be here tomorrow after he drops in to see our other cousins in Ireland first. I didn’t get on with our Irish cousins for a long time, they were nothing but an inconvenience, but they’ve pulled their socks up a bit and now we’ve started to talk. Hopefully we’ll not fall out again. They can be frightfully troublesome for such a small nation.
With the world changing all the time it’s more important than ever to know who your close relations are and who can be relied on to help you if needed. My big American cousin knows all he has to do is say the word and I’ll be right there by his side without question. No two ways about it. I might not be able to punch as hard as I could in the past but I can still land a couple of lethal blows to anyone who comes between me and my family. Like my mum said, “You can pick your friends but you can’t pick your relations. But relations must still come first.”
The truth is I’ve been feeling a bit depressed. Although my big cousin is coming tomorrow I don’t really know what to expect. He’s been a bit cold towards me recently and not always answering the phone when I call. And though I’ve left many messages for him to call me back he usually gets someone else to do it for him. Now I know he’s a busy man, but we’re supposed to be family, and families shouldn’t treat each other like that.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid and a bit needy because I don’t really know my place in the world anymore. Nobody listens like they used to. In the past, when I spoke the world listened…and agreed. Now, even though they all speak the language I gave them, they couldn’t care less what I say anymore. The only way I can get them to listen is if I threaten to tell my big cousin on them. But I don’t like being seen as a wee snitch that can’t fight his own battles anymore and has to shout for handers even over the slightest dispute.
To be honest, I’d rather be heading in the opposite direction and putting my feet up in Hawaii, not going through the motions visiting so-called relations in Britain and Ireland. But with elections looming over the horizon many hands must be shook and photographs must be taken, no matter how little importance these two tiny squabbling islands carry on the world stage these days.
At least Ireland can be good fun and just gets on with things, even though they don’t have enough money to pay for a round. But that whining Britain just gets on my nerves. They’re like the kid who no-one wants play with anymore, yet they keep coming to my door asking if I’m in, constantly begging me to tell them how special our relationship is. I don’t even like them. Never have. My dad warned me about them years ago. Sometimes I feel like telling them just to fuck off, but the so-called etiquette of diplomacy doesn’t allow that sort of thing, unless, of course, you happen to be China or Israel or Iran or North Korea or…fuck sake…anyone really. I’m going to do it one day.
But this time I’ll do the rounds and try to keep the smile painted on for as long as possible. Not that I even need to smile. I could rape the queen in Buckingham Palace and Britain would still be kissing my arse and asking for assurance that it’s not going to interfere with our special relationship.
That gives me an idea though. I’ll do the tour, crack a few jokes and tell them anything and everything they want to hear. They’ll be cock-a-hoop and besides themselves with unadulterated joy. Their newspapers will be full of Britain is America’s special friend, France and Germany can fuck off. They’ll be too busy patting themselves on the back to notice I never said best friend. And if they read between the lines they’d realise I actually think they’re more of a special needs friend. I honestly don’t know where their dignity is, so I can only assume they don’t actually have any. But that doesn’t surprise me either. I’ll bloody well special relationship them.
Here’s my plan. As soon as I leave them standing cheering in the rain I’ll set the wheels in motion for something so sinister it’ll bring that weedy little parasite of a country to its knees. I might not be able to rape old queenie, not that I’d want to anyway, have you seen her, and not that that would bother anyone, but I can do a deed, so dastardly in its audacity, so evilly below the belt in its conception, and so brilliantly cunning in its simplicity. I’ll have…what’s-her-name… Cheryl Cole…sacked from The US X Factor. Just think; the latest darling of the press, the perfectly manicured English Rose, the new people’s princess, the symbol of hope for anyone from Limeyland thinking they can make it in America, sent home in disgrace from that true shining beacon for multiculturism and immigration, for being unable to actually speak English. Isn’t irony a beautiful thing? God, I love this job.