The Best Ever Story in the World

Trying to decide what to write is so hard. Especially if you want to write a really good story, the best fucking story of the century. How do you begin something like that? To be taught to kids for the rest of eternity? Fuck. Maybe I should start with my childhood. That was full of the kind of shit people write about. No. I’m going to be different. After all, this is going to be the best ever story in the universe. Maybe I should write about how I ended up in this room, in this shithole of a town with this pen in my hand.
The wallpaper I’m leaning against is that grainy cheap shit from the bargain bin at B&Q. I know it is because I used to work there. I was actually quite good at my job. Didn’t even mind the luminous orange apron. Things change though don’t they? Shit happens. The tins of paint; Magnolia, Bathroom Blue blurred in front of my eyes as I dropped to the floor. In a right old panic they were. Called an ambulance. The whole fucking shebang.
A month I was in that fucking pisspot for. This specialist, that fucking specialist. Pills, food, pills food. Ward 4, Ward 2 then God knows where. If God did know I’d kill the bastard. Leaving me in that stinking pisshole with my ass hanging out. Bastards, the lot of them. I’m alright now though. I’ll be back at work soon. Any day now I reckon. Just bored. Thought I’d write. Got to keep my mind off it.
I’m on a protest. I know what they’re trying to do. That’s what I’m going to write about. The politics that keep people like me in the gutter. I can smell them a mile off. Fucking vultures. You read about it every day, don’t you? The scams, the lies, the hypocrisy. I’m going to blow them all out the water, expose the lot of them. Not only will this be the best bollocking bastard story ever written but it’ll be for the good of the people as well. I’ll be known as a freedom fighter, in my own way doing my bit. Publicly supporting the little man. The backbone of this country.
I know what they’re trying to do. All those pills. Stopping my freedom of speech. Specialists my arse. This is big brother mate. Orwell knew the coo and he was like well in the past. I’ve stopped taking them. My two-fingered salute to this government. If more people stood up for themselves, Britain would be back to where it should be. Back on the fucking map. Not America’s little whorebag taking it every opportunity. Begging for every little crumb. It’s an embarrassment.
Haven’t noticed any of those shitting things they said would happen. Cunt twatting liars. I knew this would happen, they won’t believe me. Don’t want to know. There is this ant right, the little guy. Doesn’t know his own strength. They’d rule the world if they were the same size as us. He’s been crawling across this table I’m writing on for two days now. Like following the writing I’ve made, like he knows its good shit. But now he’s in my hair, massaging. Won’t leave me alone.
I had a dream last night. I dreamt I was on a boat cruising through the Atlantic. The wind through my hair and delicate arms around my waist. The sun bleached the clouds until they were almost invisible. This view was eternity. You could stay looking forever and still notice something new in the gently rippling sea. Sweat droplets appeared at my temples and she licked them off with a look in her eye. One of those looks that you instantly feel the bulge tighten and throb. I reached for her breast without unlocking my eyes from hers. Her pupils swelled into neon blackness as I took her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. She pushed herself in towards me and whispered “fuck me Oliver. Do it now”. I threw her onto the bed in the cabin and slowly encircled her with my tongue feeling her jerks of anticipation.
Fucking leave. All of you. I’m trying to write. I’m writing the best ever story in the world. About corrupt politicians, the truth mate. Bush, that two-bit hickory dickory wanker. I know what he wants. He looks straight at me. I don’t know how he does it. He knows that I hate him and he knows that I know that he knows I hate him. Big brother. It’s out there. Blair has started now too. I saw him pointing at me at a press conference. Letting his security know what I look like no doubt. Just in case. When he reads this story he’ll shit himself. It’ll outlive him and his fucking frog-faced wife. He won’t know what’s hit him when he reads the truth. Pure unadulterated truth.
You have to include me Alan. I’m here to stay. I’m hijacking this paragraph. After all, if you’re writing the most elaborately exquisite story in the world you’ll need my help. There was a reason for my dream. Psychoanalysis has never been my strong point but I did a little training in Vienna. The boat in the Atlantic was a symbol. It was all a symbol. You need me. I dream the same dream every night with slight variations but all contain explicit scenes of a sexual nature. You’re a dirty boy Alan. Your vivid imagination is leaking into my unconscious. One moment I am reading the classics and the next I’m masturbating like a fifteen year-old. This has to stop. Allow me in some more Alan and I can help you. Show you the symbols of my dreams. The dreams of the world.
You can’t help me. You’re just in my head. You’re not real. I’m writing about real things, real people. Real people who fuck and eat and cry and sleep. Real people who do bad things and want to say sorry but they can’t because nobody knows they’ve done these terrible things and they can’t tell anyone.
I’m here Alan. I’ll listen. Just let me in a little bit more and all the pain will go away. You can talk to me. Come on Alan.
It’s all Bush’s fault. And Blair. They fucking lied. They made me do it. It was a protest. I was helping. I was showing people the truth.
There are always grey areas when dealing with the truth. The truth is velvet Alan. It is soft. You can stroke and change the truth. Very gently smooth it in the direction you want it to take.
Even this blade. It’s a lie. None of it’s real. It’s fake. Look. That’s not my vein pumping blood on the shitty cheap wallpaper. It’s just a cheap trick. It doesn’t even look real. Like a cheap horror film. It’s too red. Too much and too red.
Alan? Talk to me. Focus on me Alan. Let me in. Quickly before it’s too late. The boat Alan, climb on the boat. We’ll sail away from all of this. Into pink rippling sands where sunsets last for hours. Just step up onto the rung Alan.
It’s not real. It’s fake. A fucking cartoon. It’s going. It’s all going. Mum. I want my mum. I’m sorry, I’m sorry Mum. Sorry.
Alan?... Alan? Are you there? Come back. Come back. Alan?

Alan?