Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

I also hope, for the sake of our twenty-year-long relationship (I won’t call it a ‘friendship’, that’d be rather stretching the point) — as well as your miserable little career , Troy — that you have a Dictaphone handy in your five-star f***ing paradise island retreat… [FKN expectorates, noisily — for a second time — into what sounds like a sink]

So you’d better have a nice big sip of your Jim Beam, Troy, pay off the syphilitic ladyboy, raise the blinds, turn the volume up to max, and listen very, very carefully, because I’m only planning to say this once, okay?

Okay?

Right. Good. Now cast back your booze-addled mind for a moment, if you will, and try to recall how directly before you thoughtlessly buggered off to the Maldives (casually leaving all your hardworking clients — especially this one — totally in the lurch) you kindly forwarded me the first draft copy of my so-called ‘autobiography’ (working title): Frank K. Nebraska’s: Blowing The Whistle (a title which, for the record, I hate. It sounds like a coy pseudonym for the act of gay fellatio).

D’you remember that, Troy? Gradually coming back to you yet? Yeah? Great! Fantastic!

Well, what you might not realize, Troy, is that in your frenzied rush to catch your stinking flight, you also inadvertently enclosed the letter which the esteemed ‘scribe’ of said autobiography — Robert Pole — sent, for your private perusal, with the first draft of the book.

Yes, Troy, the letter. Remember the letter? Remember Robert Pole’s ‘entertaining’ letter about the many ‘hilarious’ foibles of your loyal client and gullible paymaster, Frank K. Nebraska? Remember the letter, Troy? You do? Good. Excellent.

Well, you accidentally enclosed that disgusting letter in the book.

You sent the letter to me , Troy.

Like I say, it was a private letter, addressed to you, personally, so just as soon as I realized the mistake you’d made, I folded it up and sent it straight back.

[Sound of a hand slapping repeatedly against a tiled wall]

OF COURSE I BLOODY DIDN’T!

WHAT KIND OF A FEEBLE IDIOT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR?!

I READ IT, TROY!

I F***ING READ IT!

OF COURSE I F***ING DID!

[Heavy panting]

I read the letter, Troy… [Slightly calmer, now]

I read every damn syllable of it!

You forwarded the letter to me, Troy — is this actually sinking in yet? Is it?! — and I have read the letter , Troy. [Dramatic five-second pause]

So thanks very much for that [Insincere] . No, I mean it. Thanks a f***ing bunch for that, old boy. [Sound of heavy, plastic lid being lifted]

You’ve done me a great service there, my friend. I really mean it: a great service. It was just what I needed — exactly what I needed. It was a gift, Troy — a gift — to finally find out what that repulsive, cock-eyed, snivelling little secretary you hired (and generously paid over 10 per cent of my piddling advance to) actually thinks of me.

That was great, Troy.

That was very, very special.

Merry Christmas to you, too, Troy.

That was just… just f***ing wonderful .

It really was.

[Sound of zipper being unfastened]

I call him a ‘secretary’, Troy, because that is exactly what he is. A secretary. A glorified f***ing secretary. Nothing more, nothing less. And — for the record — I don’t give a flying f**k how many other books he’s co-written. He could’ve co-written War and f***ing Peace for all I care. He could’ve co-written Katie Price’s f***ing Pony novels for all I care… Bollocks to him!

He’s just a secretary , a pointless, gibbering, insignificant little secretary. He took dictation. That’s all the slimy, self-important little turd did in my case.

So maybe he indented the odd paragraph or two… Maybe he added the occasional comma and full stop… Maybe he did a smattering of entirely gratuitous editing… I mean where’s all the fascinating stuff about the development of my political philosophy gone? That was gold dust, f***ing gold dust! Why’d he get rid of it all?

Huh?!

I mean I told you how I didn’t want…

[ Straining]

I told you, right from the start, how I didn’t want anyone ghosting the autobiography for me. I was determined, from the very off, to write the damn thing myself.

And why was that, Troy? Eh? Why was that? [ Expectant pause]

Because I’m a famous storyteller , you bloody moron! It’s what I do . I have a special genius for telling stories! I was kissed by the f***ing Blarney Stone! It’s in my blood ! And we both know that if I’d had even so much as a minute to f***ing spare I would’ve put pen to paper myself — or I’d’ve got Kizzy to put pen to paper for me — and I would’ve written one of the best autobiographies of ALL TIME, Troy. Absolutely no f***ing doubt about it.

But the turnaround was way too tight, Troy. You bungled the contract, and I ended up with only a paltry three years in which to deliver the stupid thing, and by the third year I was still gestating, Troy! I was still cultivating my ideas. I was still marinating my themes.

I just didn’t have the f***ing opportunity to get this project fully operational, Troy, because — unlike our wonderful Mr Pole — I actually have a flourishing and viable career to manage. I have a profile to maintain. I have a hungry — an insatiable — f***ing public to entertain.

[Straining]

I mean this thing is a f***ing outrage , Troy!

It’s a f***ing outrage!

[The noisy flapping of what sounds like a piece of paper]

The sheer cheek, the gall — the downright effrontery — of the man! It’s an absolute bloody scandal!

[FKN adopts pantomime, nasal, upper-crust accent]

‘There was obviously a certain amount of work involved in trying to depict Mr Nebraska as a sympathetic character. I tried, on more than one occasion, to explain to him that the average reader — even the die-hard fan — needs to find something likable about the book’s protagonist, something to empathize with. The odd — even slightly disingenuous — display of humility, modesty or self-awareness goes a very long way in this respect, and a gentle touch of humour often helps.

‘Unfortunately, Mr Nebraska didn’t appear to understand this approach (“Why mollycoddle the f***ing idiots?” was all he’d volunteer on the issue), so, for the sake of the book, I took the necessary liberty of adding these small touches myself.’

D’you hear that, Troy? Pole added them himself! D’you hear that?! The little shit ‘took the liberty’. He acted entirely against my wishes! He stuck his oar in and made me ‘sympathetic’ without my permission, for the sake of the book! For the sake of the f***ing book , Troy!

But I told him — till I was blue in the f***ing face , Troy — that I didn’t want to be ‘sympathetic’. I don’t want f***ing sympathy, Troy! I’m an artist! All I want — all I desire — is to be true to my muse! My muse , Troy! My creative imagination , Troy! But how the hell is some grubby, slimy, inconsequential little hack meant to understand a concept as pure and unblemished and lofty as that? Eh?