Will Self - The Quantity Theory of Insanity - Reissued

Here’s the studio swimming into view. And it makes me feel nauseous. The unreal quality of that manufactured space, intended only to contain posturing presenters. Chipboard pouffes encased in oatmeal twistpile, turquoise striped banquettes … It is a slab for displaying human fish … I can’t bear to watch them swim into view and ‘O’ at me fatuously … I’ve more pressing problems, like flatness of taste … and the malignant wart … Have you met one another? I say here — and mark this — that this wart is cancerous. It represents a new and virulent form of cancer that is peculiar to me. This is an implosive cancer, other cancers infect cell after cell in a chain reaction, but this cancer works in on itself, nullifying cells which turn into heavier and heavier dead matter, glutinous matter, nailed into the pit of my elbow. The symptoms? Well, flatness of taste for one, flatness of mouth taste, eye taste, ear taste. Smell? Ferrr-geddit. The only palliative is chemotherapy … and the side-effects can be disturbing …

What I need to consider, as the television wetly observes me, is some kind of strategy that will make Gavin phone me, now. I’m sick of waiting. I’m aware that there are certain rituals that I can perform which will make him phone me. Never underestimate the power of magic. We may think that cause and effect are billiard balls that strike one another, but we know that we can tip the table. And that’s what I’m going to do, I’m going to tip the table.

What is it that keeps me here, sitting, stiffening, in a repro Queen Anne chair, bought from a mail-order catalogue, when I could be asleep? I could be lying in between warm, brushed cotton sheets, enjoying that special, infinitely sweet, morning sleep, that turns one’s aching body inside out like a sock. Instead, I’m rigid, upright, staring, waiting. I’m going to compile a list of the things that stop me sleeping and act upon them forthwith:

1. The wart

2. Lack of appetite

3. Waiting for Gavin to ring

Appetite and the wart and Gavin are all intimately linked. I realise this now although it’s been staring me in the face all night. If I can do something about the former, the latter will fall into place. (I’m just kidding about all of this — really, believe me — just to keep me occupied. I don’t really think I can influence Gavin by acts of magic, but it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?) I see the wart as a hungry thing … actually as a hungry entity. You notice that I can speak quite openly and casually about the wart at this stage? That’s because the wart isn’t hungry at the moment. The wart is the bivalve that determines my cycle, my expansion and contraction. What I need to do is give it some real nourishment, something that will completely assuage it. Since the wart owes its very existence to the founding of Ocean Ltd, the act of sating its relentless hunger will necessarily bring about the completion of Ocean Ltd’s business. You have followed me so far I hope?

The wart takes in matter and massively condenses it. If you like, it is the biological equivalent of a black hole, infinitely heavy. And what about the meal it requires? Well, this must be a combination of real food: spicy mushrooms, tandoori chicken wings, stale bagels, morello cherry conserve, squares of processed cheese — and material relating to Ocean Ltd. To whit: invoices, bills of lading, delivery notes, customs declarations, spreadsheet analyses and a couple of brochures, one for the product — the children’s scrapbook — and one for Ocean Ltd itself.

I will have to travel to assemble the ingredients of my spell. Into the dining-room to fetch the Ocean Ltd material and then to the kitchen to get the food. Before I go, let me take stock. Is this the only course of action left open to me? Or can I get by with a plainer, more matter-of-fact view of my world? I say ‘my world’ advisedly, the truth of the matter is, can I make my world elide gracefully into being ‘the world’ again? A world of housecoats, washing-up brushes, bilateral agreements, tax returns, sexual encounters and stand-up comedians. Can I?

No. Emphatically not. Things have gone too far. I never should have started that nonsense with the solid tubes of brightness. I’ve made my epiphenomenal bed, now I’ll have to stand in it. Up. And to the dining-room. Gather the necessary papers and continue walking with an easy and unhurried, a supremely natural gait, into the hall. ‘Good morning, watercolour.’ ‘Good morning, table.’ The kitchen is quite light now but I have to see what I’m doing so I’d better put on the strip light. Aha! The mushrooms warble a greeting, the chicken wings hunch on the draining board. Off with their packaging!

I have everything assembled now. Lain out in a pattern on the table top. One question remains … how to eat it. Oral intake is inconceivable. For one thing there is the flatness … the wart’s fault … and for another the gorge which continually deposits freight lift-loads of metallic saliva in my mouth. No, I’ll have to absorb the potion through my skin. Sandwich a spicy mushroom between two invoices, package it like some strange dim sum and press it into the hollow of my neck, rub down its crinkly, greasy softness. Open my tired shirt … take squares of processed cheese and feel them bind into the spindly hairs on my chest … not long now … stale bagels are to be ground up in the hand and the crumbs dropped down the front of my trousers, together with torn squares of laminated 275 gsm art board … morello cherry conserve on my forehead … nothing is sticky when you immerse yourself in it … plaster the triple-leaved invoice on to the gungy mess … the best till last … the wart itself… the chicken wing… like a foetal arm … roll up the sleeve and spread the turmeric paste on to the wart … Jesus, that hurts! But yes it feels good … it feels good … What’s that! A trill in the living-room … a ‘spung’ and then a trill… the phone is ringing … it worked … I rush out of the kitchen … I can feel crumbs falling down around my crotch … the conserve gums up my eyes … emulsifiers and E207 additives are speedily imploding into the wart … I only have a limited amount of time …in the livingroom the first peal is sharp, hectoring, insistent … that was quick! I made it from the kitchen to the living-room in the time it took the phone to fully connect … but where is the phone … Where is the phone! … I can’t see it anywhere … I haven’t used it for two days… I don’t know where it is… Stop. Where’s the ringing coming from … Not in here at all … I can hear it through the floorboards … It’s coming from the bedroom upstairs … And I’m up there before the thought has even taken form … but I can’t find the phone anywhere … The ringing is coming from the testudo that covers the bed … it’s one of the children! I tear the packaging from its sylvan form with scrabbling nails, the plastic bubbles pop between my fingers … the corrugated cardboard is strangely slick … My Children … with their buttons and their bows … with their little rubberised penises … one of them is calling to me … But which one? Not this one … not this one … not this one … I tear off jacket after jacket … And now another one starts … and another … and another … Upstairs and downstairs … in the living-room … in the kitchen … in the hall … in the back bedroom … until all hundred gross of them are pealing away in a synchronous cacophony … pulsing like some insane electronic cicadas … pulsing in and out … expanding and contracting … expanding …

‘I can’t stand this any more, I’m getting out of here.’ Jim was cradling the plastic rim of the Ford Sierra’s steering wheel in his forearms and staring blankly through the windscreen. I noticed, completely inconsequentially, that his forearms were angled as if they were part of the car’s controls — perhaps some kind of overarching indicator levers. And then he was gone; he elbowed the door open, slid sideways and jack-knifed his feet out of the car with a suddenness that sent the rest of his body pivoting after them. After that he was off and running. He vaulted the grooved steel barrier that divided the carriageways and bolted across the eastbound side of the motorway, narrowly evading the oncoming traffic which was whipping through the long, low chicane as if to purposefully taunt the banked-up vehicles not heading west. There was a chorus of Dopplered hoots which rose and then fell and he was gone into the close darkness.