“Yeah uerrghm so, right, yeah this is kind of you know the Blairite 1,000 year Neoliberal reich.”
I was approaching the sweet spot. 3:00:34 in my seven hour YouTube monologue on Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em with occasional comparisons to Oldboy.
“Yeah. Putting the Woke Away. Get that in yer Routledge library.” A new concept had arrived in the History of Political Thought. What if The Regime wasn’t actually The Regime. Chaos is a ladder.
“Neeeeeeeeeeeemaaarrrrrrrrrrr.” My mother’s voice carries from across the landing like an imperishable spring through the rocky tarn. “Neemar, come and drink your Ligonberry cordial.”
I sigh, heaving myself from the stream and navigating my body towards a glass bottle of thick red liquid labelled ‘Gløg’. Yet, when I arrived in the kitchen, I found it strangely deserted. The large vats of foul-smelling soya sauce stood in a pungent formation as ever, yet my dear Aman-Jan was nowhere to be found.
I prowled, cautiously back into the ‘living’ room where the television stood, paused on a particularly amusing scene from The Italian Job, I knew that it would only take the press of the remote to return it from such dormancy to its usual full-volume blare.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of hands slowly emerge from behind the wardrobe followed by the body of a middle-aged man wearing a monkey mask.
“Ooo.” He said “ooo ooo.”
“Why are you in my house?”
However, before I knew it, I was soon encircled: two more monkey-masked men appeared behind me, blocking the path back to the kitchen. The toilet flushed mysteriously and a monkey-mask man opened the door to stand in the corridor.
“Ooo, oo-ooo.” The monkeys muttered enthusiastically, drawing the circle closer and closer; until I felt a sharp blow to the back of my head.
“Hello, Neemar. I want to play a game.”
I was chained by firm manacles to a computer terminal logged into my twitter, my hands were free only to execute the grand hests of my captor. The voice, both robotic and monstrous, spoke from the single, grimy source of light in my dank dungeon… I knew that voice… It was somehow… familiar…
“How many Bomalians does it take to plug headphones into a mobile.”
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
NOT LIKE THIS