This week, I was sent by The Cheese Grater on a humanitarian mission to Burnley. Like most people, I have long been moved by the plight of the people of Lancashire, and I, like most people I know, was consummately delighted to hear that Sir Midge Geldof has decided to re-release his charity record for them. Like any filth- strewn warzone, however, precautions had to be taken.
Luckily, Steve, the hired muscle for the sojourn, was from Watford - a place on the very edge of civilisation, and so he had been living as close to Burnley’s loin- clothed dog-fuckers as possible. Similarly, my personal assistant Evangeline would also be accompanying us - she’d done a course on Scum whilst up at Oxford and was keen to get up close and see them in their natural habitat as opposed to in a lab.
I took a quick glance at Tripadvisor, noting carefully a review from a Mr. T. Blair that warned against agitating the locals, who are notoriously temperamen- tal after a Harvest Moon. Bearing this in mind, I bathed in medicinal ethanol and also purchased a can of de-lousing spray.
It was now time to depart on the long road from Islington. I said my emotional goodbyes to my children, and embraced my husband for what I knew could very well be the last time. I told them to stay strong, and to pray to Alain de Botton in order for me to make it out alive. I then made my way onto the transport for the trip - a Soviet-era tank. It would be per- fectly suited to a trip to Burnley.
Having to stop at a petrol station en route - in the demilitarized zone at Leices- ter - proved an uncomfortably close shave. Luckily Steve had picked up a working knowledge of basic Northern in his efforts to stop the bastards chewing at his exhaust pipe as he drove along the Watford border. I filled my bra with scotch eggs, Steve re- filled the tank and we managed to get out of there without attracting too much at- tention.
We eventually arrived in Burnley still in one piece. We manoeuvred our way into the green zone, an area administered by the UN. As I climbed out of the tank, however, I was immediately accosted by one of the locals, who confronted me in patois - spluttering “ay up me lass!” be- tween manic cupfuls of a gloopy tonic Evangeline informed me was known lo- cally as “a brew”. I screamed at him and hit him in the kneecaps with my umbrella.
We made for a restaurant - settling for a local dish called “fish and chips” after I see that Steve had eaten some and hadn’t died. Evangeline, meanwhile, whom I sus- pect had been fucking Steve in the interim, went over to pet one of the local diners, feeding him Trebor mints from her purse. She asked if we could adopt him, but I refused - it would be wrong to ruin the tireless work of scientists who eliminated rabies from the UK in one morbidly obese swoop.
As we threw pre-decimal currency at the restaurateur and made for the exit, a crowd formed, mesmerised by my crimson rosette. We were surrounded by hordes of great unwashed, gawping and repeat- ing primitive sounds. “Ehn aitch ess”, they growled, their teeth gnashing as in turn they grabbed my clammy hands and shook them up and down.
In line with his thinly-defined charac- ter, Steve drew a sawn-off shotgun from his 48” waist slacks and told them to get back. I attempted to talk down to the proles, one of whom was keen to stress that he’d been to a “university” in “Sheffield”. Evangeline, between laboured sobs, clung to my arm and reminded me that it was a well-known trope from northern folklore.
Steve fired a few warning shots in the air, and we started to run. Evangeline how- ever stumbled and fell. “Leave her, she’s already dead!”, I howled, the scotch eggs spilling from my decolletage.
“RUN, EMILY, GET TO THE CHOPPA!” screamed Steve. He collided with a small, fat child and was run over by an elderly woman on a mobility scooter. He was the only man I ever loved. I rode a lorry home.
That night on Hampstead Heath I lay down and wept.