THOUGH some people believe it happened in 1996, it was actually this week that I finally ran out of things to say in this column.
A busted flush, I rang the editor to explain that it was all over. He would have to find some other chump.
At this point the editor kindly reminded me of the contract I had signed last autumn, in which I had agreed to carry on writing this column for the next 12 years with the agreement he would take my house, my wife and the soul of my unborn child should I ever default.
Faced with this pickle, I turned to my nearest and dearest.
“You should write about how nice young people are,” said my Auntie Betty, whom I reckoned must have stored up some wisdom in her 97 years.
“Only last week I was walking home and a young man took my shopping for me. He ran on ahead so the bags would be waiting, though he got lost and never made it there … still, it’s the thought that counts.”
“Err, I think you got mugged, Auntie Betty,” I said.
“Damn it!” she cried. “Not again! I hate young people – write about that, moron.”
Seeking a more intellectual view, I called on a former university professor I very much consider to be my mentor.
“The universe is expanding at a dizzying rate and one day it will explode, taking us all with it,” he said. “Faced with such a fate, the question is why we bother with at all: love, work, human interaction, it is all for naught …”
By now desperate, I rang a friend and begged for his help.
“Have you done one about hating Jeremy Clarkson?” Yep. “What about your fear of tomatoes?” Yes. “Well, you’ve got nothing.”
It was then that I saw the light. Nobody can write this column but me. It’s up to me to think the unthinkable, open my readers’ minds to the world’s fantastic possibilities and make this column the most essential of the month.
Either that or I could just witter on like the dolt I am – here’s to another 12 years!
