by Luke Otley
I had loaded up on coffee the morning of the big presentation. It turned out to be a drastic miscalculation of the need for adrenaline reserves, as by the time I staggered up to stage in front of that terrible audience my stomach had more knots than Ronnie Wood’s arthritic gristle mittens. The worst part of it was those devils didn’t even register how nervous I had become. Each grey, bored, slab of a face stared through my thick black rimmed glasses right into my dilated and bloodshot eyes, uncovering every lie I’ve ever told, shining a 10000 kilowatt bulb onto my rawest fears and desires for all to see. They all stared, unblinking, as the words came pouring forth; some script rehearsed to such an extreme that I wasn’t even conscious of speaking at all – it was all white noise – a foul exertion of a motor-skill. I realised that even a goddamn talking elephant could have been standing up on stage, anything would have received the same reception. Is this really it? As the “highly accurate” drone slays twenty-five innocent in their slumber, nail bombs purge crimson flesh from ivory, speedboats run amok churning up water-skiers like butter and countless infants perish from cholera – I stand, a pathetic tribute to a facile cause, mediocre to its finest definition. I will receive my 2:1 with honours sir! Tout le pouvoir à l’imagination!