Yesterday I reached one thousand views on my blog, and the fame really went to my head. I rushed out of my house and hopped on the first London bound train. I went to Portobello Road; host to what I was told was the finest market for a hundred thousand miles. The crowd was thin and select. I was told later by a merchant that a series of ‘Z-list’ celebrities regularly roamed the surrounding streets, hoping a rogue freelance photographer might snap them near the exotic fruits and the alien shellfish. At one point I was sure I saw North West, Kanye West’s son, sporting a grubby loincloth fashioned out of what appeared to be a potato sack. I gave chase, but he swiftly scuttled down a storm drain. Unable to fit into the gloomy crevice, I retreated, but over my shoulder came a tiny screech – “I am a god!”.
I began browsing the stalls, and picked up some Matsutake mushrooms at a steal, only £845 per kilo. You won’t find that price elsewhere, and since I could always sell the spare on ebay, I bought three kilos. At a butcher’s stall I was surrounded by carcasses. I pointed blindly at the nearest corpse and mumbled a word incomprehensibly. The merchant seemed to understand and began hacking at various red meats. I left with a dozen Wagyu steaks, at £1200 a hit. Expensive, yes, but a man of my standing has to keep up appearances. I clutched the steaks to my chest, but it was a remarkably heavy load and one or two fell in the street, left to the mercy of the diseased pigeons and crows. Later, on my way home, I saw what I thought was a skinned watermelon lying in the gutter. As I approached the strange object however, it became clear that it was no watermelon, but a blood bloated starling that had gorged itself into a premature grave.
I ran low on funds quickly, and my interest in the lavish lifestyle died along with it. My shirt was stained with the stinking hot blood of a thousand steaks, and my pockets were filled with loose fungus. By the time I got home and emptied out my pockets, there were merely crumbs left. Puzzled, I went onto Heat magazine’s website. An anonymous freelance photographer had sold them pictures of North West stealing fungi from me whenever my back was turned. I looked terrible and tired, a hundred years old.
Cursing, I went onto my blog to write of my experience, where I noticed that I had miscounted the zeros on the hit counter; I had a pitiful one hundred views. I was close to £45000 in debt, but a small part of me enjoyed the experience. After all, it’s tough at the top, and I felt like – for admittedly a short time – I had run with the wolves. I would be remembered.