Shuffling through the swarms of foodies seemed a lot more unpleasant from the visitor’s side of the fence. It was like trying to part the Red Sea, if the Red Sea was filled with fat people.
The Annual Cheese Fair used to be one of the highlights of my calendar, alongside the day in which I allow myself to indulge in acts of self flagellation (14th of September if you’re interested, the day before my birthday. Sometimes you’ve just got to treat yourself). However, this year’s Cheese Fair seemed sinister and nauseating. Not only did I have to slum it with no VIP pass and rub shoulders with the sweaty masses, but some of the stalls this year were just downright offensive. I spied from afar a couple of the Elites manning a stall for spray-on cheese. This kind of depravity would never have been allowed under my jurisdiction. I started to wonder if this entire set of circumstance had been a conspiracy to oust me so that the society could debase itself with these disgusting cheesy products. However, the poor taste selection wasn’t even the most repugnant part of my attendance today.
The worst aspect of this festival was the knowledge that I was soon to become a murderer. I wore the largest overcoat I had in my possession to conceal the serrated cheese knife underneath.
Bobbing above the human canopy, I tried to spot Herman amongst the crowds. He’d have to be here somewhere. I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away today. I telephoned his office and posed as a journalist wanting an interview, asking him to meet me at the Cheese Fair. I did my best impression of Keith Chegwin in an attempt to disguise my voice, and he seemed delighted at the chance to appear in the local paper. How could he stay away after that? This was the most cunning plan since the police tried to lure Julian Assange out of the Ecuadorian embassy by promising to tell him secrets.
It was at this point I felt a small tug at my sleeve. I looked behind me to see Johnny Bramble, the young Elite who pretty much ordered my expulsion from the society.
“What are you doing here?” He queried, peering up into my eyes as though studying them for an answer.
“Just taking in the country air” I lied, motioning to my surroundings with my hands. At this point he ushered me between two tents, away from public eyes.
“I know what you’re up to. You’re here to pursue some sort of personal vendetta! Well I’m going to – ERK! Did you just stab me?”
I didn’t even mean to do it. My hand reacted involuntarily in a stabbing motion. As his robes started to turn from cheese yellow to crimson, I pulled the knife out of my victim and stuffed it back into my pocket.
“You fucking stabbed me!”
Before I could chastise him on his language (children shouldn’t swear, it’s so uncouth), he collapsed down dead in a heap.
I couldn’t leave the body here. Although it was out of the way slightly, someone would stumble across it eventually. I lifted the tarpaulin next to me and stuffed his body underneath. Little did I know I’d just shoved him into a very public tent (where Alex James from Blur was doing a book signing). I immediately heard a mass of screaming and hysteria and decided I needed to move away from the scene of the crime.
Hurrying along, I felt somewhat numb. Murder wasn’t the great stimulant I expected it to be. In fact, I didn’t feel vindicated at all. In fact, I felt rather let down by the whole experience, as though stabbing a child wasn’t such a great thing to do. Perhaps all my hatred was reserved for Herman.
As I contemplated these matters of life and death, I rounded a corner and bumped straight into two policemen. The first one turned to his colleague.
“Is that him?”
“Seems like it. Take him in”
Was this it? Had my run as a mass murderer come to an end in a few mere seconds? I don’t think my feeble attempts would worry Raul Moat.
Luckily for me I wasn’t a suspect in the murder. The police just wanted to question me. Apparently they thought I wanted to assassinate the President of the United States due to something I typed into Google. Preposterous! Anyway, after the CIA visited and questioned me, and a little waterboarding, I was set free.
For the past few years I have lived in isolation, trying to come to terms with my actions. I feel ashamed that I never managed to kill Herman, but after my abject failure, I don’t really have the will power to try again. However, I heard the other day that he had contracted a deadly disease, so perhaps every cloud does have a silver lining. Now, as I once again construct my tower of old newspapers and looking for my old faithful lynching rope, I write this note and hope that this will clear up the mystery surrounding what happened to Little Johnny Bramble, and why Alex James never made another block of cheese again.