I’ve been reviewing restaurants today. It hasn’t been pretty. Throughout the day tiny insects have been falling from the sky and making me their home. I’m not sure why. They nestled in my hair, in my ears, below my eyes, in my shirt pockets. I was a bug magnet. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know until I started going into the restaurants I had to review. It wasn’t until then that these creatures decided they’d had enough of me and began to leap out.
Like I said, it wasn’t pretty. A man fizzing with mental health issues, a spectacularly chaotic rug (if you thought my hair was bad before, you should see it now) and an unconvincing story about being the section editor of a well-regarded restaurant guide was previously enough to make the managers of the places I was reviewing to regard me with suspicion. A man with all the above but with bugs flying out of him clearly made them terrified. “Ah well,” I thought to myself as the insects dropped from me onto the floor, “this is a new low point in my life. In a life peppered with seemingly unbeatable low points, this just about trumps everything. From now on, I’ll be known in restaurant reviewing circles as the man who reviews restaurants with bugs falling out of him”.
What’s next, I wonder? Larger animals crawling out of my trousers as I try to convince my in-laws that their daughter married the right man? Stuff crawling out of my ass at the bus stop? Getting sectioned under the Mental Health Act? Nothing, frankly, would surprise me anymore.
Whilst I drink away my problems and impress people in the pub with my bug show, here’s the reason I decided to do what I do. Arguably the greatest fictional journalist of all time.