Fall

   “Here is the news” the star-sent signal speaks through my tinny speakers. On my face is a desk and a man in a suit, as the fanfares of prophecy sound. “Generals in Iraq claim that ‘steps are being taken’”…and so forth. I bring messages, and like Mercury or Marco Polo I relay the affairs of troubled and distant lands, followed by the less troubled homelands, and then something on obesity. Probably. You, my flock, my disciples, my congregation, hear these anguished words of tru-

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  Jean Claude Van Damme! O Great hero, save us from the wicked Frenchman that would seek to murder all our fathers. The story may be less true, but its meanings speak louder than any literal truth. And in the congregation, numbering but two for now, one spectator speaks:

   “There’s fuck all on telly.”

   “Yeah?” Another distant, male voice speaks. As I love all my followers equally, I prefer them in groups, for a man on his own in a hotel room like mine oft seek tales of debauchery and lewd women that I do so loathe to relay. He thinks himself unseen, but I, the almighty Toshiba Television, see all the effects of so-called “pay per view entertainment” and it is most lustful, sinful, and likely unhygienic.

   The second enters, his hair darker than the first, holding a bottle of wine in his hand, God forgive him. I often relay stories of the poison of alcohol, most recently “Binge Drinking Responsible for 20% of Emergency Ward patients”. Oh, fool, if I could choose my voice now I would fill it with the barbs and venom of hard facts from the BBC, and you would soon mend your ways. For a moment, I think my thoughts are heard as he puts down the bottle of wine, but it is merely to manipulate a pair of speakers and a cheap-ish hi-fi. I care not for so-called “high-fidelity” audio. It cannot teach fidelity the way I do, through the parables of Emmerdale Farm and Coronation Street.

   “When are the others getting here?”

   “Any minute now. Sue’s lot won’t get here for a while, they’re packing up the equipment back at the venue.”

   “Usual groupies then?”

   The fairer, with the sort of grave seriousness reserved usually for close-up shots of men staring into middle-distance, intones with irony: “We can only hope”.

    Swig, glug. “You know, Charlie, we work hard for this. We write these stupid songs, we record them for days at a time, agonising over their mixing, and then we go and tour the bloody things, and that’s besides all the publicity shite we have to put up with.” He pauses to concentrate on plugging in the hi-fi. “And I’m sick of the twelve-year-old fans with the smash hits posters and the indulgent, embarrassing mothers in the front row. I’m a fucking rock star, not a nursery teacher.”

   Such language! In my sermons, it usually appears as a beep rather than in its true, ugly form. Rock star is not a term I tend to relay without “rehab” or “decline” following it. And as the oft-heard-of Miss Winehouse might, he drains the bottle again until the cheap nectar is spent. This is no communion of mine. It transfigures into naught but a toxicity of the mind. And, for shame, Charlie stubs out his cigarette on his heel, and replies to his friend

   “Take it easy Jim.”

   Knock, knock.

   “Who is it?”

   Laughter, giggling. “It’s Matt! And, uh, what’s your na…Matt and friends!”

   “Alright! Jim, stick the hi-fi on lad, get some atmosphere going”

   And the hi-fi crackles to life before it shouts some idiocy. Wherever its messages come from, it is from far less holy a place than mine, and it feels a need to relay them with impious volume. Jean Claude Van Damme flickers across my face, unwatched, while the congregation dances and smokes and drinks and generally does sinful things about me. This continues for quite a while, as I relay a compelling narrative of the swift and brutal justice of a maverick cop with nothing to lose. It’s lost upon them, and I remain ignored until Jimmy opens another bottle of wine, picks up the remote and

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   Now Jimmy is on my face, with the other two main men at this party. The sound is off, but the Jimmy on my screen appears to be singing, and as the others dance in a manner that resembles indecent assault, the Jimmy in the room watches, transfixed. There is ham-fisted acting, terrible dancing, and awful green-screening. This is the sort of message I like to give: good, clean fun shall prevail without any sinful nonsense. Air hostess, I like the way you dress. Charming.

    Jimmy, on the other hand, appears to be swearing under his breath, God forgive him. And he stands, he shouts “I’m a fucking artist! An artist!” and he approaches me, ready to fall into my picture of a better world, perhaps, where men live underwater and our descendants are assured to be “pretty fine”, but against my expectation, he pulls me from my stand roughly and my plug trails from the wall behind me.

    All I can see is his chest as he moves me across the room. Panic seems to be erupting around me. “An artist!” he shouts again and I feel myself pulled from the other side. My plug dangles freely. “Jim, what the…calm down…oh my god…leave it out…” say various, futile voices about me.

    They all get further away once the glass in the window is broken and I fall for what seems a long time. I know with all certainty that I will break when I hit the ground, and the fragments of that better world and innocent image will spill into the world. Emerging from the electronics in my back, Noel Edmonds will crawl out to ask people to add pressure to meaningless games of chance, and Jeremy Kyle will emerge to lurk in nearby alleyways and shout “contraception!” at passing pregnant women with sad expressions.

   I shall be the first martyr when the new utopia is formed from the half-remembered, half-heard messages I gave. The underlying morality will pass through to the sinful world through my shattered glass and broken plastic framing. Save us, Jean Claude! Save us all!