Yes, that’s the shout that will be ringing up and down the hallways and dungeons of many French-speaking households on this April 1st as the annual day o’ pranking returns and newspaper-reading and TV-viewing reaches new highs as everyone looks out for the hilarious fake reports about President Bush’s accidental Segway-down-a-well death, the incredible new business launch of Kentucky Fried Yak, and the Papacy’s support for the glow-in-the-confessional, communion wafer-flavoured, Infanticide brand of condoms.
I used to know a girl called Avril. She was hot! She was so hot you had to remember to separate the letters in the word ‘hot’ in your inner monologue. H-o-t. That sort of hot. Fiery hot. Those people who see auras around other people, yeah? Well, they saw flames licking up from around Avril. She loved life and she loved everything that was alive. And many inanimate things too. A tigress in bed. A tigress whore in bed! A tigress whore with Klingon blood in bed! No, that’s spoilt the imagery. Now I’m picturing Worf in silk panties. Anyway, she was hot.
But after a while she became a little too h-o-t for me. I tried to douse her flames with my Fire Extinguisher Of Annoying Her Enough So She Would Leave Me Alone (+4 versus Riders of Rohan) but that didn’t work. Annoying her made her violently angry, probably on account of her fieriness, which I should have taken into account really. Playing it cool to dampen her sparks turned her on too. I was trapped in a firestorm of a relationship and there was only one way out: cyanide!
I needed to get away, to calm myself down, collect my thoughts, and, mostly, avoid the police, and so I consulted my special ‘Flee From Pursuers’ edition Magic 8-Ball and set off for the North Wales coast.
I moved from seaside guesthouse to seaside guesthouse, never staying too long in case the constabulary or Avril’s quick-to-anger relatives were on my trail. And then one day I met a soulmate in the form of David, an IT support specialist from Liverpool who had also fled from a turbulent relationship to the county of Denbighshire. Like me he had also recently murdered his partner (although his special ‘Relationship Homicide’ edition Magic 8-Ball had settled on "Death by Office Ring-Binder Machine") and we also shared the hobbies of stamp-throwing, hieroglyphic joke-writing, arthropod mind-reading, and bed-bathing the elderly. We had similar tastes in humour, movies, reading, and even shared a shoe size. I forget which one though.
The special bond between David and I went sour though one night while dining. I choked while eating my meal and in front of a packed Glyn’s Dining Emporium I coughed a large proportion of my vegetables onto the head of my comrade.
Peas On Dave In Rhyl!
I killed him too, of course. One never knows how an irate IT support specialist will react to food-based humiliation. I discarded his liver and didn’t bother with the fava beans but the chianti I ordered from China to celebrate the occasion was wonderful. Fruity, delightfully pungent aroma, with a full-bodied taste.
I was less impressed with how much the chianti cost, though. Exorbitant doesn’t even come close to describing the amount!
Oh bugger, it’s called Beijing now.