God's Gift

By John Flannery

The charismatic Mancunian television presenter Tommy Armstrong, The King of Saturday Night, is a bad man who wants to get much, much badder by exploring occultism and embracing evil. Suffering from an extreme form of satiated boredom in his plush Chelsea home, he befriends two Satanists who guide and instruct him in his quest for contemporary endarkenment.

Tommy’s expedition to endarkenment includes his born-again Christian former wife; a tabloid kiss-and-tell story; a rape; his withdrawal from public life; a deranged stalker; a Black Mass; a memoir ghostwriter who falls in love with him; an attack by a telepathic schizophrenic knifeman; an act of equine bestiality; an attempt to break the legs of an opponent in a charity football match; two orgies; a disastrous flirtation with the stage and the subsequent cursing of his critics; a Bacchanalian trip to Las Vegas with his satanic mentors; a vicious attack on a paparazzo; a necrophilic episode; being cursed by his occult mentor; and two suicides.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Flannery
• Release date: Dec 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311887276

John Flannery

John Flannery was born in 1963. He was brought up in Manchester but he now lives in Fleetwood. John studied Housing Studies at the University of Westminster and graduated in 1992. He decided to become a writer of fiction in 1986 but he did not start writing in earnest until 1995. In 2010 he self-published a collection of short stories entitled Toby's Little Eden and Other Stories that was greeted by a huge tidal wave of public indifference that still overwhelms him to this day. In 2012 he self-published a small collection of short stories called Our Little Secret and Other Stories. He has also published a collection of stries entitled Our Little Secret and Other Stories, a debut novel called God's Gift, and a novella called The Place. In September 2013 John published a novella called Billy Atherton. In November 2013 John published another novella entitled Joshua's Withdrawal. They are all published on Amazon Kindle.

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John Flannery

God’s Gift

For John Edward Flannery senior

Copyright © 2012 John Flannery

John Flannery has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

The poem, Do not go gentle into that good night that is extracted from Dylan Thomas: Collected Poems1934-1953 is reproduced with the permission of J.M. Dent, the paperback edition published in 2000 by Phoenix, an imprint of Orion Books Ltd, an Hachette Livre UK Company.

Is this the sense of belief in the Devil: that not everything that comes to us as an inspiration comes from what is good?

Ludwig Wittgenstein.

Chapter 1

Tommy Armstrong is relaxing in the splendid living room of his large and luxurious Chelsea home. He is watching his huge plasma screen TV which is a tool of his television presenter trade. Thanks to Nature and nurture he has designed himself into a world of disproportionate rewards, barely controlled ego and, thanks to twenty-five years in the entertainment business, extreme boredom. He is God’s gift to television. He always gives of his best. The Great British Public doesn’t deserve the Great Tommy Armstrong. His favourite programme, Songs of Praise, is on so he turns up the volume. He is heartily laughing at the faithful devoutly singing their favourite hymns. Tommy treats it as both high comedy and a nauseating televisual spectacle. Cackling away to himself he speaks aloud at the TV screen:

Sing your God-fearing little hearts out!

A girl of about thirteen or fourteen appears in close-up on the screen, her chubby cheeks and big blue eyes glowing with enthusiasm and reverence for the wonderful song, Jerusalem, that she’s singing. Tommy expectorates some phlegm and spits at the screen. It lands on the girl’s angelic little face and trickles down like a tear-drop.

Fancy a big black cock up your arse, baby? Get cancer you little fucking bitch! A large, beaming black woman appears on the screen. She sings, And did the Countenance Divine, / Shine forth upon our clouded hills? / And was Jerusalem builded here, / Among these dark Satanic Mills? Tommy starts to cackle uproariously at his own obscene thoughts. The enraptured expression on the woman’s face and the faces of the congregation only increases Tommy’s disgust and hatred:

"Fancy a big white dick up your arse, bitch? Give me all you’ve got, nigger bitch. I’m coming for you, nigger bitch. Hallelujah!" Tommy unzips his jeans and pulls out his impressive penis.

"Sing for this you fuckers! Hallelujah! Suck the devil’s big dirty cock. He’ll shove it straight down your fucking God-fearing throats. God Squad cunts! Shove it in there. Shove it in there! He begins to sing along tunelessly with the song thanks to the lyrics appearing at the bottom of the screen, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand: / Till we have built Jerusalem, / In England's green & pleasant Land." Tommy cackles away and he begins to playfully masturbate. A close-up shot of two blissfully warbling middle-aged ladies appears on the screen. Tommy spits at them, the phlegm arcing gracefully onto the screen. His face contorts with revulsion. He spits again.

"Eat that you cunty fuckers. Get wise. There is no God! You won’t be smiling when you’ve got this huge fucking cock rammed up your shitters, you dirty old bitches. Praise this! Give me some tongue, bitch! Lick Jesus Christ’s shitty arsehole. Love ‘im good. Give ‘im unconditional love, bitches. Praise this! Hallelujah! Get cancer! Suck the Devil’s cock. Hallelujah! " He puts his penis away and slumps back onto the huge, black, squashy leather sofa exhausted by his hatred of everything that Songs of Praise represents. He makes no effort to clean the spittle off the TV screen as his faithful cleaning lady will do it for him tomorrow. Tommy calls to mind the Frank Zappa quote that is the antidote to the proclamation that the meek shall inherit the earth: ‘The meek shall inherit nothing.’ Tommy has no time for people who cite the words contained in Luke 14:11, ‘For whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’

Cunts! said Tommy as a parting shot at the TV congregation. His attention strays to the big stack of newsprint beside him on the sofa.

Tommy is surrounded by the Sunday papers. He buys nearly all of them; tabloids and broadsheets. He snuggles amongst the acre of newsprint like a big, malignant, hibernating hamster. Tommy loves absorbing, rejecting and analysing all the text and, after sleeping in during the Sunday morning, he devotes his afternoon to the papers. They are a business expense to this telly presenter, game show host, and chat show host. His appearance in the papers still delights him even after twenty-five years in show business and the media. In a rough and ready way he thrives on ideas of all sorts; the more indiscriminate the better: kiss-and-tells, articles about the menopause, car adverts, mutant pedigree dogs, eggs. Anything and everything fuels his magpie intellect. He’s got a very sharp mind; it’s a tool of his trade but he is insecure around people with formal, well-trained intellects. His degree in Drama didn’t furnish him with the tools to hold his own with Arts, Humanities, and Social Sciences graduates but he is good at synthesising ideas rather than being an original thinker. He’s an autodidact who reads bits and pieces about the creation of the universe just in case some bastard tries to embarrass him on air. Tommy is both a champion and a victim of popular culture. He still boyishly loves to hear his voice-over work in the numerous TV and radio commercials he features in. He was never in danger of selling-out because he’s always seemed to be present in Britain’s media culture. He’s deeply embedded into it. Surprisingly, not many people hate Tommy Armstrong. That will change.

Tommy likes to scan the Sunday paper’s profiles of people making some news that week because it sometimes gives him suggestions for guests to appear on his chat show and it also helps to keep him in touch with the current movers and shakers and the general Zeitgeist. Despite his cultural ubiquity he surfs trends as opposed to setting them. Having said this he is an early adopter who embraces almost anything new but his ideas and enthusiasms are almost exclusively derivative. The big profile about the anti-sleaze activist and campaigner, John Weekes catches his speedily reading eyes. Tommy, who was vaguely aware of Weekes dismissed him as a boring religious wacko and vetoed his possible appearance on his show when it was suggested by his new producer, Angela. She wants to give the show some edge and energy. Tommy’s eyes stop dead and bulge when he spots the name of his ex-wife, Susan Moore. It now seems that she is the companion of John Weekes. Fighting the incongruity, Tommy laughs out loud at the thought of the woman he calls The Dirty Bitch having any relationship whatsoever with the God Squad’s esteemed leader. This bloke deserves some close study and analysis so Tommy goes to the beginning of the text that is topped with the headline: The Accountant Crusader. Having also perused the unflattering caricature of Weekes as a rather reassuringly cherubic crusader grasping his sword and a shield emblazoned with the iconic Red Cross, Tommy begins to carefully read the profile:

‘When John Weekes met with the Prime Minister at Downing Street last week he must have been sure in the knowledge that he had the support and goodwill of many people around Britain. He now has the ear of the Premier. Not bad going for a man who just six months ago was a very anonymous accountant from North London. This crusader’s castle is a large mock Tudor detached home in West Hampstead. The man who the tabloids have dubbed Mr Anti-Sleaze is now one of the most trusted people in the country. This devout Roman Catholic attempts to monitor, expose and wipe out corruption and wickedness in all walks of public life without appearing naïve nor sanctimonious. Dodgy politicians, show business folks, and professional footballers have all been targeted by him.

‘Weekes is a natural communicator with a quiet, down-to-earth charm. Insiders talk of his dry sense of humour and well-grounded sense of proportion. His only vice appears to be his deep and shameless love of a good curry. He leads his campaigning group God Squad with a quiet authority and deft touch. His enemies, and there are now quite a few, are waiting with slavering mouths for him to make a big mistake. Some people emerged from the woodwork and accused him of being an empire builder and egoist when he announced that his lobby group, the God Squad was to become a charitable foundation until the public, consisting of all faiths, began making substantial donations. Some of them were so large that rumours were spreading of a wealthy sugar-daddy lurking in the shadows but Weekes calmly pointed out those substantial, anonymous donations had been received and declared. Somewhat self-deprecatingly he now admits to having much more money than sense. God Squad is apolitical but one friend says that Weekes is probably a left-wing Tory who always keeps in mind the sick, the lame, and the halt.

‘The God Squad Foundation’s priority is to fund new research into the effects of television programmes and commercials on the minds of children. Weekes believes that some kinds of television are poisoning young minds with Insane rubbish, but he is also worried about damaging effects on vulnerable adults. He points out that he had an epiphany during a reality TV show. He flew into a rage and declared to his children that This is sick. This is driving people insane. This has to be stopped.

‘But Weekes soon diversified from purely televisual tripe into a critique of how modern culture corrupts everybody in some way or another. The public are being corrupted either with subtlety or sheer brute force. We are all in big trouble. One of his key supportive texts is, When the Devil Dares Your Kids by Bob and Gretchen Passantino which gives advice on how to protect children from occult influences. But Weekes broadens his concern to vulnerable adults who dabble with the occult. Indeed he suspects privately that occultism is at work in some parts of the entertainment industry and that some media folk, from in front of the camera and behind it, are flirting with the dark side of life. He fears that they are being tempted by the allure of casual fornication, hard drugs, and Satanism.

‘Weekes has an evangelical zeal, To give people their minds back, and Push back the tide of filth and evil that swirls around us all. His critics say that he is the victim of an undermining contradiction whereby his chosen medium for effecting change is also his chief corruptor. The medium is the message. He is not shooting the messenger he is sleeping with it in the way that he courts certain tabloid newspapers and magazines. His campaign is so confused that it is difficult to develop a sound view of either it or him. He is a conundrum that can’t be solved because of his inherent contradictions. He’s a participant-cum-critic who will eventually implode. One critic, significantly off the record, described Weekes as, A self-appointed and very ignorable Bible basher.

‘Rumours that Weekes was being courted by television executives with a view to developing his own show for digital broadcast were quietly discounted but he is still dogged by his confusing insider-or-outsider status. The media establishment were perhaps trying to create a situation where Weekes was inside the tent and urinating out, and not vice versa. Friends say that he is far too canny to go native having been prepared to turn down the blandishments of the television elite. Insiders claim that his one-on-one charm will not translate into an on-screen charisma. Thus he is stuck with predictable religious sound bites when yet another wrongdoer raises his or her ugly head.

‘An intriguing side-issue to the fame of Weekes is the role of his new close companion, Susan Moore. She is the ex-wife of TV presenter and media jack-of-all-trades, Tommy Armstrong. They quietly ended their childless marriage a year ago. Moore is now a born again Christian who met Weekes at a religious gathering three months ago. Widower Weekes, his wife Christine died of lung cancer three years ago, and the still glamorous Moore are now said to be discreetly inseparable. The leggy former dancer, Moore is still a decorous figure who some people assume will grow into a celibate celebrity in her own right. She is shaping up to be the strong woman behind her man.

‘One of the most important issues to Weekes and the God Squad is the apparent idolatry prevalent in some parts of our culture. He cites the words of GK Chesterton who claimed that When people stop believing in God, they don’t believe in nothing—they believe in anything. Weekes claims that idolatry is eroding and perverting our common sense. Millions of people, more than ever before, now idolize professional footballers; pop singers; and other short-lived celebrities. Some people venerate commercial brands! They will worship anything but God! There are too many golden calves in our culture. All of this sickens me. Many people agree with Weekes and he receives many supportive letters and emails every day.

‘The God Squad website is also busy and it proudly cites the key biblical anti-idolatry quote from Exodus 20:4-6, "Thou shall not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: Thou shall not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I The Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and the fourth generation of them that hate Me; and shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love Me, and keep my commandments."

‘What does the formal religious area make of John Weekes? He is close to Father Declan Murphy, his local priest and he is a welcome and frequent visitor to the presbytery. When the amiable Priest was asked if he was worried about a lay person stealing the ecclesiastical thunder he said simply, It saves me a job! John Weekes is better at it than me. Weekes insists that there is no heavy-hitting religious figure lurking around and providing theological guidance. He appears to be content operating outside any ecclesiastic-cum-political dimension. He is happy to be a self-sufficient Bible-thumper but critics say that he has been a lucky soldier in a minefield. Even his atheistic enemies must be praying for a big mistake by the bright and breezy Weekes. He made his reputation during the so called Dark October when the public was bombarded with stories concerning bent coppers, priapic gang-banging Premier League footballers, dodgy politicians on the make, exhibitionist celebrities, City fraudsters, Soap opera perverts, slowly self-destructing pop stars, and suicidal reality show rejects. At the time, Weekes made his strongest statement yet when he condemned the large gang of wrongdoers: This unbridled hedonism is plain wrong. Decadence is defiling our whole culture. I fear for our children. Eager not to appear as just a religious but secular talking head or Renta-quote who gets wheeled out when the decadence boils over, Weekes used his website and by now large email address book to comment on the apparent tidal wave of corruption and then guide the people who actually want to hear him towards the Bible.

‘Born in Croydon in 1958 to working-class parents, Weekes was an average but very amiable youth. He captained the regional Catholic Schools football team but his budding career was ended by a bad knee injury. Friends say that he was ultimately gifted enough for semi-pro level but he lacked the ruthlessness and selfishness needed to be a pro. He was far too nice. Weekes passed quietly through fifth form college and went on to study maths at the University of York graduating with a 2:2. He says that he had always wanted to be an accountant and qualified with flying colours in 1981. Having worked at an accountancy firm for five years he left in order to start his own general accountancy firm in partnership with a close friend in North West London. Weekes met and married his wife, Christine in 1980. They had six children, four girls and two boys.

The Weekes family thrived through the nineteen-eighties and nineties but the loss of their mother, Christine to lung cancer in 2004 knocked all of them for six. Weekes rarely gives interviews during which he talks about private matters but he did say once that after the initial deep grief and self-questioning he at times felt closer to Christine in death than I did in life. Some people lose their faith in God after a devastating tragedy but Weekes claims that his faith has got stronger and deeper: Christine is keeping an eye on me. I have to behave myself! It is tempting to wonder what Christine would make of the devout but vivacious Susan Moore who accompanies Weekes at all times. Her alluring mixture of restrained showbiz glitz and religiosity gives Weekes no small amount of kudos—especially from jealous male observers.

‘What does the future hold for John Weekes? His lobbying, his hobby as he puts it, will continue but for how long? This raises the question of what he is trying to achieve. What is he crusading for? His personal quest is only known to himself for but the God Squad lobby group requires an overt mission statement. Is it to convert us all to Christianity? Is it merely to name and shame sinners? Are God Squad members merely self-appointed ecclesiastical trouble makers who will fade away once the prevalence of sleaze in public life has reduced? What are their ultimate aims beyond encouraging Godliness? Will they implode under the weight of their own contradiction in the sense that they must become insiders in order to affect the wrongdoers? Weekes isn’t publicly bothered about using the mass media to effect change. But is he naïve in ignoring the famous Marshall McLuan concept that, The medium is the message. Or has Weekes had, to use another famous phrase this time by Andy Warhol, his fifteen minutes of fame?’

What a cunt! What a gigantic fucking cunt—I’ve got to get him on the show…I’ll humiliate him—I’ll humiliate him to death. We can do a special on good and evil! Get a priest and a Satanist on it for good measure. Give the show a bit of edginess. Now what cunt wrote this profile? So I’m just a media jack-of-all-trades am I? Fuck off journo bitch! My old Dirty Bitch has done well for herself…a born again Christian, eh? Jesus! She’ll eat him alive if he’s crazy enough to marry her. Weekes will be praying a lot more once she gets her teeth into him, the born again bitch! She’ll drain his balls and take all his money.

Tommy laughs out loud and turns up the volume on Songs of Praise. The passionately singing Christians kill him stone dead.

Jesus. Jesus! Where is that man Jesus? Come out, come out, your time is up.

Tommy theatrically lifts up his hand and cups his ear. He calls for Jesus like he’s calling a lazy old dog:

Jesus…oh, Jesus! Come out Jesus. All is forgiven. I’m not hearing anything! Are you there Jesus? I’m definitely not hearing you. Hallelujah!

Tommy revels in his atheism; his total lack of God.

Most of them are hypocrites protecting their own little worlds like me.

Tommy begins to sing along with the hymn but he devises his own blasphemous lyrics:

Where is Jesus? Where is Jesus? He’s great like me and lovely. Oh yes he is. Oh yes he iiiiiiis. Lift me up on high Jesus, oh liiiiiiiift me up! Where are you Jesus? I’m not fucking feeling you at all. You’re not there are you sweet Jesus? There is no Gorrrrrrrd! You don’t fucking exist! And if you do you’re a cunt. Hallelujah! You Dirty Bitch. Hallelujah, you Dirty Bitch. Praise Him! Praise Him!

Is she sincere? She’s a good actress. Is she taking the piss? Does she still take it up the arse? They’ve got rules about that, I’m sure. I’ll get him on the show and he’ll bring her along. What a fucking ménage a trois that would be. She could have warned me…she can’t just forget her past. I won’t let her. It’s my past too. I shaped her and she shaped me. We were a good team for a while. I almost miss her now and again. We were mutually toxic at the end…fatally flawed.

Songs of Praise ends with a gush of the uplifting theme tune. Tommy cuts out the John Weekes profile and writes the date on it. A Sunday silence hangs over the room. Tommy goes over to the window and takes in the view from his very expensive and well protected Chelsea enclave. It’s just another day…another day of invulnerable atheism. Tommy Armstrong doesn’t scare easily. The street lights come on and he watches a neighbour, a mobile phone tycoon, park his new Bentley. Tommy happily and quietly covets his neighbour’s trophy wife. She looks good in the dusk. Her bubbly blondeness lights up the area around her. She is wearing Ugg boots. Tommy thinks of anal sex and his ex-wife; in his mind they are inseparable. Is Weekes getting some of that? Perhaps the meek shall inherit the world. But Tommy quickly comes to his senses. He recalls a Frank Zappa quotation: The meek shall inherit nothing. Tommy grins and switches on the living room lights. He phones a casual girlfriend and asks her to come over to his house. He tries to sound intimate and seductive but the nineteen year old Carol, who is a researcher for his chat show, doesn’t respond in kind given that moments ago she had another man’s penis in her mouth. She ponders oral sex with Tommy for a second but makes an excuse and ends the phone call. Behind his back, Carol calls Tommy the old fart, even though he is only forty-eight. He is furious with her for giving him the brush off:

Fuck bitch! Whore! I’ll sack her next week. This is no idle threat. Tommy has got a reputation for on-the-spot sackings of his underlings. It is rumoured that he hires certain people that he would especially enjoy firing. Posh young women trying to get a foot in the media door are his favourites. He calms down a bit and grabs his laptop. He cradles the laptop in the trough of his crossed legs and he resembles a distracted but malevolent techno-yogi. Tommy loves Googling himself when he’s in low spirits and his eyes scan quickly past the now purple coloured entries he has already perused. This small act of self-creation and self-construction cheers up Tommy into an almost child-like hypnotic state of digital autism. The medium is the message. He’s doing his bit for cyberspace and his digital place within it. He presses the Images button and takes in the handful of photos featuring him and former wife, Susan, attending meaningless awards ceremonies. Tommy feels nothing but an immediate craving for her gaping orifices. He considers an emergency wank but thinks better of it. The great Tommy Armstrong doesn’t wank—even when he’s under extreme hormonal pressure. Tommy doesn’t want to spill his seed like Onan does in the Bible. God killed Onan for his transgression.

Tommy distracts himself by scanning an old online interview with a broadsheet newspaper during which he performed well, appearing witty and wise beyond his years but, ultimately, a bit disposable and ignorable. But Tommy doesn’t care. He’s found his lucrative niche in Britain’s popular culture and he will tirelessly defend it. Quickly bored with himself, he ponders other search subjects…he has a mini-dilemma: search the God Squad website or Satanism in Wikipedia? God or Satan? God can wait…if He exists. Satanism wins. Satan comes first. He’s more interesting than God, in the short term. Tommy is not in the mood for God and his tragic mysteries like cancer and other natural disasters. He Googles Satanism and clicks through to Wikipedia on the drop-down menu from the search box. He is disappointed at the dryness of the initial text…where are all the orgies and shit eaters? There’s more to Satanism than you think. It’s fucking complicated. He opens a new window, surfs over to Amazon.co.uk and searches for Satanism.

846 results, Jesus Christ! Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Tommy is bored with evil already but his interest is regained by the entries dealing with the sexual aspects of Satanism in some form or another. I don’t want theory! I want something practical; something hands-on: something unambiguously destructive. Why are all these books so short? Is it some sort of devilish scam to rip off the gullible? I’m no sucker, fuck face. I can rely on my own inherent evil; my original sin—whatever that means. Fuck her one last time and sack her. Relish the look on her fuck bitch face when I tell her. I’m inspired! I’m a natural. Who needs books on evil when you’ve got the seed of inherent evil lurking in your heart, body, and soul? WHORE! How can I break it to her in the most pleasurable way possible? Up the arse? No. Something more subtle….

Back at the Amazon.co.uk website, Tommy searches and browses for stuff like: the occult; good and evil; and Satanism. Tommy orders: What I Did In My Holidays: Essays on Black Magic, Satanism, devil worship and other niceties by Ramsey Dukes; When the Devil Dares your Kids by Bob and Gretchen Passantino; Sexual Satanism: Or How To Seduce A Woman By Magic by Anthony Overman; The Occult by Colin Wilson; The Science of Good and Evil by Michael Shermer; The Black Arts by Richard Cavendish. Tommy won’t be able to properly read all this material before his Good and Evil show in a few weeks’ time but he’s good at skimming and filleting texts thus pulling out relevant ideas and juicy quotes.

One of the few genuinely pleasurable tasks in Tommy’s life is bollocking, and subsequently flirting with, the researchers who work for his chat show’s production company but he doesn’t trust them to always achieve the excellence he demands. He likes to brainstorm and ‘free associate’ possible topics, ideas, themes, questions, and tricky issues off his own bat. He grabs a yellow legal pad and writes: ‘GOOD AND EVIL’ in the middle of the page. He instantly branches off a line from ‘EVIL’ to a subheading reading, ‘My fucking mother!’ then another line to, ‘FUCK my mother!’ Tommy’s mind quickly fills with overwhelming levels of mostly negative memory stuff relating to his estranged mother. He branches down to ‘Nazism’ and ‘Hitler’ then upwards to ‘No kisses for Tommy’ and ‘Obsession’ and ‘Freedom’ before pausing for a flashback of his formidable mother’s blank, unloving scowl. He then looks towards the ‘GOOD’ side of the duality. He branches up to ‘Very Boring’ and ‘Caring’ and ‘Sue Moore’ and ‘Love???’ before branching across to ‘God—does He exist? No!’ and ‘Jesus—did he exist? No!’ followed by ‘The blood of Christ’ as a final flourish before turning back to ‘EVIL’ side of the equation. He branches from ‘Hitler’ to ‘The power of evil’ and to ‘Destiny’ but then he pauses and writes ‘I’m not alone. You’re not alone’ followed by ‘You need some help’ at which point, Tommy feels a strong sensation of great freedom, inspiration, and exhilaration. This is it!

Tommy relaxes and opens his mind. He senses that his pen is being guided by an outside force. Eager for the next message from the ether, Tommy writes: ‘She loves you—she still loves you.’ He immediately thinks of his former wife, Sue Moore but he quickly resumes his ‘automatic writing’ experiment. He writes: ‘Embrace evil’ and ‘Explore the occult’ and ‘Does it work?’ and ‘Will it work for me?’ before pausing to assess what he has produced. The word ‘Destiny’ jumps out at Tommy; it greatly liberates and galvanizes him. Destiny…all that living he did in the last few years was futile; a lucrative distraction from the true fate that imminently awaits him. Tommy feels like he’s taking the very first drag on his very first cigarette—he will take another…and another…and another.

Tommy is very keen to open doors; the doors in his mind preventing his ultimate endarkenment. The old Tommy used to aggressively knock on doors and demand to be let in. Sometimes he even had to smash through doors in order to get his way. The new Tommy believes that all the doors will swing open as if by magic as he approaches them. This is now his natural entitlement. He has a recurring dream of a building with thousands of doors to get through. He never gets through them all. But this is no dream. This is Tommy’s New Reality and he is confident that he will negotiate it with great skill. He’s got the kind of self-awareness that people who have been forced to look within themselves for entertainment and basic survival such as people in prison or those who have experienced long term unemployment. Tommy experienced the latter lifestyle and learned to like his core self a great deal.

If Tommy was forced at gunpoint to describe himself in one word he would call himself ‘a grafter’ and grudgingly ignore all his other outstanding complexities. He has worked very hard for everything he has ever achieved in his life. He has never had a fair wind of destiny behind him. Now he’s got some help. Now he’s got a guide. Tommy smiles at this realisation and looks forward to not needing to slog his guts out for every penny earned or new insight gained. All the grafting of the past is sluiced aside; he is clearing the decks for an intriguing present and a glorious future. He is no stranger to the arrogance that goes along with worldly success but now he senses a new kind of haughtiness, the one that flows from occultist achievement. All he has to do is ride the wave. The great Tommy Armstrong…the Chosen One!

Now, at the very beginning of his endarkenment, Tommy peruses his ‘good and evil’ brainstorming efforts. It features phrases such as: ‘Category 5 paedophiles’; ‘love and hate’; ‘who decides what’s right and wrong?’; ‘fallen angels’; ‘magic in the name of love’; ‘the role of genetics and DNA’; ‘don’t seek help, it will find YOU.’ He puts the page to one side and, as a reward to himself, begins to casually flick through the colour magazines of all the Sunday papers until he reaches a profile of an up and coming actress he’s got his eye on. She’s much too posh for him but he allows his testosterone to take him down a little path of fantasy. He wants to see her fine, aristocratic features contorting grotesquely as he forces his penis down her throat. He wants to violently fuck that confident smile off her beautiful face. As a grand finale he wants to fist-fuck her to death by pulling her bowels out through her poncy arse. Having had his way with her, Tommy reads an article about Her Majesty the Queen, who he reveres greatly. She can do no wrong in his eyes and he loves her even more than Robert De Niro.

Tommy’s New Reality is very simple: Embrace evil. This devilish epiphany sweeps aside all the boring silliness of Tommy’s old life. The millions of people who he entertains—the ones he contemptuously calls the halfwits, wankers, mugs, and morons—have lost their power over him. They are rendered impotent by his new preoccupation. Tommy sighs with relief because the Great British Public used to be his whole world. He is going to relish his new status as a ‘taker’ not a ‘giver’ in his new life. But he is also wary of the implication that a ‘taker’ has an intrinsically passive role in the great scheme of thing. The last thing anybody could accuse him of is taking it up the arse but he must readjust his active expectations and dynamic urges. Tommy always has to be at least one step ahead of everybody else in his dealings with the rest of the world. Like many successful people he can be insanely competitive about everything he does. He’s not one to bend over and take it. Nobody takes Tommy Armstrong but if he wants to explore the occult and embrace evil he must learn passivity. Extreme passivity such as passive sodomy plays a role in some occult rituals. Tommy is reluctant to enlist a mentor because he hates being outwitted by anybody so only an extremely persuasive mentor will persuade him to take it up the arse. A mentor is essential in order to guide Tommy to his preordained endarkenment. Patience is also vital for the success of Tommy’s mission but he hates any form of physical and mental inactivity. His hatred of indolence is a mixture of sexual energy and a strong urge to escape from himself. He is as self-aware as he can manage but he doesn’t like examining himself; reflection on his self usually leads to a sturdy self-hatred.

Satiety is the main element of Tommy’s intense boredom; he’s had everything he wants and needs for many years. But the thing that causes his ennui is the world-weariness. For a few months now, Tommy has also felt a physical weariness. In his mind such fatigue is closely associated with death, especially the death of his gran, Edith when he was a bouncy, juicy youth. Tommy is still haunted by Ann’s exhausted, semi-conscious moans before her death. Tommy hates the presence of anything deathly. Edith had an ugly death which involved double-incontinence and many huge, long and demented silences. The situation that fucked up the young Tommy was his being the first person to discover Ann’s corpse. He froze and left her body to be found by someone else. He simply didn’t know how to break the tragic news to an adult; a very heavy burden for a cheerful kid. Thus boredom and silence are anathema to Tommy. He hates a silent audience. Applause fills the void. Laughter is his antidote to a deathly silence. Silence is indicative of: death; shit; and punishment for an unknown and unresolved crime against his mother. No wonder he loves the sound of his own voice….

The role played by genetics in positioning him in his current lifestyle intrigues Tommy. In material terms he has proved that he’s got good genes for his vocation. All he has to do is look around his sumptuous home and think: ‘I deserve all of this.’ He’s like a smug boozer who pats his huge beer belly and says: ‘It’s all bought and paid for!’ but something deep within Tommy needs to be set free. He senses that something from the past needs to be indulged. Secret, ancient patterns are formulating in his subconscious mind but Tommy has recently been aware of a presence, or presences, lurking in his conscious mind and even his body. A Romantic might suggest that they are the spirits of his ancestors come to guide him through a new and important phase of Tommy’s life but he is a strong and cynical atheist who doesn’t believe in God or an Afterlife. Tommy seeks a more rational explanation. Therefore he suspects that his new sensations are caused by a genetic legacy even though he knows nothing much about his ancestors beyond his late gran.

Recently, Tommy has looked in the bathroom mirror and seen the past staring back at him. Tommy is proud of his descendants no matter what they got up to in order to survive. He’s happy with the gifts they bequeathed to him. He is honoured to carry their genes. As with Robert De Niro and Her Majesty the Queen, they have got Tommy’s utmost respect. They must have got something right otherwise Tommy wouldn’t be where he is now. Their gifts are now his gifts. They survived. They now seem to be helping him to release his latent gifts. They will help to open the doors in his mind. They are his praetorian guard. They will treat him like a king. They are not spooky or scary. They are just there; there to help him when he’s in trouble. They are his partners in crime. Even though Tommy greatly appreciates their help, he will not be passing his genes onto the next generation because he has no intention of having any children. The genetic buck stops with him.

Tommy is now winding down after his working Sunday. He is now sure that the occult, and his genetic workmates, will open the doors of endarkenment for him. The hungry Tommy vigorously rubs his face in an effort to rouse himself out of his Sunday evening torpor. He looks at his brainstorming page and focuses intently on the word ‘destiny’ and then the phrase ‘I’m not alone.’ These few random words seem to emotionally move him. His previous elation, during the epiphany in which he accepted his destiny as the Chosen One, has been replaced by grogginess. Despite the fatigue he is overwhelmed by the certainty that he is in the right place at the right time and that many people, friends and enemies, will agree with him and submit to his fate. Tears slowly well up in his tired eyes and he begins to quietly sob with relief.

Arnold Arnie Goldwater is Tommy Armstrong’s manager-cum-agent. He’s a coarse, balding, middle-aged man but he’s also very able; he has a brilliant business mind. He’s made Tommy Armstrong, and other even lesser talents, very wealthy. Arnold spends a significant amount of his time screwing the foolish people who underestimate him. His snuffly, gruff and nasally Mancunian accent has deceived many a southerner. He has a solid, pragmatic, and much understated integrity. Some of his clients are more talented and lucrative than Tommy but he’s Arnold’s favourite client because they both come from Manchester. He’s a father-figure to Tommy and lets him get away with murder with a fond smile. Goldwater’s suite of offices is just off Oxford Street in the West End of London, just north of the Soho media district. Tommy likes visiting Arnold’s offices because it gives him the opportunity to lord it and flirt harmlessly with Arnold’s staff, his girls. Tommy is showing off his new, bespoke, black leather jacket which cost him well over a grand. Arnold hears the commotion caused by Tommy and his magical jacket and pops his head around his office door:

Stop distracting my fucking staff, Armstrong. Who do you think you are? James fuckin’ Bond? Get in ‘ere. Tommy does his rubbishy Sean Connery as James Bond impression:

Two coffeesh pleash, Mish Moneypenny, said Tommy to Arnold’s secretary, Roz. In Arnold’s office, Tommy theatrically removes his marvellous jacket and carefully places it on the back of his chair:

This will be paid for in half an hour. I’ve got a voice over session down the road at half past eleven, said Tommy.

I know. I got it for you. These little jobs don’t appear by fucking magic! said Arnold.

Yeah, but where would you get a client that’s as flexible and willing as me? I’d do a fucking football club mascot job if I had the time and energy.

I thank the Lord for you every day, young Thomas, said Arnold.

Any big, juicy adverts on the horizon?

I’m working on a big one for a foreign car insurance company.

Insurance again? Why do the fucking punters trust me so much?

God only knows why they fall for a dodgy bastard like you—don’t analyse the magic, Tommy or it will all fall apart. Now down to other business. The poncy bastards are lukewarm about the value of your memoirs.

"I don’t do lukewarm. They can shove it up their arse. I don’t need a huge advance. I’m offering them the winning numbers of the lottery!"

They seem to be insinuating that you haven’t had much of a life outside the showbiz world.

But I was rags to riches! The best story there is. I’ve mistreated a few tarts now and again but they were willing victims.

Some people would say that you just got lucky—right time, right place. Not much substance.

What? After all that fucking graft I put into my career?

I know, I know. But there’s a glut of celebrity memoirs. Arnold’s secretary brings in two mugs of coffee and hands them over:

Thanks, love, said Tommy and Arnold almost in unison.

No wonder there’s a glut of celeb’ memoirs. They’re all fucking ghost written. The ghost writers are nearly as famous as their subjects! Arnie, I’m not happy.

I know, I know. I’ll sort it.

No not with you…with everything. I’m very unhappy with my life. There’s a fucking big hole in my life. I’ve been through all this shit before. I’ve seen it all too many times. I’m so jaded with everything it’s ridiculous. The fucking publishers might be right about me and my life…I wake up in the morning and there’s nothing there. Not even a horny slag to nail. There’s just a big hole. I’m sick and tired of being consumed. For most of my adult life I’ve been more or less in the right place at the right time but for the last few weeks I haven’t been content with my lot. I’ve been out of kilter with the rest of the world. It’s an unpleasant sensation. I’ve got to do something about it. I’ve got to change the course of my life. Something’s got to change.

I know what you mean. I remember once back in Manchester years ago some religious bloke shoved a leaflet in my hand. It said something like: ‘Have you got a hole in your life? Then fill it with God and Jesus’ or something like that. Tommy, are you having some sort of crisis?

Crisis? I’ve got fucking everything!

"Don’t say that for fuck’s sake. My life and the whole system are designed around giving you more of everything. Don’t get complacent. I’ll do everything I can to get you back on track. The whole scenario will collapse in a heap if you stop wanting more. It’s a mortal sin against capitalism. Never admit you’ve got everything. Don’t you ever say that again—you’ll put me out of a job. Think of all the poor fuckers out there with next to fuck all going for them."

At least they don’t have a comfort-void like me. I miss the old days when I was on the graveyard shift at the radio station. Everything was in front. Now it’s all behind me. Deep down I must be searching for something. I’ll fucking find it. It’s out there.

I hope it’s expensive.

I’ve got a black Ferrari F50, a huge townhouse in Chelsea and all the other material stuff. Where can I go?

Down. But don’t go too far. You’re my best client. You’re my top man.

Yeah, right. Until someone hotter comes along. Don’t pretend that you’re not searching for the next Tommy Armstrong. By the way, I’ve got a new stalker. She’s a cracker.

How many is that?

A nice wacky harem full of ‘em.

What happened with that Nicola Walcott—now she was a case.

"Yeah, a big fucking court case. She didn’t fancy prison and disappeared into oblivion."

You should marry one of them stalkers. That will keep you busy.

I’ve already had one sexually deranged wife, thank you. Have you heard about the Dirty Bitch?

I wish you wouldn’t call your ex-wife that. She’s not the wild woman she once was.

If there is a God he must be taking the piss by making her a fucking born again Christian. She’s hooked up with that God Squad geezer, John Weekes. When she was with me the only time she mentioned ‘God’ was when I rammed her up the arse for the first time. The manager laughs at this blasphemous observation. She pretended that it was the first time she’d ever taken it up the arse—talk about taking the piss! That Weekes is a lucky fucker if she does to him in the sack what she used to do with me. She nearly fucked me back to the Stone Age. She looked very demure in the photo of her with Weekes that was in the papers.

Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth?

I know what melts in her mouth, the Dirty Bitch. Weekes is on the show in a few weeks with a Satanist and a priest. I hope Sue is with him. I’ll grab her in the green room and give her bollocking.

Weekes is certainly making a name for himself with his crusade against so called ‘showbiz sleaze’ and all the rest of it. I admire him a bit. He’s captured the mood of the public better than the politicians have done. The public have had enough of celebrity sleaze. They’re sick of the titillation that they used to enjoy in their Sunday papers. God is in fashion.

Fucking hypocrites! I love them and their bogus piety. What a show they’ll put on. It will be a true spectacle. Bring on Sodom and Gomorrah! Going back to my latest stalker—get this: she’s threatening to kill herself! She’s going to jump off Tower Bridge unless I meet up with her pretty soon. A wonderful gift! I hope she warns me when she’s doing it then I’ll gladly watch the silly bitch jump—I’ll fucking video it! I hope she’s not another fucking time waster. Jump, silly bitch! Jump! I should meet up and rape her. Aaaaah, if only she wasn’t so twisted and deranged. She sent me a photo. She looks like a fucking tug boat in a storm. Oh well, another ugly, rotting, bloated corpse for the River Police to fish out of the Thames. It keeps the lads busy. One of these days I’m going to meet with one of these lunatic losers just for the fun of it. It’s a pity the police stopped that one who was sending me her soiled knickers. She sounded like great fun. Another wonderful gift! I’m such a lucky fucker to have all this disturbed female attention. I’m a magnet for the unhinged. It started during my radio days. This twelve year old kept asking me to marry her mam. She was a big, fat wobbly bitch…but believe me I was tempted! I was unfuckable back then—any port in a storm! Talking of which I’m going to mercilessly dump, Carol.

Which one’s she?

The little blonde researcher.

Oh her, the feisty one? Why are you dumping her?

She’s a bad influence. She looks like a natural born cock sucker but she’s fucking hopeless at it. My eyes were bigger than my belly with her. I’m looking forward to it. The silly girl thinks she’s using me but she’s only sleeping herself back onto the fucking dole. Tommy walks over to the window and takes in the seedy old vista of grey roof tops, air conditioning units, and metal fire escapes. At the back of the glitzy facades of Oxford Street, old red brick and newish grey dominates the vista.

This view never changes. Most people don’t care what’s behind the scenes, all the exposed pipework and all the other boring stuff, especially on a grim autumnal morning like this, said Tommy. Arnold quickly gets sick of Tommy’s dreary mood:

I’ve got some good news for you! A new, young director from the Camden Workshop theatre wants to discuss an acting role for you.

"Great. That’s just what I need. Some people don’t realise that I’m a highly trained thespian. Who is he?"

She’s a she. She’s hot apparently.

Flavour of the month? Well beggars can’t be choosers.

This Katie Black wants to work with you early in the script writing process.

Intriguing…misguided but intriguing. At last someone has recognised my serious acting potential. I assume it will be for the Equity minimum?

You won’t be buying a new Ferrari with this fee.

It’s a case of noblesse oblige, dear boy! Arnie, you’re a philistine. As Oscar Wilde once said, ‘you know the price of everything but the value of nothing.’

"I know your true value, Tommy."

I know you do but keep it to yourself or you’ll ruin the rest of my day.

The rest of your bloody career even!

"We’d both be in the shit if life was suddenly and miraculously fair."

God forbid!

"I’m not just your favourite cash cow. I need some art in my life. You know, this little theatre project will probably stretch me. It’s a bit of a risk but I’m looking forward to it. Give me her private number." Arnold reads out her mobile number.

I’m glad I’ve cheered you up. Now get yourself down to Soho and earn us some fucking decent money. Oh, and by the way I’ve sold the rights to ‘Fool’s Gold’ in Belgium.

What are the syndication rights worth to me now?

Twenty million.

It pays the bills! Not bad for a silly little game show idea that I had in the shower, said Tommy leaving the room with a smile.

Tommy strides manfully down Berwick Street and into the heart of Soho. He’s old enough to remember the district’s very seedy, pornographic past and lived long enough to see the cleansing of most of the sleaziness. The financially and socially cleansed media district contains a few of the recording studios where many of Britain’s TV and radio commercial voice overs are done. There is still a small enclave of porn shops but Tommy doesn’t need them or the area’s quietly throbbing menace. The whiff of desperate, dirty men is still in the air. Tommy’s in a good mood now that he might have the chance to flex his acting muscles at the trendy Camden Workshop. It could be something to be proud of; something that lasts longer than a cheap laugh on a chat show. Something that Tommy’s great idol, Robert De Niro, would respect. Tommy is big on respect but his usual work gives him very, very little. His latest and very popular game show High Ball is a very lucrative embarrassment. Tommy would sell his soul for the respect of Robert De Niro. When he actually appeared on Tommy’s chat show, Tommy was nearly reduced to the role of