On your side

Your tendency to lie on your side at night speaks to your adaptability and a deep sensitivity for the world, as well as trust in others. You are a natural leader and a gifted marksman. Culture has always been a part of your life, ever since you were run over by Andi Peters as a child. Apparently he’s quite buff now, or so you’ve heard. Your world turned upside down when you discovered the existence of a long-running Croatian comic strip devoted to lampooning you and your actions. It didn’t help to learn that the comic, Idiotpatrola (translation: Idiot patrol), is the second most popular satirical cartoon in the Slavic region, or that it has taught several generations to read and write, or that it somehow provided a much-needed boost to the state’s agricultural sector. The rumours that you were also the inspiration for Hey Jude remain unfounded, but plausible.


You find it more comfortable to sleep without pyjamas, but this also indicates your restless creativity. Few will forget the day you stood up in front of your whole family and told them you wanted to conquer the erotic arts. Princess Diana’s funeral, it was. Certainly, it has not been an easy road: your charity Christmas single became deeply unpopular after tabloid revelations that you had stolen both the melody and lyrics from Stay Another Day (their real complaint, they said, was that the song isn’t even really about Christmas, it just has some bells in it). To pile indignity on top of indignity, you’ve started to suspect that your parents were lying when they said that you’re an only child. If you really have no brothers or sisters, then who’s that girl who’s been hanging around your house since you were three? Why does she share your surname and genetic material? Why does she insist on writing thinly-veiled fiction about you? What is going on?

On your back

You will die a horrible, horrible death. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but probably this Thursday around 16:45, by the bins. There is no doubt about it: soon, definitely by next spring, you will meet your maker. “Hahahahaha”, he will say, “Why didn’t you use the microfilm?” “What microfilm?” you will reply, confused, patting down your coat pockets in an exaggerated manner. “Oh, that microfilm”, you’ll say, answering your own question as you locate the item that would have saved your life and brought you international recognition and a string of hot dates. Before all this, or perhaps after, you’ll find that you have indeed turned into your father: a bald henchman, dangling from a helicopter as a secret agent tells him to hand over a briefcase. But by then, of course, it will be too late.

On your stomach

Oh boy. You’re a real piece of work, you know that? When you visit a restaurant with a friend, you always make them use an individual chair while you take a bench against the wall. You have never watered any plant that you’ve promised to. You keep applying to be a contestant on The Apprentice. As leader of the opposition you lied unconvincingly about the number of pints you were able to drink. It’s been several weeks now and nobody at work has figured out that you’re really an ambitious sheepdog wearing a fake moustache. Your biggest dream is to open a club in Milton Keynes called “Scandals”. You spent a brief spell as a warlord after a personal shopper told you that tan was your colour. Recently you’ve been going to the woods to feed some wolves but you won’t tell anyone why. And you sleep on your stomach, like some kind of pervert.

Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Six

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