Pumpkin Fight
Me and Jeremy Paxman are going to have a pumpkin fight. The pumpkins are in front of us, ready. We’re doing it to settle a blood feud.
‘It’s a knife each, how else are we going to carve it, bozo?’, I say contemptuously. Paxman is professional, impassive as ever. He hands me my knife. He forces me to take it by the blade end, the prick. That’s typical Paxman. A classic Paxman manoeuvre.
Who cares. It’s all going to be irrelevant when I carve my planned design. I’ve planned it perfectly lads, beautiful dragon out here, gonna make him cry when he sees it. He’s probably had to consult with his PR team to come up with a carving that’s politically correct and will get him ratings, that’s just Paxman all over. Show your real self, man! The one you’ve been showing me through your actions. Your lack of respect.
Pumpkins are a funny thing to carve. You have to gut them first. They have slimy guts, like a fish but minus the awful odour. Still don’t smell great, mind. Paxman’s nose wrinkles as he carves his pumpkin open and starts to scoop. Not used to doing your own dirty work, eh, Jeremy? You prick..
I start to relax after seeing this first indication of disgust on Paxman’s face. The creative flow that I have done much to cultivate settles upon me. It is like a cocaine – infused mist, a level state of manic energy that translates itself upon my pumpkin in the form of delicate, artful knife strokes that cut the pumpkin, carve it evenly, sing through the flesh like a songbird through the morning calm. I’m in my element.
I’m just about to start on the detail, the face of the dragon, when a seaweed – like schkelp of slimy pumpkin viscera splatters my midriff; just a touch gets on my face. I look up to an extraordinary sight, even blood – feud aside.
Paxman is dual wielding, the fucker. He has the pumpkin secured in a vice, and has even put on safety goggles. His hands are a blur of co-ordinated movement. It almost looks like anime. He is doing a fucking number on that pumpkin, that’s for sure. My fury at his guts – flicking antics dissipates upon seeing him; he is fucking covered in orange gore. Incredible. Maybe Paxman and can be friends after all, the cunt. Especially as with the way he’s slashing at that pumpkin, I’m definitely going to win this carve – off.
He finishes long before I do, inspects his work for the briefest of seconds, and neatly turns on the spot so as to keep it hidden from my view. He stares into the distance above my head, completely impassive, his aura silent, no twitches or mannerisms to betray the presence of a man within that robot skinsuit. Typical Paxman.
I finish. My dragon looks mega, proper boss, some scary business. Paxman’s defo flopped it, I think to myself, standing up and turning around. This blood feud is over.
Paxman steps aside. His pumpkin is… his pumpkin is… perfect. It is inscribed in a foreign language, an Asian – looking one, Japanese or Chinese. I don’t recognise or speak it but that is not necessary in order to understand he has written it perfectly. The meaning, the origin, the gravitas of the phrase makes its’ meaning completely transparent. It demands attention and respect. It demands a place in the Louvre. I look back at my dragon. It’s upper wing is blunt and one eye is slightly larger than the other.
‘It is gyo akatsuki, which roughly translates to daybreak in English, although this is accepted by learned scholars to be an inadequate translation. It is not intended to describe the action, or the what of daybreak, i.e. what daybreak is, but rather the feeling of daybreak. It has great import. I have chosen it bec-‘
Paxman ceases to speak, not because his mind has gone blank, not because his circuits have malfunctioned, but because I have picked up my pumpkin and thrown it at his fucking head. My dragon has taken flight.
He lands on the ground, narrowly missing his viced pumpkin. I snatch up my carving knife and dive for him, but he has already rolled fluidly back to his feet. His eyes scan for his knives, but before he can reach them, I have pulled myself up to my hands and knees and slammed my knife into his leg.
He howls in pain, howls in despair too, despair that his learnedness and wisdom will be brought to an end, and that he will no longer be an asset to planet Earth, this mortal and fleeting plane. He has so much more to teach, so much more to give.
The thought angers him and spurs action. He rips the knife out of his leg, roaring in agony now, and hobbles forward. He looks up and I am there, with both of the cunt’s knives, and now it is me feeling impassive, me feeling machinelike, am I the cunt now? Who cares, I have the power, I raise his knives and flick them smoothly towards him. They slice the air, resonating like gently–struck gongs, and nestle dead centre. One last desperate gurgle, and it’s goodnight from Paxman. Good riddance. Cunt.
I collect myself, collect my knife from his still – clenched hand, and turn to his pumpkin. I carve it open, and slip it over his head. It is settled. The blood feud is over. I fall to my knees alongside Jeremy Paxman’s butchered corpse. I have won the carve - off, and with it, I have carved out my own reality.
I am the host of University Challenge now.