Last Saturday, that’s right Christmas Day. I had the unbearable privilege of sitting down with the author of one of the most famous ripoff books of all time.
Somersault Curry, an infamous con-merchant and exotic dancer, often plagiarises their work but people still buy their stuff because it slaps harder than when Roald Dahl left his cancer suffering wife.
For unknown reasons, Somersault Curry will only do interviews on major holidays when it can be most disruptive to interviewers.
They have 68 interviews today, so I only get to ask one question before being moved along.
I enter the small two-bedroom bungalow and the first thing I notice is the hallway.
It’s what you would notice entering most houses.
Beyond that, it’s pretty much room after room of similarly designed spaces. A lounge, a kitchen, a washing machine room, downstairs bathroom (fancy), midsize garden, stairs that I’m not allowed up.
Now the scene has been set for you.
I am ushered to a small waiting room which is clearly an extensive art gallery. There are at least 50 other journalists here as well, to give you a sense of space, only 3 or 4 are sitting on someone’s lap.
There were plenty of chairs to go around, so I didn’t understand why they would do that.
I take residence on a slim framed, wooden-esque journalist from the Sunday Times who is sitting on a chair himself. I receive no pushback from this.
I take a moment to think about the list of questions that I had prepared to ask this divisive author. I remember that I’ve left my notebook in my other journalist. Exasperated, I strain to think of what my question could be.
Then it comes to me.
‘What the fuck is it?’
I’ve read the book, as we all have and it is never explained what the fuck it actually is.
I smile smugly, knowing that this is the question all readers want to know. I peer over my peer’s notebook edge to see what they are planning on asking.
“What’s your favourite curry?”
“How do you intend to dodge these fresh copyright claims?”
“Are the French overstaying their welcome in the Gulf?”
Standard journalist rubbish.
My name is called. Gleefully, I walk past people who have been here way before me. I imagine it is because I wouldn’t stop screaming.
I enter into a small study – leather seats, thick lush carpet and a glorious oak desk fit for a king are what greets me.
Weird because I have never heard furniture talk before.
This is real opulent wealth before me.
Crouched upside down in the rafters is Sumersault Curry.
“Hello”, I say.
My career has been leading up to this moment.
“Please can I take a seat?”
“No.”
“NEXT.” The usher bellows.
I am quickly escorted to a side door and through what seems to be a multi-story car park but empty.
I get outside.
Was it raining blood before?
I can’t remember.
I go home and eat Christmas dinner.
There we have it, folks. The answer to the question we all wanted to know.
Can I sit down?
And the answer is no.
