Inconceivable

by Ben Elton

  Sam suddenly started being rather sweet and I must say he looked very nice in his dinner suit. Most men do look good in black tie. Dinner jackets even make a paunch look sort of stately and dignified. Not that Sam has a paunch. Well, maybe a tiny one, but not really. Anyway, I thought he looked lovely, even though he still insisted on wearing his anorak ‘just till we got down to it’.

  Actually I can scarcely credit it, but it was all beginning to get rather fun. Lucy had prepared some bits of artichoke on biscuits (fertile fruit, apparently) and oysters! We had them in front of the fire with a glass of red wine (just one) before getting in the car. Lucy had also bought a beautiful black crocheted shawl to keep her warm and it just looked fantastic with her white skin showing through the black, like a Russian princess or something.

  As I say, her make-up was all dark and Gothic around the eyes and her lipstick was like a gash of shiny crimson. And she’d put on some long droopy silver earrings I’d never seen before.

  All in all, she’d really made an effort, which I loved her for. I myself had tried to enter into the spirit of things by putting on the silk boxer shorts I got last Christmas and had so far never worn.

  I do wish Sam hadn’t put on those Donald Duck pants. I know he was trying to be nice but you don’t need Disney characters when you’re trying to be all pagan and ritualistic, even if they are silk.

  Anyway, we got there and amazingly found a parking place almost immediately (were the Gods intervening on our behalf?). And having got over the usual car palaver (Sam set the alarm off, I don’t know how he manages to do that so often), we stood there together at the foot of the ancient hill. It was only eleven-thirty so we had a good half-hour to climb up it and get down to it, so to speak. I tried to hold Sam’s arm but his hands were full.

  It probably was silly to take along a stepladder but I thought the gates would be locked and we’d have to climb over a fence. They lock Regent’s Park up, I know that. Lucy thought it made us look like burglars and told me to go back and put it on top of the car, which meant five more minutes wrestling with bendy bungies.

  It was a very quiet night for London and I must say the hill looked fantastic against the moon. We seemed to have it to ourselves apart from the birds and squirrels and, of course, the spirits of the night. Drusilla had assured me that the spirits would definitely be about. Flitting hither and thither, bringing good fortune for some, a hex for others. I thought I saw one but it turned out to be an unconscious homeless alcoholic slumbering on a bench near the children’s playground.

  If we succeeded, if the gods really did bring us luck, I was going to bring my children to play on those swings every day.

  Funny, as we made our way up the path, to my surprise I really did begin to feel all ancient and beautiful. I tried to close my mind to the fact of dirty, noisy, modern London all around me and allow my body to respond to the timeless rhythms and vibrations of the eternal cycles of life on earth that were swirling about me.

  Of course it would have been easier if Sam had not kept telling me to watch out for dogshit, but I suppose he meant well.

  I trod in this huge turd the moment we entered the park. Huge.

  No mortal dog could have passed such a turd. Honestly, I went in almost up to my knee. Any deeper and I would have had to call for a rope. London Zoo is situated at the bottom of Primrose Hill and I was forced to conclude that an elephant must have escaped.

  Oh, I do so hate treading in dogshit. I suppose that’s what you get for wandering around London’s parks in the dark, but why don’t people clear up after their dogs? In Australia the council supply plastic bags and special bins. You put your hand in the bag, pick up the turd then fold the bag back over it and drop it in the bin. Superb. And we call them uncivilized. Over here of course the bags would instantly be scattered to the four winds and the bins would be the target of every puerile little prat with a can of spraypaint in the neighbourhood. Graffiti artists? Like hell.

  God I loathe the way liberal-minded people feel the need to defend this endless depressing scribbling as if it was some kind of vital and vibrant expression of urban culture, rather than just the work of arrogant bored little vandals that it is. I mean, whenever they talk about graffiti on the telly they always show some fabulous mural in the New York style executed over several months and now hanging at the Tate. Of course, people’s actual experience of this loathsome vandalism is nothing like that. It’s the endless repetition of the same identical scribble, executed purely to flatter the ego of the arrogant dickhead with the spray- can.

  Halfway up the hill Sam suddenly started ranting about graffiti, which is a particular hate of his. God knows what made him think of it at that time. I told him to shut up because I was trying to influence my ovulation and I didn’t want him spoiling my positive vibe.

  At the top of Primrose Hill I was amazed to discover that I was starting to get quite motivated. I mean I had expected to be petrified with embarrassment, but in fact I felt quite sexy. It was such a fine night and Lucy looked so beautiful standing there in the silvery light of the full moon. There’s a sort of look-out area at the top of the hill, with benches and a map of the panoramic view of London. We had it all to ourselves and it was suddenly very beautiful, like we were on a flying saucer hovering over London or something. Lucy took off her shawl and put it on a bench, then we stood for a moment, staring at the city all laid out before us. She looked so stunning in just her sexy crimson dress and with a gentle night breeze playing in her hair. I’d been worrying that I might get stage fright under the pressure and be one dick short of an erection, but no way! I was a tiger! I think I fancied her at that moment as much as I’ve ever fancied her, and that’s quite a lot, as it happens.

  London looked like a great starry carpet spread all about us. It felt as if we were in Peter Pan (except that’s Kensington Gardens, not Primrose Hill). I thought for a moment about all the thousands of centuries that had gone before, when we could have stood on that very same spot and seen nothing but darkness below us. Suddenly our time on earth and the fact of being human seemed very small indeed. Completely insignificant in the grander scheme of things. Except that what we were hoping to do, what this night was meant to achieve, was in fact as big as the whole universe! New life! A new life was what we had come to this place to make. A brand new beginning. Should we succeed, this very moment would be the dawn of time for that child.

  My baby’s entry point into the great circle of eternity.

  We chose a place on the grass behind the concrete summit (Sam having first thoroughly checked the area with his torch for dog-do and used hypodermic needles, which was sensible) and laid our blanket on the ground. Then I put out the circle of candles around the blanket (little nightlights in jamjars that would not be spotted from afar) and sprinkled primrose oil about the place.

  Then I lay down with the moon on my face and, ahem, raised the hem of my garment. Sam lay down on top of me, and, rather incredibly, we had it off. I must say I was proud of him. I’d been half expecting him to fail to deliver, but apart from complaining a bit about it being painful on his knees and elbows he was quite romantic about it. We kissed a lot (for us) and all that stuff, bit of stroking, etc. I shan’t go into detail, but I’m all for that sort of thing, you know, foreplay. It’s so easy as the years go by to neglect the preamble and just get straight down to it, so to speak. I regret to say that Sam does tend rather to just roll on top and go for it. He doesn’t mean to be insensitive. It’s just there always seems to be work in the morning. Anyway, on this occasion we took a bit more time, not much more, but it makes all the difference.

  I won’t say that I actually had an orgasm, the situation was rather too fraught for that, I’m afraid, but I nearly did and I definitely enjoyed it and when we’d finished I thought we’d done well. After all, it’s not every girl that has it off wearing a new satin frock surrounded by candles on the top of Primrose Hill at midnight under a full moon.

  Afterwards we lay there fo
r a little while on the rug (me with pillow under bottom), gathering our thoughts and listening to the breeze in the trees.

  Anyway, that was when Sam screamed.

  This, I’m afraid, brought an abrupt end to our idyll, as well it might. Unbeknownst to us there had appeared upon the hill a nocturnal dogwalker, a nervous old man who on seeing two prostrate figures surrounded by candles had thought that a satanic murder was in progress. He had no doubt been suspecting some such occurrence for years and Sam’s sudden yelping convinced the old sod that tonight was the night. Off he went to flag down a passing policecar and shortly thereafter we were caught bang to rights (with the emphasis on ‘bang’) by the officers of the watch.

  What had happened was this. As Sam and I had lain there together in the warm and spiritual afterglow of our lovemaking, a squirrel had found its way into Sam’s trousers, which Sam had left nearby along with his silk jocks, having stepped out of the whole lot in one. I don’t know what had led the squirrel into this dark territory. Perhaps it was after Sam’s nuts. What I do know is that the squirrels of Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park are incredibly cheeky on account of the manner in which they are indulged by all and sundry. Anyway, there Sam’s trousers lay in a state of sort of concertina’d readiness waiting for Sam to step back into them. As Sam stood bent and hovering above his trousers, one foot in and the waistband firmly gripped, the squirrel popped out its head to see what was what. There was of course a confrontation.

  They faced each other in the night, Sam staring down at the squirrel, the squirrel staring up at Sam, or in fact at Sam’s bollocks, which it was situated directly underneath.

  Amazingly, it was Sam who screamed first.

  Lucy says it was a squirrel but if it was a squirrel then someone’s been feeding them steroids. This looked more like a ferret or a weasel to me, possibly an urban fox. I’d just risen to my feet, idly thinking of this and that, contentedly contemplating the large and joyful whisky I’d be treating myself to when we got home. I reached down to pull up my trousers and instantly I felt this hot breath upon my bollocks! Looking down between my legs I saw it, eyes blazing, teeth bared, talons poised. Whatever it was, it appeared to me to be getting ready to rip my scrotum off! Of course I screamed. Who wouldn’t have screamed with an alien creature hovering beneath his bollocks! Of course I know that Lucy is convinced it was a squirrel and it’s true that Primrose Hill is amply supplied with squirrels. It’s also true that these appallingly over-indulged tree rats tend to treat all humans as nothing more than sources of free food. Nonetheless I contend that what I saw fossicking around in my trousers tonight on Primrose Hill was like no squirrel I have ever seen. It was big and tough and toothy and wicked-looking and it will haunt my slumbers for many a night to come.

  The police were upon us almost before we knew it. We did not hear them coming because Sam was leaping about beating his hands between his legs and shouting, ‘Ahh! Ahh! Get a stick! Ahh! It’s going for my bollocks!’ I think that the squirrel must have seen the coppers first, actually, because by the time they arrived Sam’s trousers appeared to be empty (apart from him, of course). They were nonetheless still very much unhitched, which was all rather embarrassing. I was all right because I had only to shake my dress back down, but Sam got into an awful mess trying to pull his trousers up. I think that somehow he managed to get his foot through his belt loop and as the officers breasted the hill Sam was still bent double wrestling to free the whole thing up. He had his back to them and I regret to say that the sight that he must have presented to them in the torchlight could not have been pleasant. I should mention here that Sam’s Donald Duck pants were also round his knees so that there was a second full moon shining on Primrose Hill tonight. I think we were very lucky that they didn’t do us for indecency.

  Anyway, as I say, had Sam not insanely attempted to give the police a false name I think they would have let us off there and then, but instead they took us in. I certainly think that Sam’s following up his false name debacle by warning them that he was an intimate of Downing Street made matters worse. I mean, you do not try and pull rank on the rozzers, particularly if you haven’t got your trousers on. I didn’t really mind getting run in, it sort of made me feel even more pagan and dangerous, like a witch or an outlaw, as if the forces of order had tried to constrain our tryst but had arrived too late! And anyway, I knew they’d let us off in the end. After all, it isn’t a crime to assume a pseudonym, is it? I don’t think it is, or what would they do about stage names? In the acting profession if you have the same name as somebody else, Equity actually make you change it, so it can’t be illegal, can it?

  Well, anyway, we sat about a bit at the police station and after a cup of tea and one or two off-colour innuendos from the young constables they let us go. Sam got quite shirty about the jokes the coppers made, which I thought was stupid since they were no worse than the sort of rubbish he commissions every day. They even dropped us off back at our car, which I thought was nice of them.

  Anyway, it’s all over now, for better or worse, and here I am, lying in bed. Sam’s already snoring, sleeping the sleep of the great and powerful lover, but I’m wide awake, clutching my crystals, humming Celtic hymns and praying to Gaia to deliver new life into my body. Let Mother Nature make me a mother too!

  In my heart and my soul I truly believe she will.

  Well, it’s now the evening following our Primrose Hill tryst and today has not gone well.

  In fact, today has gone worse than I could have dreamt possible.

  On the plus side Lucy is very happy about our success last night.

  She seems to have convinced herself that the power of positive thinking has been the missing factor in us getting pregnant. She has therefore decided to believe absolutely and fundamentally that Primrose Hill will work its magic. When I got home this afternoon I found her sitting in front of the fire watching a Saturday afternoon film on Channel Four and looking wistful, sipping camomile tea and gently trying to will her eggs to envelop my sperm. It’s a strange thing, but you know she did sort of look pregnant, I can’t really say why, but sort of serene and womanly and, well, fertile. I know it’s silly to say that, and particularly silly to get our hopes up, but then perhaps it’s not.

  Perhaps Lucy is right. Perhaps positive thinking is what we need.

  Anyway, if there’s any balance of fair play in the world we’ll be pregnant; because the rest of my life is double buggered squared.

  I have not mentioned my inner torment to Lucy, of course. When she asked me how things had gone today I said, ‘Fine.’ I did not feel that in her present state of self-induced mystical empowerment she would want to be told that her husband was an utter joke. I did not feel it fair to tell that sweet, trusting, potential nestbuilder that the career of her champion and protector now hangs by less than a single thread. That we are shortly to be paupers. I simply could not bring myself to tell her that the Prime Minister’s visit to Livin’ Large was the most right royal cock-up since Henry the Eighth discovered girls.

  Therefore, Book, unable to seek support from my preoccupied wife, I am turning for solace to you. It happened like this.

  Despite my late-night run-in with the law on the previous evening, I was up bright and early this morning. Livin’ Large goes out live at nine a.m. and I had promised to take my niece Kylie along, which meant going to the studio via Hackney to pick her up. Kylie is the daughter of my sister Emily and has apparently, of late, taken an interest in politics. My sister, anxious to encourage this new maturity in a girl who up until now has liked only ponies and Barbie, asked me to take her along. To add to the excitement, Grrrl Gang, a kind of post-post-Spice Girls group, are also appearing on the show and Emily says that Kylie worships the ground they walk on. Or, in fact, more accurately, given their ridiculous shoes, she worships the ground they walk seven inches above.

  Kylie was something of a shock. I had last seen her about six months before at a family do and she had been a very sweet and pret
ty little eleven-year-old who had a picture of a horse in a locket round her neck. I’m afraid to have to report that the butterfly has reverted to a caterpillar and that Kylie or ‘K Grrrl’, as she now wishes to be known, is a horrid little pre-teen brat.

  Her nice blonde hair has red streaks inexpertly dyed into it. She has a nose stud (Emily says she got it done on a school trip to Blackpool and that Kylie has threatened to run away if it is removed). She wears enormously baggy army combat trousers into which eight or nine of her could be fitted. Her tummy is bare save for a tattoo of a rat holding a hypodermic needle (mercifully a transfer). Her crop-top T-shirt has the words ‘DROP DEAD’ printed on it and her once-pretty face is now contorted into a permanent sulky scowl.

  I asked her if she was excited about going to the studio. The look of astonished contempt she gave me would have scrambled an egg.

  ‘Oh yeah! Right, as if! Like I’m really going to get excited about going to a crap kids’ show. Yeah, right, that’s really likely.’

  I could not have felt more withered if I had been a sultana. This girl made me feel like a piece of one-hundred-year-old shit. I was grateful that I’d done my duty by Lucy on the previous evening because this child was in danger of un-manning me entirely. I did my best to engage her interest, which was, of course, fatal.