His hand shook as he reached for the doorbell. Was it
nerves? Was it the weed? Was it a mixture of both? No sooner had he pushed the
button, the door opened.
“Were you expecting me?” he asked as the door flew open.
“I sort of suspected you might come to the door when I heard
the bang from the living room,” said the home owner.
The caller wondered if this was a reference to the BMW he
had just crashed through the man’s living room wall or some other bang. He
decided to play it casual by leaning on a wheelie bin.
“Well,” said the home owner, who we’ll call Lance because if
you read ahead you’ll see he introduces himself later, “have you got nothing to
say about the BMW that just crashed into my living room with a very loud bang?”
Shit. He’d been rumbled. He’d hoped to avoid discussing the
whole messy business. He was sure he could reverse out of the whole without
causing any more structural damage. He continued to play it casual.
“Don’t you mean a very loud Wham?” he asked.
“What?”
“Don’t you mean a very loud Wham?” he asked.
“Oh my God, are you George Michaels?” asked Lance.
“Yes,” said George, for it was he, “I am George Michael.” It
was always nice to be recognised by a fan as they usually let you off for a
hundred quid and some tickets to your show, if it was very bad you had to perform your old stuff at the
show, this might have been one of those times.
“Well? What do you have to say about the hole in my wall?
You could have killed someone!”
“I forgot the first rule of driving….”
He paused. Lance paused. They both paused. George Michael
imagined he asked “What’s the first rule of driving George Michael?” because
that’s what he wanted him to say to make the joke seem spontaneous.
“Wake up before you go go.”
He paused.
Two minutes later, He’d explained the joke to him but he
still hadn’t asked for an autograph. Must be a Spandau Ballet fan, dick.
“Look, I’ll pay for the wall, and the replacement of any
broken furniture,” said George Michael.
“And the dead cat?”
“Why did you have a dead cat?”
“I didn’t. I had an alive cat sleeping by the radiator.”
“I’m friends with Damien Hurst, you’ll never even notice the
difference. Anyway it’s not just you who’s had a hard time you know, I had to
crawl to Freedom!” He paused. “I did
a song called Freedom. It’s funny. Can I come in though, I have a rather
delicate matter to discuss?”
Lance eventually relented and bought George Michael a cup of
coffee to try and sober him up. “I asked for a kebab,” said George Michael, but
smiled and thanked Lance remembering that he needed something from this Lance. “What’s
your name?” asked George.
“Lance.”
“Lance, I need to ask you if you know a man called Michael?”
“Maybe, what’s it to you?”
“Michael George?” It didn’t get any funnier with the passing
of a year.
“Yeah.”
“And I understand from Michael George that you spent boxing
day together last year?” asked George Michael.
“We spent a lot of days together. He’s my boyfriend,” said
Lance.
“Yeah, now this is awkward, but did he give you a gift?”
“He gave me his heart.”
“Weeeelll, the thing is, it wasn’t really his to give. You
see, he works for the company that do my PR, that’s why no embarrassing stories
about me ever get into the press, and about this time last year, I was in the
gents, he was in the gents, I was drunk, shit happens. I know now that it wasn’t
the real thing but I kinda…for Christmas…you’re going to laugh…” Lance’s face
was anything but laughing. In the moments when his face was lit up by the
orange glow of the hazard lights he looked quite angry. George hoped that the
scowl was just a reaction to the scent of his dead cat’s innards rather than
any malice towards the UKs favourite 80s pop star* (*second favourite according
to an ITV poll, fuck Tony Hadley). “Well I gave him my heart, long story short.”
Lance punched George around his well-groomed beautiful features.
“Yes, I agree it was an inappropriate gift,” said George
calmly, “but easy to get hold of at the last minute when you realise you haven’t
given your Secret Santa anything.”
“You’re a piece of shit!” exclaimed Lance.
When George Michael had finished recounting the stories of
his various appearances on Comic Relief, he came back to the question he had
intended to ask originally. “My heart. I need it back.”
“Why? You shouldn’t have given it away.”
“I know, it was,” ashamed he almost whispered the last word,
“Careless.”
“Well why do you want it back, you’ll only lose it again, or
clog it up with kebab fat,” shouted Lance.
“Oh ye of little…faith,”
said George. No laugh. One more try. “Faith!” This really was easier when
it was fans, who just wanted your sex.
“I want to give it to someone special.”
“Are you saying my boyfriend isn’t special? Who could be
more special than Michael George?” He was bitter, sarcastic, “Who is this
special person? Your father figure?”
George Michael’s face lit up, “now you’re getting it.
Bygones be bygones, I’ll be on my way. Signed photo?”
Lance gave him a black eye.
George rubbed his eye and got up off the floor, “This was
supposed to save me from tears!”
Lance bit George hard through his ear and drew blood. George
backed off, and kept his distance and tried not to make eye contact with Lance.
“So,” said Lance, “this is your heart then.” He took the
heart from a shelf, it still had a note on it which read I Love you, I meant it. He
held it above the fire and George watched it start to burn and the malicious
grin spreading across Lance’s face, as he held it above the flames.
“Wait?” said Lance, “I’ve got a better idea.”
Lance hooked George Michael to the back of the door and left
him hanging there like a yo-yo. George Michael reached into his pocket and
grabbed his phone. “Andrew,” he said, if you’ll take as read the procedures of
unlocking and dialling, “I need help. I’ve been kidnapped again! No this isn’t
like that time I couldn’t find my way out of David Hasselhoff’s house. But
listen Andrew, he’s not a fan! I repeat he is not a fan of Wham!...I know
right!...So you need to be a man undercover. Save me, Andrew Ridgely, you’re my
only hope.”
Andrew Ridgley arrived, a man undercover and tore Lance
apart. “Where did your heart go?” asked Andrew. They both nodded in
recognition.
“He put it on ebay. It’s now part of some middle aged woman’s
collage.”
