Chapter Text
Monday
I’ve decided I’m going to keep a diary for self-reflective purposes. In fact if I’m honest I have extremely high ambitions for this diary-keeping enterprise. I quite fancy myself as an intrepid chronicler of contemporary social standards, and the zeitgeist, and shit like that. Sort of in the manner of Samuel Peyps or Dr Johnson, or similar.
Hmmm. Have just re-read the above and decided that it perhaps sounds a bit…grandiose. But then this isn’t entirely my fault because I’ve recently been spending a large amount of time with the most grandiose person outside of the Emperor Napoleon, and there seems like a very real possibility of grandiosity being sexually transmitted.
In fact, if the Emperor Napoleon combined grandiose egomania with Cleopatra and Kanye West then H would still murder the resulting monster ego hybrid to death. And then sexually transmit it to me just for the hell of it.
13.00 H, as expected, was insufficiently impressed when I told him about my intentions to be a chronicler of the twenty first century. In fact he didn’t look impressed at all; he just looked superior and said: “A diary, Will? Really?”
This was done in a tone of voice that was incredibly over the top. It was the same tone of voice most people would have said “A festering turd, Will? Really?”
Anyway, I don’t know what he’s bitching about – it’s not like he has to read it or anything.
14.30 Just caught H trying to read my diary. Needless to say he was completely unrepentant about it – he just sat there looking even more superior than usual while I threw a tantrum then waited until I’d ran out of breath before raising a single eyebrow and saying: “A festering turd Will?”
I was about to inform him that he has all the boundaries and self-restraint of a festering turd but then someone knocked on the door and the moment was lost. It was Hieronomo, who owns the local delicatessen and delivers H’s pretentious over-priced maniac food. He staggered in with a crateful of the stuff and dumped it on the table, then explained that he’s intending to move premises next month so we should take his number to ensure continued smooth arrival of our deliveries. H promptly vanished and left me to deal with it (this is typical) so I had to listen to Hieronomo rambling on in an extremely boring way about leases and Italian real estate and all sorts of other crap. I smiled and nodded sympathetically and pretended I was listening, even though I wasn’t listening at all because I was too busy trying to work out how the hell H managed to look so morally superior after being caught reading someone else’s diary. How did he manage it? It’s like he’s got weird Jedi Mind Powers. Unfortunately for me these, unlike grandiosity, do not appear to be sexually transmitted.
Anyway I obviously overdid the fake listening because Hieronomo started patting me on the shoulder and saying that I was very “empatica.” Felt like telling him to fuck off. He then stood over me and made me type his number into my phone, where it’s now lurking right underneath H’s number in my contact list. Hannibal and Hieronomo: it sounds like a crap singing duo in the manner of Renée and Renato (except worse).
Hieronomo is still stood there, grinning broadly. I have an unpleasant suspicion that he might be developing a bit of a crush on me, which if so will certainly prove fatal (to him) because when H finds out then he will murder him to death.
17.00 Hannibal and Hieronomo could also be a pair of crap detectives. Like Starsky and Hutch, but on a really low budget.
17.05 Or a pair of gay Italian hairdressers.
17.10 H has just stuck his head round the door and loudly informed me that grandiosity is not, in fact, sexually transmitted and that if I have taken it upon myself to be a grandiose chronicler of the twenty first century then is it very unreasonable to try and blame this unfortunate ambition on him.
H actually looks rather attractive when he’s pretending to be morally superior but I am not going to tell him that because he’s smug enough as it is and the last thing he needs is encouragement.
17.15 On reflection I’ve decided that it would be wise to put a lock on my diary. It will be extremely inconvenient if H keeps reading it because I intend to use it to bitch about him extensively.
17.40 Just caught H picking the lock on my diary. Stronger measures are clearly required.
18.00 In the end I hid the diary in my toolbox, where he will never look because it’s too closely associated with Manual Labor and The Sweat of One’s Brow and An Honest Day’s Work, and all other manner of things which are like Kryponite to pretentious maniacs. At least that is the plan.
19.00 I’ve just cornered H in the kitchen and delivered a long lecture to him about how inappropriate it is to loll around looking superior as opposed to sorrowful and repentant when you’ve been caught reading someone else’s diary. Needless to say this attempt wasn’t exactly what you’d call successful – H just sat there the entire time with a smug smile on his face that could clearly be translated as ‘I have precisely zero fucks to give about this.’
19.10 I loudly informed H that he is enormously annoying but he just rolled his eyes heavenward as if to imply that there were so many fucks he did not give about this that they were literally falling from the ceiling.
19.15 H’s whole ‘I have no fucks to give’ routine has made me realize that I am now being the annoying one; despite the fact he clearly started it. This is further evidence of the Jedi Mind Control Hypothesis, so I decided to try and regain some control over the situation by proposing writing a list of all the annoying things H does that he must promise to stop doing.
“Yes, beloved,” said H with an obviously maniacal smile. “But only if you will agree to do the same.”
I guess that’s fair enough (even though I am nowhere near as annoying as H, but I suppose he is old and should occasionally be humored). We have pinned the list to the fridge:
Annoying Things That Will and Hannibal Hannibal and Will Mature Well-Adjusted Adults Should Not Do
- Read your partner’s diary.
- Pick the lock on your partner’s diary.
- Smile maniacally when caught reading your partner’s diary.
Or at any time really. Look, just don’t smile maniacally okay, it’s as creepy as hell, cut that shit out. - Accuse your partner of sexually transmitting your undesirable character traits.
- Fondly reminisce over the time you got your partner wrongly convicted of mass murder (then begin frenziedly smirking about how clever you were to get away with it).
- Constantly refer to how your partner threw you off a cliff every time you want to win an argument
because it was only a small cliff and it’s not like he didn’t throw himself off as well, so what’s the big fucking deal? Amirite?. - Wax lyrical about being Number 1 on the FBI’s Most Wanted as if this is some kind of impressive lifetime achievement endeavor.
- Be enormously snide and condescending about the neighbors behind their backs as opposed to being sociable and friendly and not acting as if you think you and your partner are better than everyone else
even though you clearly are.
20.00 The list is getting longer – we’ll soon need a bigger bit of paper. Eventually we’ll probably need a bigger fridge.
- Respect your partner’s wardrobe choices and not behave as if (1) wearing plaid is a sign of unspeakable depravity or (2) make observations along the lines of “you’re only sulking because you can’t wear something that was handstitched in a Milanese grotto a century ago. By fucking elves.”
- Not make excruciating cannibal puns and follow them up with a ‘look at me everyone, oh my God, I’m so clever and hilarious’ smirk.
- Not manufacture early symptoms of encephalitis and follow them up with “maybe I should get a brain scan, what do you think? Oh sorry I forgot – you’re not really the best person to ask are you, you malevolent shit?”
Number 9 is particularly relevant I feel, given that H is the same person who once crapped out a convoluted metaphor along the lines of ‘Do you know who would look amazing in the moonlight – in the snow – completely naked and covered in blood? YOU’ because anyone who says such things clearly can’t be considered a reliable source of fashion advice.
Tuesday
H has been out the villa a lot in the past few days, allegedly because he’s arranging ‘a big surprise’ for me. Most people would be pleased if their partners told them that, but I think it’s ominous. After all, the last time H sprung a big surprise it was because he turned out to be the Chesapeake Ripper.
12.00 Looked on the internet to see if there have been any unsolved murders that might turn out to be H’s big surprise.
12.30 Have just asked H if the big surprise is legal. He says it is, but I was only slightly reassured seeing how H knows eight different languages and speaks fluent bullshit in all of them.
13.00 Confronted H again and asked him to give me his solemn word that the surprise is not illegal. He just opened his eyes very wide and tried to look innocent, but I told him not to bother because while he has a wide array of varied and impressive skills looking innocent isn’t one of them. H has never looked innocent in his life. In fact he was almost certainly born looking lethal. I bet the midwife’s first words were: “What an extraordinarily malevolent looking baby. Fingers and toes all correct, but quite unusually evil-looking.” In fact if H had been born now he would undoubtedly have become an internet sensation. Possibly a meme called ‘Evil Baby.’
14.00 H has gone out again…ominous.
14.30 Oh God I’m so bored.
14.35 B-o-r-e-d.
15.00 Just saw a hysterical article on the internet by a former FBI agent ranting about how no one has managed to catch H yet. It described him several times as ‘a monster,’ which is actually rather ironic considering that he is exactly the type of monster I’d like to find hiding under my bed. Or in my wardrobe. Or pretty much anywhere really, if I’m totally honest.
Note to self: try and persuade H to hide under the bed then leap out at me when I'm not expecting it as a form of creative foreplay.
15.30 Have just found an old copy of Cosmopolitan behind the bedside table – obviously left behind by previous tenants. I’m ashamed to say that I ended up reading it, but only because it’s truly tragic what becomes of a person when their maniacal lover had disappeared to do things of unspecified legality and they’ve been left with too much time on their hands.
15.40 Hmm, Cosmopolitan has a whole double-page spread devoted to solving reader’s relationship dilemmas: ‘Ask Jennifer.’ I must admit I was quite tempted. Do I dare? I’m not sure if I dare.
15.42 Hell yes, I dare.
Dear Jennifer,
Hello.
So, I recently threw my lover off a cliff – although I should emphasize at this point that no matter what he says to the contrary it was only a SMALL cliff (and he is also a malevolent old shit, and widely hated, so it’s not as if he didn’t deserve it). However despite the fact he survived falling off the cliff and sustained no lasting injuries whatsoever, he won’t stop complaining about it and constantly uses it as a concluding point to try and win an argument. And I am sure you'd agree Jennifer, that when you say “I don't want to clean the villa today, why can't you do it?” and the response is inevitably along the lines of “Well if you recall Will, you DID recently throw me off a cliff” then this is more than unusually aggravating. Anyway, my question is this: considering that I threw myself off the same cliff (at the same time) could this technically be seen to cancel out throwing him off a cliff; and if so, would it cancel it out (a) slightly, (b) partially, or (c) entirely …
15.50 I‘ve changed my mind about writing to Ask Jennifer from Cosmopolitan – in retrospect there seems a high likelihood that she might contact the authorities to tell them there’s some weirdo in Italy throwing people off cliffs. Then Jack will turn up on the villa steps surrounded by the FBI’s finest and H will murder them all to death (so then we would have a big pile of FBI corpses in the back garden and God only knows what the neighbors would say)
15.52 Nevertheless, despite this brief setback, I have to say that it’s actually quite interesting reading women’s magazines when you are not a woman. That is to say, when you are a man.
15.55 Speaking of men, there was a whole double page spread on ‘How to Keep Your Guy Happy,’ which made me wonder how much good I am at keeping H happy. The honest answer is probably not much…but it’s not like he deserves it so I didn’t feel particularly guilty.
16.00 The lack of guilt is also reinforced by the fact that H has absolutely no idea about how to keep anyone happy, as well as being crap at all things romantic. After all, H’s idea of seduction is to call someone a mongoose and then try to murder them.
16.05 As for his idea of a romantic candlelit dinner…oh my fucking God. I can’t even.
16.07 Although – to be fair – I suppose I have been a bit of a shit myself. After all, I’ve tried to kill him nearly as many times as he’s tried to kill me.
16.10 And I did throw him off a cliff.
16.11 Am now feeling guilty for not trying to keep H more happy. Shall refer to Cosmopolitan for advice.
16.15 According to Cosmopolitan I could keep H marginally more happy by sending him sexual text messages. This is known as ‘sexting’: “Surprise and delight your guy with an unexpected message while he’s at work – tell him what you’re imagining him doing and he won’t be able to think of anything else all day!” I must admit that I’m not totally convinced how appropriate this advice is for me. For starters, H hardly has a regular day job – which means I’m unsure he’d be either surprised or delighted if I interrupted him whilst murdering someone with a ‘Hey baby! Come home now and give it to me in the ass’ text.
16.30 Although Cosmopolitan seems to think that it would make him happy and they surely know more about men (and how to keep them happy) than I do. Even though I am a man.
16.31 Am now confused.
17.00 Can’t stop wondering whether I should send H a sext, and if so whether it would partially compensate for throwing him off a cliff.
17.05 Dear Jennifer. Having recently thrown my lover off a cliff, would you agree that sending him a sexual text message could be considered…
17.10 Okay, to be honest – it probably wouldn't. But it might make him happy. At least it will if he doesn’t have to break off from murdering someone to read it.
18.00 I have decided that I am going to send H a sext!
18.10 Just had a glass of wine to get in the mood. Then two.
18.50 Hmmm, this wine is actually pretty good.
19.40 Whole wine bottle is now empty. Might be a bit drunk.
20.00 Am definitely drunk.
20.30 Alright, let’s DO THIS. I’m ready. I WAS BORN READY.
20.55 Been thinking about you all day. I’m so hard for you.
That’s okay isn’t it? Or is it maybe a bit obvious? The last part isn’t even true because I’m way too drunk to even think about erections let alone actually manufacture one. Although I probably shouldn’t say that. Honesty isn’t always the best policy, especially when it comes to sexting.
20.56 Oh my God I can’t wait any longer. Come back RIGHT NOW and fuck me.
Hmm, that’s better. Or, I don’t know….is it perhaps a bit too demanding? What if he thinks I’m being rude?
20.57 Please.
20.58 Thanks.
20.59 :)
21.00 Ha. This is actually really easy – any fool can sext.
21.01 I’m going to get myself ready for you. I’m jerking myself off RIGHT NOW, imagining that it’s you.
21.02 Just remembered that I don’t have three hands, which means I couldn’t really be doing that and texting at the same time. Perhaps I should clarify. Should I clarify?
21.03 At least I will be as soon as I put my phone down.
21.04 Better.
21.05 Oh my God I’m so turned on thinking about you. I want you to rip my clothes off and fuck me over the kitchen table.
21.06 Wheeeeee, look at me, sexting like a goddamn BOSS.
21.07 I am the goddamn BOSS of sexting.
21.08 Hmmm. On reflection perhaps I shouldn’t have sent that last one as it might be considered a bit vain. Although as I always say: if you can’t praise yourself who can you praise? Anyway, it’s not like H is in any position to lecture me about the dangers of excess vanity. H calling someone else vain is like the pot calling the kettle a narcissistic egomaniacal asshole. In fact, in addition to praising yourself, I have often observed that it is also a good idea to enthusiastically pat your own back and vigorously blow your own trumpet.
21.10 Come and blow my trumpet.
21.11 Oh dear, no, this is getting out of control. I’ve gone too far…I may have gone too far in a few places. H is probably now having to break off from murdering someone by saying “Kindly excuse me for a moment would you? My live-in lover is sending me a series of bizarre sexts concerning brass orchestral instruments. I suspect he is having a nervous breakdown.”
21.12 Okay, let’s get this sexting show back on the road! Boom!
21.13 I love you so much it has given me a supernaturally massive erection, oh my actual God. Come home right now and be greeted by the power of love and murder boners.
21.14 I feel as if that last one was particularly impressive. It was, like, metaphysical and shit like that.
21.15 I AM SO HOT FOR YOU. I need a doctor. I am in urgent need of medical attention. I Have Got the Feeling I Need Sexual Healing.
21.30 Immediately stop whatever maniacal thing you’re currently doing and come home and fuck me blind.
21.32 Please.
21.40 You are a sexy bastard. Although sometimes just a bastard.
21.45 But sexy.
21.46 Sex!
21.50 :p
21.51 This is me right now: 8D
21.52 Do you see what I did there? How I’ve made it look like it’s wearing glasses?
21.53 8p
21.54 And curly hair! @8p
21.55 Oh my God I’m a genius. A sex genius.
21.56 Do you see what I did?
21.57 Do you get it?
21.58 Respond with the word ‘sex’ if you get it.
22.10 H has finally replied, the lazy old shit: Good evening my love. Apologies for leaving you for so long; I’m afraid I’ve been delayed but should be home within the next hour. Hmmm: ‘been delayed.’ That means he’s met someone unexpectedly and decided to murder them – mark my words.
22.11 Come back home this instant and murder my massive erection.
22.14 H has just texted again: How have you been today? Please get in touch when you can. Is he having a senior moment? What does he mean ‘get in touch when you can?’ I’ve been getting in constant touch for the past hour.
22.17 ‘Constant touch.’ Arf.
22.18 Unless…?
22.19 No!
22.20 OH HOLY SHITTING BUGGERING BASTARD FUCK! I have sent all my amazing sexts to the wrong person.
22.21 Why God, why?
22.22 Whyyyyyyy?
22.25 I actually can’t bear the idea of looking at my phone and discovering who the unfortunate recipient was.
22.26 What if it was my dad?
22.27 What if it was JACK?
22.40 Just forced myself to look. It was Hieronomo. I suppose it could have been worse…although admittedly not much worse.
23.00 H arrived home and gave me a sentimental kiss on the forehead then kept asking me what I’d been doing with myself all day, but I was so mortified by the drunken sexting that I’d lost the power of speech and ended up having to pretend to be asleep. Although in retrospect this was definitely a good thing, because there is no possible way of telling H that I inadvertently asked Hieronomo to come round and fuck me over the kitchen table without him losing his shit and going out again to burn the deli down then roasting Hieronomo in the ashes.
Wednesday
Badly hungover this morning. H making it worse by being massively condescending about the fact I’d drunk all his expensive wine. As self-defence I referred to him as my boyfriend just to piss him off (my exact words were: “You may be the FBI’s Most Wanted, but I hope you also realize that you are the boyfriend from hell”). It worked. The expression on his face was brilliant – ‘appalled’ doesn’t even come close. In fact he looked like JC did when he got the Miriam Lass voicemails.
Note to self. Just realized that I can’t refer to Jack as JC, because this is a commonly accepted abbreviation for Jesus Christ and if anyone ever does find this diary then they’ll think I’ve been having a series of demented religious revelations.
13.00 The whole boyfriend experiment was so successful that I am now compiling a suitable list of other inappropriate references with which to annoy H. So far I have come up with ‘other half’, ‘life partner,’ ‘bae,’ ‘boo,’ and ‘hubby.’ Have considered, but ultimately rejected, ‘better half’ because I am clearly the better half. Although I’m not sure I’ll be able to say “this is my hubby” without laughing.
13.10 Just practiced in mirror. Was not successful.
13.11 Also tried saying “this is my old man” like English people do, but was likewise unable to manage it without laughing (even though it is technically correct).
13.20 It’s much easier to say “this is my life partner” because it lends itself to extreme seriousness. It is the sort of thing hippies say. When introducing someone as your life partner you have to look very intense and solemn, and preferably place your hand on their shoulder in an earnest sort of way.
13.30 Although technically H is also my partner-in-crime as well as life partner and sexual partner. This seems an excessive amount of partnership for one person. This is typical of H – he always over-does everything.
13.45 Just asked H whether he is best considered as my partner in crime, life or sexual activities. He said he was all three: “obviously.” Then he looked smug.
13.47 Although if we had sex whilst committing crimes for the rest of our lives then this would mean we were a weird combination of lifetime crime sex partners. I patiently explained all of this to H, despite the fact he had clearly stopped paying attention.
Eventually I said: “You’re not listening to me are you?”
H opened his mouth to lie about it but then obviously decided he couldn’t be bothered after all and admitted that he had, in fact, been mentally strolling around the Etruscan collection at The Louvre and consequently had not heard a single word.
H is such a dick sometimes so I felt it was only fair to inform him that he could represent his country for unrepentant dickishness at an Olympic level. Well, he heard that just fine, because he gave me one of his highly annoying supercilious looks. Then he threw his book at me (although I caught it and threw it back, so technically victory was mine).
The moral of all this is that H has got irritatingly selective listening down to a fine art. Although in spite of this I am still extremely happy that he is my life crime sex partner.
15.00 Ugh, whoever said ‘time heals all wounds’ was full of shit because I’m still completely consumed with mortification over the fact I spent all last night sexting Hieronomo. Adding to my misery is the strong suspicion that he’s the type of person who customises their contact list with photographs – which, if true, means he’s currently in possession of a cell phone with a picture of me (no doubt pulled off the internet and looking highly serious in an FBI uniform) accompanied by several earnest requests to blow my trumpet, murder my erection, then fuck me over the kitchen table.
16.00 Oh God: I just went into the kitchen and Hieronomo was there with another crateful of overpriced maniac food then proceeded to keep winking at me the entire time. H must never know or he will murder him to death. Which would be bad for Hieronomo but far worse for me, because it would mean I’d have ‘inadvertent death by sexting’ on my conscience for the rest of my life.
19.00 Seeing Hieronomo made me feel a bit sad on behalf of the misdirected sexts (languishing all on their own in the wrong phone), so I ended up forwarding them onto H. The result was extremely positive. In fact I may not be able to walk straight for a few days, although this isn’t necessarily a bad thing as I’m too afraid to go out in case Hieronomo winks at me and H sees it and then murders him to death.
23.30 Just remembered my Evil Baby Hypothesis, so woke up H to ask him if he’s got any baby photographs of himself but he says he hasn’t. Then he gave a long-suffering sigh and rolled over and went back to sleep again. Huh. This means the Evil Baby Hypothesis is destined to remain untested. No doubt he burnt all the photos along with the rest of the incriminating evidence the last time he got arrested.
Thursday
09.00 H has entered some kind of Memory Palace coma and is refusing to come downstairs so out of boredom I was reduced to flicking through Cosmopolitan again. Needless to say I erred on the side of caution this time and avoided anything that could be interpreted as relationship advice. I did a quiz called ‘How To Tell If He’s Your Boyfriend!’ instead.
- He plans real dates. I‘m not sure about this. Do crime scenes count as dates?
- He leaves his belongings round at your place. Again, this is open to interpretation. Do other people’s body parts count as belongings?
- He plans surprises for you. Christ, does he ever.
- He comes over when you’re sick. Yes, but only to make you draw a clock and ensure his enormously manipulative scheme to fuck you up is proceeding on schedule.
- He shows you his vulnerable side. I suppose so. Even though you wish he hadn’t bothered, because H’s vulnerable side has a tendency to stand in its kitchen looking sad before it tries to murder you.
- You bond over your shared interests. Yes. Oh my fucking God.
- He wants to know everything about you. Cosmopolitan, you have NO IDEA.
- You are always the focus of his attention. See answer to question 7.
- He talks about your future. Yes, although only in incredibly convoluted metaphors. Then he will sit in a glass box for three years and look smug while waiting for it to come true.
- His friends Facebook you. This one’s a no because H doesn’t actually have friends. The only thing H has are stalkers, bounty hunters, body parts and a Rodelex of recipe cards – and these things are not generally renowned for their social media skills. Although H’s stalkers all have a tendency to stalk me as well, which should surely count for something? Plus one of them tried to steal my actual face, so Facebook can kiss my ass.
- He is a shoulder to cry on. Sort of. Although admittedly he’s usually the one who made you cry in the first place…the big bastard.
- He does things for you he wouldn’t do for anyone else. Well he didn’t murder me, so I suppose yes.
- His plans usually revolve around you. It depends what you mean by plans. If you mean ‘evil master plans’ then – hell yes.
- He gets upset if he doesn’t hear from you all day. Yes. And then he will turn up out of nowhere in a big fuck-off Bentley and stalk you into submission.
- He actively wants to meet your friends or family. Yes, but only because it makes it easier to murder them.
Hmmm, 14 out of 15…interesting. According to Cosmopolitan, it would seem that H has actually been my boyfriend for several years.
10.30 Am still feeling a bit confused over the Cosmopolitan revelation, although this is hardly my fault as it's not every day you discover that you've had a boyfriend since 2013 without even realising it. It’s also further evidence that Freddie Lounds is a clueless hack who always exaggerated everything – even if that’s admittedly quite a good thing in this case, as ‘Murder Boyfriends’ definitely doesn't have the same ring to it. It sounds like a crap black metal band who meet up and practice in their parents’ garage until their amp blows up halfway through.
11.00 Just dropped my Cosmopolitan bombshell on H and informed him that he has apparently been my boyfriend since 2013. Unlike me, H was not remotely surprised about this information. In fact he just raised his eyebrows and gave me his favorite ‘well yes, obviously’ expression.
14.00 The Accidental Boyfriend has just informed me that he thinks I’ve been indoors for too long so forced me to come into the village with him, which I agreed to do despite the fact it’s hotter than hell outside. In this respect H was wearing sunglasses and a short-sleeved shirt and looking very suave – although the problem with this is that he knows he looks suave and from my point of view therefore stops looking suave and just looks like a big narcissistic egomaniac instead. In fact you could totally tell that the word “SWAG!” was going round his head on a mental loop. Although there were a group of tourists in the high street who were very appreciative of suave egomaniacs because they were staring at H with blatantly amorous intentions: no doubt the word “SWAG!” was going round their heads on a mental loop as well. H obviously thought so because he gave a massive smirk, at which point they started grinning and fluttering their eyelashes at him. Honestly he’s so embarrassing, I can’t take him anywhere.
We went round the edge of the village square and then unfortunately ran into Hieronomo. Awkward. He started shrieking “Signore Guglielmo!” as soon as he saw me then lunged across the street in my direction like one of those mutant pigs. H immediately looked pissed off – he doesn’t like people calling me ‘William’, because that’s what he always calls me when he’s annoyed with me and doesn’t think that anyone else should be allowed to do it. “I hope you have not misdirected any more of your delightful messages,” Hieronomo added. “Although if you do, please misdirect them to me.” Then he winked again. H looked ready to spontaneously combust. Oh God, there’s no helping some people – they are simply determined to get themselves murdered to death.
17.00 I've made H promise not to murder Hieronomo because of the sexts. It took a lot of doing.
17.15 H now sulking at being denied an opportunity to murder someone.
17.20 I told H that if he murders Hieronomo I will never have sex with him again (H, not Hieronomo).
17.22 Not quite sure why I felt the need to clarify that last part, as even I would draw the line at having sex with a murdered corpse.
17.30 H has just stood over me with his arms folded and made me write ‘Get drunk and send sexts to local tradespeople’ on the Things We Do That Are Annoying And Must Stop Doing list; which I agreed to, as long as he added ‘Ostentatiously flaunt one’s swag in front of the tourists’ to it as well.
17.40 H is now sitting at the kitchen table looking hard done by because he’s not allowed to murder Hieronomo. He is totally overdoing it. In fact he’s wearing an expression of nobly resigned suffering that would be more suitable for a martyr tied to a stake.
18.00 A bunch of flowers left on the villa steps! Clearly Hieronomo, hoping for a repeat of the sexting. I threw them over the wall into the next villa before H could see them.
18.05 Neighbors just threw the flowers back over the wall. Ungrateful bastards. I buried them in the back garden instead (the flowers, not the neighbors).
18.10 Why did I do this? Why not just put them in the trash?
18.11 Does this mean I have a subconscious fixation with burying things?
18.12 Oh God, I’ve got a subconscious fixation with burying things. Maybe I should see a therapist? I probably should see a therapist. Not least because it’s actually been quite selfish of me to deprive the forensic pathology community of the opportunity to use me as a case study for all these years when all they’ve all been falling over themselves to have a go. I may try and persuade H to unselfishly donate himself to the forensic pathology community also. It would give him a nice change from all those lying articles he used to write about himself for American Psychiatry.
18.30 Went upstairs to find H, who had shifted his epic sulking from the kitchen to the bedroom. I asked him if he was going to follow my selflessly public-spirited example and donate himself to the forensic pathology community as well? He said no.
18.45 Just made an extremely half-hearted attempt to cook something for dinner. I tried to get H to help me but he was too busy dramatically flopping himself across the bed because I won’t let him murder Hieronomo.
19.00 Oh Christ, now the neighbors have come round to yell at me in Italian for throwing flowers into their garden. At least I think that’s what they were doing. In this respect it’s actually quite entertaining being told off in a foreign language because you can invent your own reasons for the aforesaid telling off. I spent the whole time imagining they were shouting at me for being a massive badass and making them look feeble and useless in comparison. Anyway they were totally overreacting because anyone would think I’d been shovelling shit over the wall as opposed to lobbing a bunch of flowers from the local sex pest.
19.10 H has just come downstairs and asked what all the noise was about. The neighbors will never know how lucky they were to miss him and that they accidentally came extremely close to being murdered to death.
I told H that it was just the couple in the next villa acting like a bag of dicks. Unfortunately H is so pretentious and rarefied that he hadn’t heard this expression before and didn’t know what it meant. I laughed so hard I was at a real risk of stress-induced incontinence, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so hysterically funny as Dr Hannibal Lecter – scourge of the FBI, terror of the Western World – standing there looking confused and repeating “A bag of what Will? A bag of dicks?”
Friday
Woke up last night to hear a drunken Hieronomo serenading me under the window in Italian! I had to forcibly restrain H from going outside to murder him to death (I achieved this by sitting on H’s chest and refusing to get off). H said that if I didn’t get off him and let him dispose of Hieronomo then he will never have sex with me again. Stalemate! Although it ultimately turned out that H was being a big bullshitter (as per) because he was more than capable of pushing me off his chest all by himself so withholding sexual favors was actually irrelevant to the whole issue. As a last resort I had to pretend to fall off the bed and hit my head, because I know that H always feels guilty at the idea of hurting me (this is an example of ‘better late than never’) and therefore wouldn’t be able to bring himself to go out murdering while his other, better half was unconscious/dead on the bedroom floor. Mission accomplished.
Once it was clear that H was not going to murder Hieronomo then I staged a miraculous recovery, at which point H looked a bit pissed off because he realized he had clearly been bullshitted. Although he had absolutely no right to be annoyed on the grounds that he will take any opportunity to shamelessly bullshit himself, including innocent bystanders, inanimate objects and non-human mammals. In fact if it moves (or, alternatively, stays still long enough) then H will bullshit it. So it completely served H right to have a taste of his own bullshitting medicine and if anything he should have been thanking me for showing him the error of his bullshitting ways.
Nevertheless this still left the problem of Hieronomo wailing underneath our bedroom window and having to find a way of getting rid of him that did not involve either bullshit or reckless homicide. As a compromise I suggested having extremely noisy sex so that Hieronomo would hear it through the open window and realize that I’m spoken for, and hence no amount of drunken singing will be sufficient to make him a recipient of further Graham sexts. H agreed this to be an excellent plan. H is incredibly good at sex so it was very easy to make a huge amount of noise, at which point the singing abruptly cut off – this is what is known as A Good Result. The problem was that I overdid it a bit (a lot)…but this was not my fault, because my reasoning was that the sooner Hieronomo understands that I will not be sexting him again, then the less likely it is that he’ll be murdered and therefore the less likely it is that I’ll have ‘death by sexting’ on my conscience for the rest of my life. This is just logical. Anyway, I overdid it for reasons related to logic and the overall result was that it sounded like we were playing some kind of orgiastic porn film – which would have been okay, expect that once the thought had occurred to me I couldn’t stop thinking it, which meant I started laughing, which meant all orgiastic porn noises immediately ended (because it is not possible to make ecstatic porn noises while laughing hysterically – this is also just logical).
H looked highly irritated, which I suppose is fair enough because if you’re sexually servicing someone to the best of your ability then it’s not particularly gratifying if they start cackling with laughter halfway through. Anyway, things then got even worse because as soon as I stopped making Orgiastic Anti-Murder Porn Noises then the singing started again – this time with a soulful rendition of My Heart Will Go On.
Even I lost my temper then (because – Celine Dion), so ended up leaping off of H and out the bed, then leaning through the window and shouting at Hieronomo to fuck off. Unfortunately I forgot I was naked and that all Hieronomo was probably aware of was me stood there with no clothes on, mad sex hair, and brandishing the remains of an erection at him while yelling ‘fuck’ – which technically might count as encouragement. At any rate that was how he interpreted it, because he started shouting “Signore Guglielmo! Mio dio! Bello! Bello!” in a sort of frenzy, so I started bellowing even louder to try and drown him out; at which point H came leaping across the room like a goddamn Olympic long-jumper on murder steroids in order to drag me away. I kept trying to wriggle out from underneath his arm, but it was impossible because H has the strength of 10 maniacs when he is pissed off so in the end I just had to wait while he leaned out himself and shouted something in Italian. Whatever he said was clearly more effective than my effort because the singing has now stopped.
On reflection, I have agreed that H may murder Hieronomo to death with my full endorsement and blessing.
Saturday
H has changed his mind about murdering Hieronomo! He’s realized it means the delicatessen would close. What a total hypocrite. I told him how delighted I was that my honor was less important to him than a load of stinking salamis, mouldy cheese and overpriced wine (which if I hadn’t had access to then I’d never have drunk sexted in the first place – which is also logical). H just looked smug. He has pointed out that I’m in no position to take the moral high ground, having just spent the last two days threatening to withhold sexual favors on the grounds of Hieronomo not getting murdered, so why am I complaining now that the murder plans have officially been abandoned? I told H that his version of the moral high ground is lower than a worm cemetery. H was not impressed by my brilliant analogy.
15.10 Am not speaking to H
15.30 Now H is not speaking to me.
15.40 No one is speaking.
15.50 May murder Hieronomo myself. No one could say that the stupid bastard didn’t have it coming.
16.00 Have just spent a highly productive and calming 30 minutes imagining how I might murder Hieronomo. For reasons of poetic justice it really ought to somehow involve a cell phone.
17.45 H is now standing at the bottom of the stairs yelling “Will!” I temporarily forgot that I was ignoring him and shouted back “What?” at which point he went “Will!” again. This is typical – he won’t actually say what he wants (or get his lazy old ass up the stairs and talk to me in person) but just expects me to go to him. Well he can fuck off. There is no way I’m going to crack first.
18.00 I cracked first. It wasn’t my fault though, because the owner of the villa came round and knocked on the door to ask if everything was all right (no doubt because the repeated strains of “Will”, “What?” “Will!” “What?” “WILL!” “WHAT?” were echoing round the village like an American/Lithuanian sonic boom).
I went into the kitchen and said: “What?”
Signore Bianchi kept gesturing anxiously from one of us to the other and saying “There is a problem? There is a problem here gentlemen?”
Me and H replied “No, there is no problem,” in perfect unison. This was obviously a massive lie but it sounded extremely convincing because if H is the Emperor of bullshitting I’m still the Archduke and Chief Ambassador. H then put his hand on my shoulder to indicate the complete absence of all things problematic – I was quite tempted to shake it off but in the end decided not to because he would have just put it back again, and I would have shrugged it off, and then there would probably have been a fight and Signore Bianchi might have accidentally got dragged into it and ended up getting murdered.
Signore Bianchi cheered up then and started gushing at us in Italian. I don’t know what he was saying but he sounded very enthusiastic. H provided a brief translation: apparently it was something along the lines of what good tenants we are and how nice it is to have respectable people after all the irresponsible tourists that he usually gets. I observed in an undertone to H that “if only he knew.” Me and H then proceeded to cackle with socially inappropriate laughter. Signore Bianchi promptly looked confused, so H started speaking charming bullshit to him in Italian.
After our deluded landlord had left I asked H what he wanted but he couldn’t remember any more, so all in all it was a bit pointless. H looked very dashing and I was about to initiate sexual activities over the kitchen table before remembering that I am officially still angry with him so unfortunately had to go to bed instead and leave him downstairs, because it is a Matter Of Principle. Was quite tempted to consult Cosmopolitan about how to organize ‘Making Up With Your Man,’ but ultimately decided not to on the grounds that whatever they advise will only make it worse.
Sunday
H has finally cracked and said that of course my honor is more important to him than a load of prosciutto and focaccia and that if I really want him to murder Hieronomo then he will. He then added “And if it will bring your current epic sulk to a premature close than that will be an additional bonus.”
“I am not sulking,” I said.
H just gave me his favorite ‘My dear Will, we both know that’s complete bullshit’ smirk (I say his favorite because he actually has a whole collection of them adapted for every conceivable occasion).
“I’m not,” I said.
H was still smirking, so for revenge I added: “And as of now I’m withholding all sexual favors, considering that you’re willing to get your stuffed olives and fois gras from someone who wants to fuck me over the kitchen table.”
Now H looks like he’s about to cry.
11.00 H is now desperate to murder Hieronomo again and I keep refusing him permission. This is what is known as ‘ironic.’
12.00 The only problem with withholding sexual favors is that you end up having to withhold them from yourself as well. This is all Cosmopolitan’s fault. I should never have listened to their shitty advice.
12.03 Told H I am prepared to negotiate around the distribution of sexual favors.
13.30 The distribution of sexual favors has been successfully negotiated: I’ll definitely not be able to walk straight for several days. H is looking incredibly smug. I intend to deliberately fall asleep with my head on his chest in order to drool on him during the night as a form of passive aggressive revenge for all the smugness.
14.00 Just realized that – oh my God – I still don’t know what H’s ‘big surprise’ is. I sincerely hope it doesn’t involve murder or sexual favors because I don’t think I can cope with any more of either of them.
14.15 Have just informed H that he should call his autobiography Murder and Sexual Favors. H said he would think about it; in the sort of tone that meant he had thought about it and thought it was shit.
I wonder what I should call my autobiography? I could probably call it Murder and Sexual Favors Volume II.
15.30 Another angry person has just turned up in the garden! At first I thought it was the neighbors come back to have another go about the flowers, but it turned out to be a weird little man with a huge beard (seriously, it’s length and girth defied description) who was there to yell at me for breaking Hiernomo’s heart and driving him to the Edge of Despair with my misdirected sexts. I kept trying to interrupt and point out that it was hardly my fault if Hiernomo was a thwarted stalker, as well as a creepy sex pest, and that anyone in their right mind would realize that I’d hardly ask him to come and blow my trumpet before fucking me over the kitchen table unless I was roaring drunk; not to mention the small fact that the sexts were clearly not meant for him as opposed to my Other Half (who by the way is a massive badass and will murder you and your repulsive beard to death if you don’t fuck off). I needn’t have bothered though, because he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways, or sideways, or any goddamn ways because he was too determined to keep lecturing me about Hiernomo’s Epic Grief until I started losing the will to live (and I have to put up with H’s lecturing on a daily basis, so I consider my boredom threshold for pompous lectures to be freakishly high).
Eventually even he realized he wasn’t getting anywhere so announced his intention to write to me instead. “Oh yes, by all means email me,” I said politely. “My address is WhyDon’tYouKissMyAss@IDon’tGiveAShit.com.” He actually started writing this down before realising that it is not, in fact, my real email address. Then he went bright red with rage. Fortunately H was nearby (basking in the sun and radiating murder vibes) so he quickly realized that there was fuck all he could do about it and he and his beard ran out the garden instead. I waved them both off, even though they didn’t really deserve such a civil gesture because although their accent was a bit indecipherable I’m about 94% certain that they called me a “cold hearted cock tease” – and calling someone a cold hearted cock tease in their own front garden just because they can’t operate their cell phone while drunk is incredibly out of order by general standards.
Bizarrely, I’ve also just realized that the bearded minion never explained who he actually was. My best guess is one of the following: Hiernomo’s (1) husband, (2) lover, (3) concerned relative, (4) psychiatric nurse, or (5) parole officer.
Speaking of lovers and parole officers, I generally think it’s a good policy to give credit where credit’s due so after he’d left I made a point of congratulating H on being able to exude such effective murder vibes despite not doing anything beyond lying in the sun like a big lizard and looking malevolent. H cracked open his eyes and confessed that he hadn’t actually been listening to the conversation and that it is far too hot to murder anyone. However I don’t believe this for a moment and have no doubt at all that H could murder people during floods, hurricanes, Biblical plagues of locusts, the zombie apocalypse and assorted disasters of land, air and sea if the situation demanded it. In fact saying it’s too hot to murder anyone is probably just H’s idea of being modest.
18.00 In spite of myself I can’t help feeling a tiny bit guilty about Hiernomo’s Epic Grief, so went to find H in order to get some reassurance that I am not, in fact, a cold hearted cock tease. Needless to say this did not go to plan: H thought about it for a while and then said that from his perspective he would probably have to agree on the grounds that I nearly drove him to distraction over the course of several years with my relentlessly cold hearted cock teasing. I replied that in my defence it is not unreasonable to cold heartedly cock tease someone after they have made several elaborate attempts to kill you and then deviously serve your dismembered bits to your colleagues at a pretentious dinner party. H grudgingly agreed that I might have a point.
18.30 In retrospect, perhaps H and Hiernomo could call a truce by drowning their sorrows together over the respective psychological wounds I have inflicted on them both courtesy of cold hearted cock teasing. It could be like a form of co-counselling. They could call themselves The CHCT Support Group. Or, alternatively, Survivors of Will Graham’s Cold Hearted Cock.
Not that Hiernomo would find it all that consoling, considering that H’s recovery prospects are substantially better than his. Apart from when I’m withholding sexual favors of course…which admittedly I have a certain tendency to do.
18.35 Oh God, I’m a terrible person aren’t I? A TERRIBLE COLD HEARTED COCK TEASING ABOMINATION.
18.40 Oh well. Never mind.
20.30 First official week of diary keeping is now over! Apart from one or two setbacks, an extremely successful seven days. Being on the run from the US Government is far easier than all those Hollywood movies would have you believe.