Alexander Armstrong is, as is normally the case by 6pm, ticking.
He concentrates and pours himself more amber liquid from the decanter into his Ikea half-pint glass. He used to have proper whisky glasses, but he’d accidentally broken them all. Some had fallen off the edge of the table. Others had been in the sink and he’d smashed them by not noticing and putting a bowl in there too.
Richard Osman is on Alexander’s TV.
“Oh, I wonder if he’ll say, ‘Stand-ups usually do well?” Alexander scoffs. “Fucking prick.”
Richard Osman, on the TV says, “Stand-ups normally do well.”
“There it is, you fucking wanker,” Alexander tells the TV, shaking his head and nearly spilling. He takes a sip. “If people knew what you were really like…” Alexander Armstrong squints and then shifts his weight to one side and breaks wind. “Oops!” he giggles, surprised at how loud it was. He looks around his lounge, even though he knows it’s just him. Just him and Richard Fucking Osman on the TV.
Richard Osman is on the TV pretending to be confused by a spelling challenge.
“Why are you writing books, then?” shouts Alexander. “If you can’t even spell intravenous?”
Alexander knows the reason very well. Richard was approached to write a book. He’d told Alexander. Richard had had no interest in writing a book, but the money was good, he’d said. He’d asked for advice on what to write because he knew that Alexander was writing a proper book. Alexander suggested he just do some bullshit middle-class crime caper, or something. Book clubs lap that shit up. Richard had said it sounded ‘low brow’ and he wasn’t really into writing things for cat women.
Alexander, in his lounge, chuckled. “Look at you fucking now, you big fraud.” His chuckle turned into a wince. He didn’t want it to but the rejection letter he’d received from that literary agent popped into his mind. He closed his eyes. He instead tried to think of the successful round they’d filmed earlier. The contestants had got all the questions wrong and then Alexander had done that thing where he would, unprompted, even though he was the presenter, nonchalantly get all the questions right. The questions had been hard. That had given him some joy. It would have given him more joy if Richard Osman was still his side-kick. The guest presenter this week was some northern goblin who Alexander wasn’t interested in at all. They had nothing in common. He couldn’t even remember their name.
On television Richard was pretending to like Blink 182. “I’ve seen you laugh at Shakespeare plays, Richard! Just be honest! You’re posher than me!”
By the time Answer Smash came on Alexander was more than ticking. “Dua Lipa… Duck! Duck a lipa!” he shouted at the TV. “Ducka Lipa!” he shouted. “Fuck.” Alexander had got that wrong. Alexander couldn’t do Answer Smash, even when sober. He’d always say the picture first. Also, it hadn’t been Dua Lipa, it was someone else entirely.
Alexander looked at his decanter. Richard Osman’s etched face was on it. Richard had given it to him as a joke. Alexander had laughed when he accepted it. Alexander grasped the top and carefully turned it around. He didn’t know if he was mad or sad. He knew that everything was unfair. He managed to get halfway through the next show before falling