Gary Lineker, The Snake, and The Collected Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield

At around six in the evening, on the night before The Collected Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield needed to be finished reading, on the last day of the entire week in which it had to be read in, as he sat down on the small grey sofa which he planned to read it on, the boy was bitten by a snake. The snake had sunken its impressive collection of teeth right into the boys ankle, and despite his best efforts, those teeth stayed sunk for over two hours.

At first, the bite was near painless. The boy hardly even realised he was being bitten.

You hear about Gary Lineker, mate? said the snake.

The boy had not heard about Gary Lineker but was very intrigued by the story. The boy had always liked Lineker and thought that he was spot on in calling the government’s latest refugee policy exactly what it was.

Yeah, so, said the snake. Ian Wright and Alan Shearer have also, now, refused to do Match Of The Day this Saturday, and so have all the other BBC pundits, and all the commentators, everyone, even the players, and, apparently, they’re gonna sack Gary if he doesn’t apologise, wouldn’t be surprised if they locked him up, me.

If I wanted to prove that I wasn’t a fascist, thought the boy, I probably wouldn’t do so by silencing my critics.

Yeah, so, said the snake. Apparently, Ian Wright and Alan Shearer are refusing to do Match Of The Day this weekend.

The boy realised that the snake had started repeating itself, and suddenly, the boy became excruciatingly aware of the teeth in his leg. FUCKER! he thought. The teeth had somehow made their way up to his thigh. He began to panic. You need to get off right now, he thought, that is more than enough time to spend being bitten by a snake.

But the snake persevered! Look, said the snake, I know you’re supposed to to be reading The Collected Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield, but why not do some research first? Wet the whistle? The boy knew it was probably a bad idea. But, nevertheless, he thought, yeah, fair enough, good idea, and the snake told him that Katherine Mansfield had lived from October 14th, 1888, to January 9th, 1923. Ah, no way! the boy muttered to himself, Katherine Mansfield died on the day I was born! Well, actually, he thought, not the day I was born, but exactly seventy-four years before the day I was born. Doesn’t count, said the snake, I was born on the actual day that Jimi Hendrix died, said the snake, that’s far more impressive than your lame statistic, Jimi Hendrix was part of the twenty-seven club too, said the snake, oh and also, said the snake, Mansfield’s works are celebrated across the world, and have been published in 25 languages.

Alright, can you fuck off, can you? thought the boy. I’m going to grab some water, he decided for himself, and when I get back there’ll be absolutely no snakes of any kind biting my leg, alright? So he did. He got up, quickly whacked the heating on, filled up the water bottle he’d been meaning to fill up for the last hour, and sat back down on that small grey sofa. He looked down at his thigh and the snake was gone. Success, he thought. But then felt a sharp snake-like pain just under his arm. You’re pathetic, he told himself. Thought it would be that easy did ya? taunted the snake.

Alright, snake, listen, thought the boy. I really need to get this reading done tonight, alright? So please can you just fuck off? please?

Ok, fine, said the snake. I understand. I can tell when my company’s not wanted. You’ve got stuff to do, I get it, honestly, I do. Let me just teach you how to play, like, four of the most iconic basslines of all time, and then I’ll leave you alone to read The Collected Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield. Is that okay? asked the snake. Is that a fair deal?

FINE! said the boy, and the snake’s teeth removed themselves from his underarm, and then he went into his bedroom and grabbed his shitty, £10-off-of-facebook-marketplace classical guitar, and then he returned to that small grey sofa, and then he felt that sharp incessant rage of the snake’s teeth sink back into his skin, into his neck this time, and then he learnt how to play Another One Bites the Dust, and then he learnt how to play Feel Good Inc., and then he learnt how to play Billie Jean, and each of them entertained and distracted him for all of five seconds that he played them before moving onto the next one and then eventually throwing his shitty guitar onto the nearby large white sofa, and then the snake started telling him about Gary Lineker again, and the snake kept talking about Gary for a long time, even though there had been absolutely no developments since the snake had last told the boy about the situation, and then the snake told the boy about what all his friends had been up to so far that day, that Grace had bought a Mocha in Costa, that Zack had been writing an essay on World War I, that Mathilda had gone for a walk with her dogs and that Michael was hungover and watching Emily in Paris in bed, and then the snake described instances in which dogs and cats and porcupines had done funny or just plain cute things, and then the snake read some poetry and recited some comedy stand-up routines, and in the back of the boy’s mind he knew that he really should be reading The Collected Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield, and that if he didn’t start soon there was no way he’d finish all the stories before tomorrow like he knew he needed to, and in the back of the boy’s mind he knew that he couldn’t really blame the snake, not really, and in the back of the boy’s mind he really kind of hated himself in that exact moment, and felt like he should probably get some therapy soon, and then the doorbell rang.

And then, finally, the snake pulled its impressive collection of teeth out of his neck. And then the boy went and buzzed in his flatmate’s girlfriend. And then the boy spoke briefly to his flatmate about the snake he’d just wrestled with. And then the boy went and sat back down on the small grey sofa, alone this time. And then the boy took some deep breaths. Five in, five out. And then the boy read The Collected Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield. And in the end, the boy finished it with enough time spare to catch an early night.