Aside from a few years in the early 2000s in which I harangued my mother to buy me a novelty red nose from Sainsbury's, which I wore twice before discarding it for being desperately uncomfortable, I have largely ignored Comic Relief, mostly because the BBC has a habit of producing and broadcasting 'comedies' that are excruciatingly unfunny. This year, however, the BBC commissioned a (mercifully) short sequel to Love Actually as part of the so-called fun, which I can only interpret as an aggressive act of revenge against me personally for never watching anything they show apart from Eurovision.
At first I briefly considered petitioning Ofcom to have the thing banned, but I decided that this was unfair. Plenty of people enjoy Love Actually as a staple of the Christmas period, and they are perfectly entitled to do so. I love plenty of things that can be objectively considered terrible, after all. I was also out of the country on the day itself and therefore was not forced to watch it.
"Be the change you want to see in the world," said someone who, in reality, almost certainly was not Mahatma Gandhi. Frequent misattribution aside, it's a solid piece of advice, and one that I intend to follow in this instance. So instead of telling you not to watch Love Actually 2, instead of complaining to the BBC for making it, instead of posting bitchy tweets throughout it, I am going to suggest improvements upon it. If Richard Curtis or any other purveyors of romantic comedy would like to hire me as a script consultant on any of their future pieces then by all means get in touch.
---
Former prime minister David sits dejectedly at the breakfast table, unable to look away from the television. It's showing BBC Breakfast; Charlie's presenting today. David stares at the screen while absently stirring his coffee, ears half tuned in, listening only for the sound of his own name.
There was a time when David dreaded being mentioned in the media. The weeks following his ill-advised referendum on Britain's membership of the European Union, which backfired spectacularly. The vote of no confidence that was eventually called in his government. One of his senior ministers winning the party leadership unopposed and, of course, not giving him a place in the Cabinet. People talked about him then. They were vicious. They were mocking. Not just about the referendum and the collapse of his government – nothing was off-limits for these people. They even made fun of his hair.
Now nobody's talked about him for months. It's almost worse. He starts to miss the insults, the Steve Bell cartoons in which his head was drawn as freakishly large and shiny, like a sanded-down asteroid. He was once referred to as the 'worst prime minister Britain had ever had'. Now it looks like his successor is doing an even worse job. It's not like he was exactly proud of the title, but the alternative is to be forgotten, reduced to a brief endnote in the A-Level history textbooks of 2050.
Natalie walks briskly into the kitchen, already dressed for work. David looks up as she passes between him and the television, a hopeful smile forming on his face, but she doesn't look him in the eye. She never looks him in the eye anymore.
---
Jamie sits in his solicitor's office. Aurélia is late. She's always late. Such is the Mediterranean temperament. He always tried to focus on her positive qualities rather than her appalling timekeeping. The generosity of soul, the fiery impulsiveness, the seemingly endless compassion. These are the things Jamie tells people he fell in love with her for, not that she was pretty and helpful, the latter quality of which was necessary for her continued employment.
You can have all of those things and still be punctual, though, Jamie thinks irritably.
Twenty minutes later she finally arrives. She looks effortlessly beautiful in a T-shirt, plain jeans, and shabby old boots. He knows she doesn't have any makeup on and yet her skin is glowing. She could have made a bit of an effort, considering the formality of the situation. But still beautiful.
The solicitor is young and fairly recently qualified, but his manner is professional and his knowledge of their case thorough. It's fairly open and shut. The pair simply do not get along anymore. If Jamie is completely honest with himself, it is debatable whether they ever got along in the first place. She uses words like 'grumpy' and 'pretentious' when speaking about him, and states that his relationship history made him jealous and distrusting of her male friendships. He is just thankful that she isn't interested in any of his assets. She simply wants to return to France, to her family, to nice weather, to the life she gave up to marry a man she barely knew anything about.
You can have all of those things and still be punctual, though, Jamie thinks irritably.
Twenty minutes later she finally arrives. She looks effortlessly beautiful in a T-shirt, plain jeans, and shabby old boots. He knows she doesn't have any makeup on and yet her skin is glowing. She could have made a bit of an effort, considering the formality of the situation. But still beautiful.
The solicitor is young and fairly recently qualified, but his manner is professional and his knowledge of their case thorough. It's fairly open and shut. The pair simply do not get along anymore. If Jamie is completely honest with himself, it is debatable whether they ever got along in the first place. She uses words like 'grumpy' and 'pretentious' when speaking about him, and states that his relationship history made him jealous and distrusting of her male friendships. He is just thankful that she isn't interested in any of his assets. She simply wants to return to France, to her family, to nice weather, to the life she gave up to marry a man she barely knew anything about.
"Thank God there are no kids," the solicitor later says to his colleague over coffee. "Makes the whole thing a lot easier to deal with."
"What's the official reason?" his colleague asks.
"Irreconcilable differences. Turns out it's probably a good idea to have a conversation or two with someone before you agree to marry them."
"What's the official reason?" his colleague asks.
"Irreconcilable differences. Turns out it's probably a good idea to have a conversation or two with someone before you agree to marry them."
---
"Pete," says Juliet tentatively, walking into the living room where her husband is sitting in front of Netflix. "You, er, you haven't spoken to Mark recently, have you?"
They don't hang out with Mark anymore. Obviously. For the sake of avoiding putting mutual friends in awkward positions, Peter maintain a chilly civility with him, but they haven't spoken more than three consecutive sentences to each other in several years. But recently a letter came through the door in handwriting that Juliet recognised, burned into her limbic system forever from those bloody cards. Peter never shared the contents of the letters with her, and she didn't feel it appropriate to ask.
Peter turns to her, a thoughtful but not angry expression on his face. "I haven't spoken to him, no," he says, "but he wrote me quite a nice letter a few weeks ago, apologising for, y'know, coming on to my wife." Juliet feels her face heat up a little. "He said a lot of stuff, actually. For the first time, I actually believe him that he regrets it. He seems to have made a real effort to change and show that he valued our friendship and misses me. I don't know if I'm going to talk to him again, but I appreciated the gesture. Why do you ask?"
Juliet swallows. "Well, I don't think you should. You know I put some photos from Bali on Instagram the other day?" She presents her phone to him. "He's gone through and liked every single one where I'm wearing a bikini."
Peter rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV.
---
"Pete," says Juliet tentatively, walking into the living room where her husband is sitting in front of Netflix. "You, er, you haven't spoken to Mark recently, have you?"
They don't hang out with Mark anymore. Obviously. For the sake of avoiding putting mutual friends in awkward positions, Peter maintain a chilly civility with him, but they haven't spoken more than three consecutive sentences to each other in several years. But recently a letter came through the door in handwriting that Juliet recognised, burned into her limbic system forever from those bloody cards. Peter never shared the contents of the letters with her, and she didn't feel it appropriate to ask.
Peter turns to her, a thoughtful but not angry expression on his face. "I haven't spoken to him, no," he says, "but he wrote me quite a nice letter a few weeks ago, apologising for, y'know, coming on to my wife." Juliet feels her face heat up a little. "He said a lot of stuff, actually. For the first time, I actually believe him that he regrets it. He seems to have made a real effort to change and show that he valued our friendship and misses me. I don't know if I'm going to talk to him again, but I appreciated the gesture. Why do you ask?"
Juliet swallows. "Well, I don't think you should. You know I put some photos from Bali on Instagram the other day?" She presents her phone to him. "He's gone through and liked every single one where I'm wearing a bikini."
Peter rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV.
---
Billy Mack died unexpectedly in 2016, just like everyone else you love.
---
Sam is in an expensive West-London bar. He's waiting for a smiley-looking, blonde bioscience undergraduate called Emma, who he matched with on a dating app, to arrive. He is smothered in cologne that claims to contain sex pheromones.
Of course, Sam is no longer with the girl he had a crush on when he was ten. He's not been with any girl for a while, actually. He grew up believing that if he goes after what he wants and pulls out all the stops he will get the girl and live happily ever after, but the world is challenging this belief to its limit. Girls he's taken up new hobbies to impress have not reacted with flattery and lust but with discomfort and mild fear. The last time he chased someone through an airport with no regard for post-9/11 security measures he was locked up for forty-eight hours and she nearly pressed charges. Words like 'desperate', 'creepy', and 'dude, can you please just leave me alone?' have been thrown around more times that he'd care to admit. It doesn't feel fair. He just wants to give these women what they deserve, and get what he deserves in return.
Emma arrives, greeting him with a broad smile. She's slightly heavier than he would have expected from her pictures, but not enough to affect her prettiness. Should either of his friends ask, he would give her a seven and a half. Sam insists on ordering her an expensive cocktail – "Trust me," he says, "you'll love it." – and pays for her, making sure she's well aware that his salary is high enough to afford such things. He is bold in his speech. He spreads his legs and reaches his arm along the back of the sofa, taking up as much space as he can. He finds any excuse to make brief physical contact that he can. He follows every rule he's read from self-styled pick-up artists on Reddit.
Throughout the night she inches further away from him, until it seems as if she's trying to become one with the arm of the sofa. When he goes to the bathroom he comes back to her frantically texting; she takes almost a minute to stop after he sits down. She starts to make comments about being up early and having a long way to get home, even though he was sure she said her halls were only fifteen minutes away in South Kensington. Time to bring out the big guns, he thinks.
He leans in so close to her that she visibly recoils, shoots her what he considers to be his most charming smile, and says, "You know, you're a lot bigger that I expected from your photos, but I'm into it."
The date lasts around fifteen more minutes. When he goes in for a kiss she presents him with her cheek. He messages her when he gets home. She does not reply.
Three days have passed. Still no text, even though he caved in and sent a second one yesterday. She's linked her Instagram up to her dating profile, so he knows her surname now. He also knows she takes a lot of selfies. Vain bitch.
Frustrated, he clicks briefly away from sifting through Facebook profiles with her name on to /r/TheRedPill. He doesn't have to leave the first page before he finds a thread about how women, being inherently and incurably dishonest, hysterical, and cruel, should be imprisoned and used by men solely for reproductive purposes and sexual relief.
Sam types 'lol that'd show these bitches' and goes back to Emma's Instagram.
---
"I'm sorry, Mr Frissell," says Dr Andrews in a pleasantly lilting mid-western accent that could have been designed to soften the blow of bad news, "but you have tertiary syphilis."
Colin blanches. "Bloody hell." The comically exaggerated British idioms he adopted as an affectation to attract American women have crept into his natural speech patterns over the years. If only he had been more selective in whom he attracted and how he protected himself once he'd attracted them. "Is there anything you can do?"
"At this stage we can't do much about the damage that's already occured," explains the doctor, "but with large doses of intravenous penicillin we should be able to limit further progression. You can discuss payment plans for the treatment with the receptionist."
"At this stage we can't do much about the damage that's already occured," explains the doctor, "but with large doses of intravenous penicillin we should be able to limit further progression. You can discuss payment plans for the treatment with the receptionist."
Thanks to President Trump's repeal of Obamacare, Colin has no health insurance.
Colin suffers cardiovascular failure some months later. There were no mourners.
---
Karen and Harry put a reasonable amount of time and energy into working through their issues, attended couple's counselling, and became better, more emotionally healthy people for their efforts. Harry then died unexpectedly in 2016, just like everyone else you love.
Main image credit: wintersoul1
Karen and Harry put a reasonable amount of time and energy into working through their issues, attended couple's counselling, and became better, more emotionally healthy people for their efforts. Harry then died unexpectedly in 2016, just like everyone else you love.
Main image credit: wintersoul1
