BLONDES

Transcript for Blondes, Episode 5 of An Author’s Dreams podcast

It’s night. I’m standing in some kind of goods yard, beyond a set of vast iron gates, along with a group of men, who are viciously beating up a blonde man. I think it’s Boris Johnson, only he looks much younger than the haunted, haggard wannabe despot currently in power as the UK’s prime minister. He is partly in shadows as he struggles and cries out, illuminated only by intermittent pools of muted orange light.

Beyond the gates, unseen, are some of his victims; women, children, and men of all ages, some of them starving, some destitute, some dying. Although I can’t see them, I feel their presence and my sympathy flows towards them rather than the man before me who is becoming more and more naked by the second as the mob, shouting and yelling, rip his clothes from his body.

When he is finally stripped naked, I start strumming an acoustic guitar and play a song in A minor in order to soothe his unseen victims who I’m aware can hear what is taking place beyond the gates.

Johnson is completely naked now, and is being held upside down by the mob of furious men, who start dragging him towards the gate and the crowd of victims beyond.

I raise a hand and command the mob to stop. His punishment has now turned into torture, and if he is thrown to the crowd, he will undoubtedly be ripped limb from limb. No matter his heinous crimes, I cannot condone witnessing this hysterical torture.

Elsewhere, during the same, long night, three young girls are walking down a steep, murky street, its dankness illuminated only by dim yellow streetlights. They are all wearing long, slouchy V neck jumpers and leggings, and giant resin pendants, like the ones I have been making in my resin studio recently. One of the girls has her hair cut into a severe, blonde bob, the type of haircut I had when I was young. Out of sight, a violent man is following them. They are terrified.

It is daytime. I’m walking through a building alongside a blonde man with an amiable face. He’s quite shy and insecure, but genuine, and I feel safe with him. I suspect that I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him. But behind his friendly façade, I wonder how I’ll know what crimes he has committed in the past. As we’re both in our sixties, he must have some history. He could be a liar, a charlatan, a thief, or a killer.

And I would never know, as he walks along beside me so innocently.