Joni
‘Are you fookers hard enough?’
Even before the question, screeched by The Stapler via a redundant megaphone, had registered in Joni’s waterlogged ears, her brain was firing back an arch response. Not bloody likely. Nowhere near. And never will be.
The insistent backbeat of the rain had been building, to be joined by winds howling like something from a horror movie, deep cracks of primal thunder and huge arcs of tropical lightning breaking the sky open. It was cold and wet in the burrow, and getting colder and wetter by the second.
The rapid shaking from her jacket, which, until a few moments ago had reminded her that Des was still alive, had slowed to the odd, miserable shudder.
And she feared for them both.
The insane buzz of some jungle insect was so loud, Joni had visions of it coming for her, cat-sized and intent on sucking the marrow from her bones. Before the storm struck proper, there had been an eerie stillness, a collectively held breath under the thick green sky. But with the storm had come the stark bite of real fear. It was so dark, and the dark held memories that Joni wasn’t ready to face …
‘Only one thing for it, D, my fine furry friend,’ she whispered to him, realising he probably wouldn’t hear her above the tropical storm raging around them. Of course, Frankie might have declared Des’s lack of knowledge of the English language to be a greater obstacle than Joni’s lack of volume, but Joni was a great believer that if you spoke from the heart, animals always understood. ‘Time to go eat some shit.’
As she wriggled out of the burrow, she almost careened into three mobile digital taping units, their long noses pointing determinedly at Joni’s burrow. She swallowed the thick wave of self-loathing that rose in her as she realised her fear and loneliness had been unnecessary. With all the creative and technical support, there were more people here, within three square feet of the burrow, than lived in her block of flats back home. Joni realised with a shock that The Stapler had decided her burrow was where the action was. That Joni would be the first to crack.
For another woman, such knowledge may well have been the catalyst for her to return to the hole, determined not to let an international viewing audience of one hundred million see her fall from grace.
But Joni was comfortable with weakness.
She peered heroically out through the blinding rain, past the lights of the mobile units, and tried to recall which way it was back to that lacy fringe where the jungle met the beach. She attempted as best she could to brush the caked-on peat off her silly green dress, lurched forward like a myopic drunkard, and felt Des rally with her determined gait. She could not see more than three steps ahead of her, and the fat, warm raindrops were pounding into her so hard it was like being spat on by a machine gun.
She was about to stop, admitting she had no earthly idea how to go about crawling back to Frankie, and debase herself yet further by asking for directions from the posse of cameras trailing her. But just then, the sky lit up like Alexandra Palace on Guy Fawkes Night, and she had a perfect view maybe fifty yards ahead.
It had seemed like miles when she had come trudging back this way hours ago, full of irritation and injury. Another flash illuminated a little structure that seemed to be holding its end up, even despite the punishing rain and howling wind. Its rough roof appeared to be keeping the rain out and, through the cracks in the branches that made up the structure’s sides, Joni could see a warm glow. She tried to suppress a surge of pride, and reminded herself that Frankie had always paid close attention when their father had taken them on adventure camping trips as kids.
He’d really wanted boys.
While Frankie had done her best to soak up every lesson, and outdo any hapless male cousin, friend or hanger-on who’d come along for the ride, Joni had skived off and managed to find a quiet spot to sunbathe or have a fag. Or both.
Joni lurched slowly and painfully across the fifty yards between her and the promise of relief.
‘JoJo, is that you?’
Joni caught her breath at Frankie’s words. Twice in one day.
‘Yeah, it’s me. Can I …?’
Frankie didn’t make her finish what she was saying, but reached out one clean, dry hand, and hauled Joni and Des into the safety of her little enclosure. It was small, but seemed like the Taj Mahal. The floor was mostly dry and a small fireplace held embers that glowed strongly. Two sleeping bags were laid out at the sides of the structure, near their wood and the starter rations.
If Frankie’s initial greeting had caused Joni to hope her sister’s fury had abated somewhat since she had stormed off three hours before, the look on her face extinguished it. Frankie looked as though she were made of stone but for the tic in her eye, which Joni could see, even in the dim light, was fluttering madly.
‘You crazy cow.’ Frankie’s words sounded tight and strangled. ‘Where the bloody hell did you think you were going? You knew there was a sodding tropical sodding storm building.’
‘I had a plan.’ It sounded lame even to Joni’s ears.
‘It was not a plan, Joni. It was a hole.’
She followed me? ‘You saw?’
Frankie quickly corrected any misapprehension about sisterly concern that Joni might have been developing. ‘I had to get in enough firewood before the storm drenched everything. So, yeah, I saw the hole.’
‘Burrow,’ Joni said, in a small act of defiance.
‘What?’
‘It was a burrow.’
Frankie laughed suddenly, her lovely alto sounding almost forgiving. She smoothed her jeans fussily, as though she were wearing Valentino, and Joni realised Frankie had changed into even more practical clothes. She felt even more silly in her filthy green dress.
‘Burrows are horizontal. That bloody thing was a grave. And it would have filled up with water and killed any animal stupid enough to try to take shelter in it in this bloody shagging Old Testament storm.’
Frankie had a point; Joni hadn’t been able to work out how to make it horizontal after the initial vertical dig. She picked at her nails, thrusting out her bottom lip.
‘You can’t do this, you know, Joni. You’ve got to muscle up. Pull your weight. I’ll be damned if I’ll lose this thing because of you.’
Part of Joni knew she had to come some way to reconciliation. She had, after all, returned to Frankie’s shelter, which she’d had no hand in building. She was wet and miserable, and desperately needed to dry off and get some sleep. And she was banking on the fact Frankie needed her fit for the game tomorrow. ‘Yes, yes, I know, Frankie. I do.’ A tiny pause. ‘So, can I stay? Please?’
Frankie considered Joni, running her eyes across her sister as she passed her a dry sweater. Joni noticed the tic was still there and that her hands were shaking as she continued to smooth her jeans. Her manicure was shot.
‘Clean up,’ Frankie conceded. ‘You’re no good to us with pneumonia.’
Joni scraped the worst of the muck off herself. It was difficult to see properly with only the light of little coals, but the intermittent flashes of lightning aided the task.
What harm could befall her with Fearless Frankie here?
At least while Frankie had some reason not to slit her throat …
‘You’ve done a grand job, Frankie,’ Joni said, feeling she should bring something to the table. ‘I reckon we’re going to be all right now.’
She could see an acerbic response in Frankie’s beautiful grey eyes. But, reminding her of her mother wailing Don’t tempt fate, Joni’s words seemed to be the catalyst for a thunderous crack and a sudden fierce blow to the structure.
‘What the sweet Jesus was that?’ Frankie’s nervous eyes were now openly agitated. And Joni remembered.
She’s afraid of storms.
Frankie and Joni. Tiny. Maybe eight and six? Their father had briefly been posted to India.
Carter had been at an embassy cocktail party, and Lizzie had been off somewhere, doing her best Mother Teresa. Joni (who was usually the one who crawled, supplicant, into Frankie’s bed), felt Frankie’s warm hand pulling back her sheets this time. ‘I’m scared, JoJo, can I come in?’ It had been one of those wild storms that never touch England.
Joni had been scared too, once she was awake enough to realise the house was being pounded by some wild weather. But not in the same way as Frankie had been. The noise seemed to rock her very core. Something this reckless would not behave logically. And, somehow, even at six, Joni knew that logic was how Frankie understood the world. It kept her safe. If she just worked hard enough, tried hard enough, she could keep the chaos of their home, their lives, at bay.
Joni had held Frankie’s hand in hers, grateful to be the one offering comfort, for once, and begun, ‘Raindrops on roses …’
But there was nothing she could do about this storm.
Guilt erupted as Joni realised she had left her terrified sister to build the structure. Alone. And, worse, while being filmed for international telly, unable to let down her guard even a fraction.
Joni knew she had to help. Years of evading school administrators, local authorities and credit card companies had perfected her capacity to tell lies casually and convincingly.
‘I’ve read about tropical storms,’ she bullshitted smoothly. ‘Just as they’re about to peak, you sometimes can get localised pockets of lightning. Usually means things are winding up. Quite harmless, apparently.’
‘Where?’ Frankie was not one to be mollified easily. ‘Where did you read that?’ Her eyes were suspicious but hopeful.
‘G’s National Geographics,’ Joni confirmed.
Frankie nodded shortly and Joni knew her words rang true. Frankie had often lamented the time Joni spent poring over those things when she should have been doing her algebra. ‘Right, then, we should get some sleep.’
‘Yep, sure,’ Joni agreed happily. ‘Need to be on our game for tomorrow.’
Frankie was already in one of the Gore-Tex sleeping bags she had insisted they purchase, so Joni moved over to the other and lay down. There was no more talk but, after a few moments, Frankie’s breathing started to settle into her soft, snuffly rhythm that preceded sleep. Joni felt herself being pulled down by its tender fingers, despite the storm’s continued crash and thrust. Her muscles bitched and moaned, but she and Des both whimpered in contentment.
The shelter was like the Hilton compared with the burrow.
‘Good God!’ Joni was dragged from the black pit of sleep by the screaming of her sister, who, in one bound, had crossed the small distance between them and leaped into Joni’s sleeping bag.
Rubbing her eyes hard, Joni saw the wall of fire right beside Frankie’s sleeping bag, and even her sleep-addled brain conjectured correctly that the hut had been struck. Frankie was now frozen in terror.
Joni jumped up nimbly and thrust a rations bowl out into the rain. It filled in seconds and she doused the wall with the water. It wasn’t completely effective; small spots of flame remained, but Joni dealt with them by throwing clumps of sandy dirt at the wall. Only afterwards, when all remaining sparks had been dealt with, did Joni realise Frankie’s sleeping bag was saturated and filthy.
Frankie gaped at her. ‘What?’ Joni said.
‘It’s just …’ Frankie shook her head and began to sob uncontrollably.
The sister part of Joni opened like a wound at the sight of her fearless sibling coming apart at the seams. She scurried to Frankie, hopping into the sleeping bag, and wrapping long, slim arms around her while she patted her hair.
‘Shhhh,’ she crooned. ‘Shhhhh, Frankie, it’s okay now.’
But no amount of crooning was going to work. Like a floodgate bursting open, the close call had ripped open the frayed edges of Frankie’s grip on self-control.
There was only one thing for it.
‘“Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens …”’
Joni had not been blessed with a good one when God had handed out singing voices, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And if there was one thing G had taught them, it was that there were some things only Julie Andrews could fix. Joni felt Frankie buck a little and then still. She was sure she could hear Des starting to purr.
‘“Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens,”’ she went on.
Unexpectedly, she felt rather than heard Frankie’s alto, quiet and hiccuppy, pick up the melody. ‘“Brown paper packages tied up with string …”’
With that, both of them threw caution to the wind and belted out the tune with ever-increasing gusto. It felt naff, to be sure, but it also felt right. Just as the sisters reached the second chorus, they became aware of something else. Two somethings, really. First, they weren’t the only ones singing. Somewhere in the howling night, a tinny echo was drifting over, maybe half a beat behind them. Different accents and pitches, but a collective beating back of fear and isolation. One sound rang through clearly – the deep crooning of two male voices, harmonising perfectly in a thick, delicious brogue. Joni shook her head.
Fuck the United Nations. All the Middle East needs is Baroness von Trapp …
Second, both Joni and Frankie became aware that a black mirrored eye had insinuated itself through an opening in the wall that was slightly larger than the others. They were being watched.
Joni flipped the camera the bird and almost screamed at it: ‘“… then I don’t feeeeeeelllll soooooo baddd!!!”’
An answering scream rent the night, The Stapler’s profanities clearly audible even above the singing, and the crash and wail of the storm. ‘What the fook is this? This is not the fookin’ Disney Channel. Shut the fook up, all uv ya. Do something worthy of ratings, you useless pricks. Screw each other. Hit someone. Have a nervous fookin’ breakdown. But if I hear one more fookin’ bar of anything from The Sound of fookin’ Music, you’re off this fookin’ island!!!’
A sudden silence settled over the camp, as though the storm itself dared not challenge The Stapler’s authority.
Joni and Frankie smiled, and settled back to sleep.
Prising herself heroically from the dark, safe spot where no-one could hurt her, Joni registered that she and Frankie were still lying like sardines in her sleeping bag, arms wrapped around each other.
And the black eye was still watching.
Oh dear, Frankie is not going to like this, not one little bit.
This was not the plan. This is not the right look. Not at all.
Sliding easily into avoidance mode, Joni carefully eased herself away from a softly snoring Frankie. She took in the soddenness of Frankie’s side of the structure and the thick sludge of mud in which her sister’s sleeping bag lay like a slug in quicksand. Joni darted through the entry and scurried away quickly, making sure she took the obligatory mike pack with her.
It was obviously still early, although the sun was already warm on her back as she made for the beach. She saw a small huddle of crew conferring frantically over something at the editing tent but no other bodies yet graced the beach. No doubt, they were sleeping off the effects of the storm and the late-night homage to Julie Andrews.
Good, I need privacy. I need to think.
Joni started to sprint up the beach. Both she and Frankie were strong runners. Athletics had been one of the few pursuits they had shared growing up. As Joni powered along the crisp white sand, she remembered how it felt when the two of them would train together. They would pound the pavements of whichever town their father was posted in, keeping time deliberately, going for endurance rather than speed to start with. Then, as footpath gave way to moor, or marsh, or woodland, they would open up, pushing themselves and each other, striving for faster and longer and harder.
Joni ran for what seemed like miles before she stopped. She spied a lone figure, out in the surf, spare and brown, determinedly swimming against the current.
‘The early bird catches the worm,’ a maniacal Japanese voice shouted at her over the rush of the surf, and she realised it was Takahiro’s. She pointedly ignored him, and he raised a fist at her in challenge.
Bet they weren’t singing last night.
Striking out further up the beach, Joni rounded a corner and found a relatively sheltered patch of sand. She carefully and surreptitiously made a little shelter out of her clothing for Des to rest in while she bathed, and removed the mike pack. She hoped anyone watching would put her furtive actions down to modesty. She decided to strip only to her underwear but, even so, ran swiftly into the surf. The thought of millions of eyes on her near-naked body agitated her in ways she didn’t want to think about.
The water felt good, like a salty body scrub against traumatised skin. Joni wallowed for what felt like an eternity, before dragging her protesting limbs back out onto the beach. She was almost at the small pile of clothes and rodent when a cheerful voice called, ‘Morning, Joni, and may I say how much I enjoyed the impromptu performance last night?’
Lex. Sounding loose and relaxed. Lying on a striped towel, like he was passing the time at Blackpool.
Not at the ends of the bloody earth. With a job to do.
He looked long and golden brown, like royalty. She thought about the rest of the crew, obviously frantically editing and splicing ahead of tonight’s viewing deadline, and felt unaccountably annoyed with this beautiful loafer.
He was Lex Margate. He should be better than this.
‘You’re a fan?’ She tried to squash the surge of irritation.
‘I prefer “Sixteen Going on Seventeen”, but yes. Definitely a fan.’
He smiled in a kind way that made Joni want to tell him things.
‘I think I’m in trouble with The Stapler.’
Lex brayed, somehow elegantly.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Joni. She thinks only sex sells. But what about all those YouTube hits for that sweet guy dancing his way across the world? We like to feel uplifted sometimes. I think the singing was brilliant. Did you plan it?’
The question seemed innocent, but Joni couldn’t shake the feeling she was being tested. She shook her head and saw in his eyes that he saw the truth of it. He nodded, and smiled at her with real warmth.
‘You didn’t seem to be involved in the challenge yesterday?’ Joni couldn’t help but ask.
‘Nope.’ Lex nodded his head in agreement, smiling beatifically at her.
‘Busy with the creative stuff?’ She couldn’t let it go.
‘Busy Skyping my niece,’ he corrected her. ‘It was her birthday.’
‘Seems to be something going on back at the editing tent,’ Joni remarked, with an effort at casualness. ‘Should you be there?’
‘Ah, no, I shouldn’t think so,’ Lex drawled gently, patting his stomach and reaching for some sunscreen for his gently sloping shoulders. ‘Bigger fish to fry.’
‘Specifically?’ Joni felt testy.
He doesn’t feel the need to even fake interest in his job.
‘Tan,’ he supplied shortly. Then, ‘You don’t, I see?’
Joni looked down at her dripping form, clad only in bra and panties, and saw the truth of his words. She also saw herself as he must see her – skinny, white, and strangely camera-shy for a girl who dressed as she did. She didn’t feel embarrassed. For all his apparent debauchery and laziness, something about Lex made Joni feel safe. Maybe it was his lovely accent. Or maybe the gentle way he moved, like he didn’t want to startle her.
Perhaps he’s gay?
But, as she watched him take in her body in an assessing, appreciative kind of way, she thought, Okay, not gay.
‘Ah, no,’ Joni agreed.
A tiny alarm sounded on Lex’s beautiful gold wristwatch and he jumped as though pulled out of an erotic daydream.
‘Oh dear,’ he muttered. ‘Must be off.’
‘Crew meeting?’ Joni asked hopefully.
‘Time for my meds,’ Lex announced.
She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
As he loped off, he waved cheerily, leaving Joni to dry off slowly in the sun and wonder what habit Lex Margate was trying to kick.
The following night, one hour after a surprise Banishment had been sprung on them, Joni stood stock-still atop a trapdoor. She tried to reassure herself that, while it had been made to look appropriately rustic, it would, of course, be solid enough to hold her weight.
The rules of ‘Banishment’ had only just been explained to them.
Of course, they’d understood that this season of Endurance Island was to include live shows for the Banishment ceremony scheduled each week, the whole shebang ending with a climactic Christmas special. But the logistics had not become clear until tonight.
‘Contestants.’ Darryl Driscoe’s slimy vowels pawed the steamy black air. ‘Welcome to Banishment.’
Joni’s stomach lurched violently at the words. She looked carefully at the ten others facing her. They formed a circle around the ring of fire, and each couple stood on an identical trapdoor, awaiting their fate.
There was no sign of Lex.
Kandy and Misty looked the most relaxed, standing as though they were waiting to break into a cheer, in matching white t-shirts and red hotpants, bright white trainers like orbs of glory at the end of their goddess-like legs. Their matching expressions said it all: No-one gets rid of girls like us in the first week.
Darryl spoke again, working hard to ratchet up the intensity with each sentence. ‘Through the miracles of modern technology, last night a hundred million viewers worldwide watched your efforts to build a shelter.’
Joni felt her knees almost buckle. Cripes, we’re fucked.
She tried to stay focused by continuing to assay the circle. Next to the Boobs were Takahiro and his sidekick. Both looked tense. For a moment Joni was inclined to think they should be, but then remembered the events of earlier in the day. The Apprentice, as she had mentally nicknamed the sidekick, had speared a fish and eaten it on the spot, standing on the shore like some kind of caveman on speed.
Joni had gagged in disgust, while Frankie murmured, ‘Bugger. Great telly. Those two aren’t going anywhere. And they’re going to annihilate us in the food challenge.’
‘And then today, they voted, these citizens of the world. Instantaneously, by the magic of text message and the support of our sponsor, Go Low Mobile.’
Joni took in the couple standing directly across the fire from her.
The dreaded Iron Nick and his harpy ex-wife. Through the flames she glowed like the Antichrist, while he looked like some kind of oiled, incandescent Adonis.
‘Banishment will be a surprise to all, and effected by the automatic opening of the trapdoor beneath you. The first you will know the public has banished you will be a savage jolt, a quick drop and the shattering of your dreams. There is no return from Banishment.’
To black out Darryl’s words, Joni flicked her eyes to the Irish lads who’d lent the extra poignancy to ‘My Favourite Things’. Dark haired and dreamy eyed, their sole claim to fame so far had been to burst into song at any provocation. Too bourgeois. They’re shagged.
But then there were the Horny Honeymooners.
Perhaps they were more irritating than the Danny Boys. They’d certainly done nothing more these last few days than mooch about, looking longingly at each other. And their shelter made the burrow look like a mansion. After ten rounds with the Storm to End All Storms, it had been scattered from one end of the beach to the other. The Honeymooners hadn’t bothered to rebuild it either. They’d simply wandered disconsolately from one makeshift shelter to the next, chatting to the occupants as though they were making social calls, and slept on the beach instead.
A low, slow drumbeat pulled Joni back to the present moment, and she finally focused on the last member of the group standing around the fire. Her sister. But she couldn’t see her very well, as they stood roped together side-to-side in the firelight, facing the other contestants.
She watched Nick also watching Frankie from across the ring of fire, and remembered how impressed he’d been with her performance in the swamp. She wondered if Frankie were watching him too. If so, it was ballsy of her. The harpy made Joni’s insides quake.
The drumbeat slowed further.
‘And now … the moment of truth.’ Darryl’s ecstasy was peaking.
‘Who shall be banished, and who shall live to fight another day?’
A moment’s silence swallowed the air before a piercing shriek emitted from one half of the Horny Honeymooners and both of them disappeared from sight, with only a rustic trapdoor where their golden, graceful forms had been seconds before.
Frankie grabbed Joni’s fingers in shock, as the assembled group gulped in the guilty air of freedom.
Just as Joni began to feel the blood rush back to her brain, it happened.
She fainted.
And the combination of the dark, the screaming, the fire and the fainting was more than Des could bear.
‘Look, Sally.’ Frankie was obviously going for polite but having trouble holding it together in the atmosphere of crisis that pervaded the editing tent. ‘For the last time, she did not bring the rodent onto the island. She found it here. Today. I don’t recall reading in the rule book that was a crime.’
Joni saw Frankie’s tic flare and nodded furiously.
Yeah. What she said.
It was kind of amazing that Frankie was batting so hard for Joni to be allowed to keep Des. After all, she’d whispered some murderous things to her on the way over to the editing tent. But what had Frankie thought she was going to do?
Leave Des behind? Just when he was making such great progress?
Wash your mouth out, Frances Sutcliffe.
The Stapler looked like she could feasibly bite Des’s head off at any moment and a sudden fear struck Joni that she might. Like Solomon. To test whether Joni really was attached to the little animal.
Sally looked up as Lex strode into the tent with surprising determination, like a man on a mission. Like a director. ‘What’s all the fuss?’ The look he shot at Sally was pointed. Get on with it.
‘This heiress is claiming it’s not her ferret.’ Sally’s tone was arch.
Lex’s gaze flicked over to Joni, and she thought he gave her the slightest wink. ‘Show him to me.’
Joni hesitated before passing the shaking creature over. Lex took him in his cupped hands, like he was delicate china. ‘Ah …’ he sighed with a knowing smirk. ‘Rodentus Australis.’
‘Pardon?’ Sally’s bullshit meter had clearly just gone through the roof, but she was staring at Lex like she didn’t know quite what to do about it.
‘Native, I’m afraid, Sal. Kind of like a small numbat, I believe.’
‘What the fook are you?’ Sally’s breathing had slowed, and she was looking at Lex even more murderously than she had at Frankie. ‘A zoologist?’
‘Well, yes, actually,’ Lex began cheerfully. ‘Apart from being the director.’ He gave the word a chilling emphasis, looking calmly into Sally’s beautiful eyes. ‘I am a zoologist. Technically. First degree. Balliol. Never quite let it go. Now, tea, anyone?’
Joni and Frankie raised their hands, as Sally stalked from the tent.
‘We have a formal complaint from Guernsey Council.’ The skinny tech working the facsimile machine looked like a messenger waiting to be shot.
‘Screw ’em,’ The Stapler bit out. ‘Technical errors happen. How many texts get sent from that shithole, anyway?’ Then, not waiting for an answer, ‘Can’t believe those whining bitches scored so well. All that fighting, maybe?’
Lex Margate pushed slim half-moon glasses down his nose and looked up from some sheets he’d been flipping through. ‘Focus groups suggest otherwise,’ he drawled lazily. ‘Highest peaks were during “My Favourite Things”. And the overnight cuddling.’
‘They want to see them reconcile?’ Sally’s voice was high, incredulous, as she lifted her long dark hair off her neck.
‘Possibly,’ Lex soothed her. ‘But I don’t like their chances.’
The Stapler paused. ‘Make a helluva climax, wouldn’t it?’
Lex looked at her assessingly, a slight frown creasing his delicate features. ‘You are such a humanitarian,’ he sighed.
The Stapler went on as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘Hmmmm … but it’d only work if the tension stayed really high right till the end.’
Lex spoke again. ‘One song is hardly the Treaty of Versailles.’
The skinny tech looked over at The Stapler, ignoring Lex’s words. ‘Who should we team them with for the trek, Sal?’
The Stapler twisted one long piece of hair around a finger. ‘Looking at these figures, it’s hard to know. These girls are so popular, whoever it is, they’re fucked.’
She paused.
‘So, I guess it’s those Irish fookers. God, I hate those maudlin arseholes. Too much Edgar Allan fookin’ Poe, not enough Billy Connolly.’