Wilson

"Here is the man who will prove my point" said a high spirited Wilson as I approached the smoking table. "Have a couple of sips my son, make yourself a fag and then you are going to make my evening." I duly did as I was told. Liam, Ian, Panic Attack and My Friend looked on with a mild curiosity tinged with a boredom of Wilson's four-pint high. "Right, are you ready my son?" I nodded while slugging back my beer. "Here we go gentlemen . . . Who, my son, in your opinion, was the greatest novelist of the twentieth century?" "Well their could be many . . ." I half finished. "No need to rush, my son," said Wilson. "Think about it, which novelist changed everybody elses style forever?" His forehead was perspiring slightly and his eyes bored into mine. "Hemingway?" I presumed. "Nooooooooooooooooooo," he protested, his small hand slamming down upon the smoking-table. "Come on my son. Think! This writer had a famous court case." 'Oh Thank God' I thought, 'I know the answer.' He had loosened his tie and had moved his stool closer to me so that his knee was touching my thigh. I could feel the heat from his body against mine. I addressed the table. "Lawrence," I proclaimed. There was a pause. Ian snorted, Liam looked away and My Friend said he had to go home and turn his casserole off. "You ain't going anywhere until this is decided," he said to My Friend. My Friend told him that he didn't give a fuck, but he stayed anyway. "Alright my son, our third and final chance," said Wilson, his sweaty hand was now on my clenched fist for support. "This same man wrote a novel that none of these cabbages believe was a novel. They all think it was just a film. Who wrote 'The Day of the Jackal?' "Perhaps because of the half bottle of red I'd drank before I came out and because I had emptied both my pint glass and the large scotch and water chaser in seven minutes . . . I bent my right knee so that I was holding my right foot against my right buttock and hopped up and down on the spot, saying 'fomidable' and 'permiable' in my worst French accent. When I had finshed this charade, Wilson, in a gesture of triumph, pulled me towards him and kissed my lips. "And the answer my son?" "To what question?" I replied. "Don't be a cunt, eh? . . .who wrote The Day of The Jackal?