Patrick Simpson

I am deeply saddened to have to announce the untimely demise of Hunter D. Chapman, beloved friend and plant.  Having been born in pre-Obama, pre-post-racial days, it came with a tag describing exactly what kind of plant it was. However, I’ve been enlightened long ago, so never bothered to read this. It was green. With leaves. I did read the back of the tag, which helpfully explained that Hunter liked plenty of light – but not direct sunlight – and water. His soil should never be dry. And never dry it was.  But it wasn’t enough. Because Hunter had a problem.

I first met Hunter at my local DIY store, where he was selling himself for a few euros and still looked overpriced. Being a sucker for cheap and sad cases, I naturally bought him, hoping to be able to fix him. But Hunter had a problem with growth enhancing drugs. And I wasn’t able to tell him no. I tried, God knows I tried, but I caved in and got out the fertilizer every time he let his leaves drop. This perked Hunter up for a while, but inevitably induced bouts of depression every time he came down from the high. I tried other approaches, such as interventions, meditation and replanting, but Hunter kept insisting on the drugs. And I kept supplying. I blame myself.

In Hunter, the FARC have lost one of their staunchest supporters. You see, besides being a fan of the Jonas Brothers and supporter of the Yeovil Town Football Club, Hunter was vehemently and militaristically anti-capitalist. The fact that they had unlimited access to cocaine helped, too. The FARC, I mean, I know nothing about any access to cocaine Yeovil Town or the Jonas Brothers may or may not have. Boy, how Hunter hated Álvaro Uribe. And Trotskyites. And Maoists. And Marxist-Leninists for that matter. In fact, Hunter hated pretty much everybody. Come to think of it, Hunter was generally a miserable git. Not once did he wish me a nice day or help out with the cleaning. All he ever did was complain: about the weather, youth today, the fact that nothing good is ever on the telly, the improper use of apostrophes, Jesuits, polar bears, cabbage, everything. God, I’m glad I killed it! I should have let you die in that dump where I found you! Who’s a mindless slave to the capitalist pig-dogs now, biatch!

Following a brief ceremony by a Jesuit priest – Muhaha! – Hunter was left in a black plastic bag outside my front door last Tuesday, from where he was escorted to the local cemetery by two of the council’s finest representatives. Hunter leaves behind 207 children, all of them born out of wedlock and estranged. All his worldly possessions have been left to the People’s Front for the Liberation of Euro-Disney (Leninist-Marxist faction).