R.I.P Gemma

R.I.P. Gemma

 

When I was at junior school, a seven-year-old girl called Gemma choked on a fish bone in the dinner hall and died. It was a rather inexplicable thing to happen, given that she actually had shepherd’s pie for lunch, but perhaps the previous day’s washing up hadn’t been as carefully done as it should have been.

 

The ambulance crew tried desperately to revive her for almost an hour, but sadly, all to no avail. Even several whacking great, skin-crisping jolts from the mains supply failed to spark her up again and an expert doctor later told the coroner’s court that even if they had managed to restart her tiny heart, she would have probably been left with all the brain power of a broccoli floret, but minus all the iron and vitamins.

 

Gemma’s surprise death left all of her teachers, fellow students and the headmaster utterly distraught at her passing and her parents were inconsolable, particularly given that Gemma was an only child and her mum had recently had her womb and ovaries mistakenly removed while in A & E with a suspected broken ankle.

On the upside, the break later turned out to be no more than a simple sprain, but that didn’t cut much ice with the now barren woman negligent doctors had accidentally turned her into. Probably been doing drugs at a wild party the night before and being a bit bleary eye’d, they’d mixed up her name with a cancer sufferer who’d had her leg strapped up and been sent home with her tumour intact, mistakenly believing she was going to live. Or so I suspect.

 

After Gemma’s cremation (which smelled slightly of kippers, exacerbating the general grief), her parents never really got on too well and eventually, after lots of bitter public rows and acrimony – and after the compensation money had been spunked on foreign holidays, bingo and rent boys – her dad left her mum for a younger, prettier woman and had four very bright and athletic children by her. And he gave her a clump in the mouth before he buggered off for good with his fully functioning younger model. Hit her three times, in fact. Said he had to because she didn’t go down after the first two and he couldn’t get his leg high enough to kick her in the back otherwise.

 

On top of the horrendous guilt she had to bear for not having given Gemma her usual packed lunch on that fateful day, everything else became too much for her depressed and alcoholic mother to cope with. Liver shrunk to the size of a butter bean, the poor woman went downhill fast, making five desperate attempts at suicide, before finally succeeding with an overdose of weedkiller, washing up liquid and liver salts – her fresh-smelling, pathetic corpse, later found under a large cloud of fizzy green bubbles.

 

Still, let’s face facts, if Gemma had lived, I expect she would have only grown ridiculously old and then died anyway. Probably would have been ill loads of times as well and she had a pug face on top of a stick-thin body, so I doubt she would have ever got a man. Lesbian, most likely. They’re none too picky, apparently. Don’t really know what all the fuss was about.

 

And yet they still keep telling us fish is good for us. Can’t believe a word they say, the conning swines. I’d stick with burgers, if I were you. At least all the bones, beaks and bumholes in that McCrap are minced up small enough to swallow without choking. Not until your clinically obese neck has filled up like a balloon full of cheese straws, anyway.

 

Will that be diet coke with your three thousand calories of cholesterol and sugar? …Well, you greedy git? I’m waiting. Go on, make a decision, who knows, it might just burn a few grease cells out of your fat-addled brain.