Celebrities are falling like flies as members of the public respond to the call to take up arms and attack. Trevor Wilmott, borough surveyor and gunman, is holed up at a paramilitary training camp, in a secret location in the Cheviot hills, where he is training new recruits to hunt and kill the needlessly famous.
The walls of the group’s headquarters are lined with mounted heads. Taking pride of place among the trophies is Bono, still looking inscrutable behind his trademark sunglasses, despite being gassed "like vermin". There’s Gordon Ramsey, shot between the eyes at the very moment he was mouthing the letter ‘F’. Two volunteers are mounting Davina McCall. A khaki-clad Trevor shrugs: “It’s just a perk for the men”. There’s Michael Mcintyre, with a surprised look on his face - either because he’s just been garotted or because he still can’t believe he achieved celebrity despite having no discernible comedy talent. “Mcintyre' was tough to take down”, says Trevor, “because he kept prancing around the stage. Fortunately, we had a couple of dozen marksmen positioned in the theatre stalls, all happy to give up a Friday night for such a worthwhile cause”.
As he closes one eye and squints down the barrel of an AK47, Trevor defends the idea of killing celebrities. “We used to worship famous people for their talent and wealth and gilded lifestyles. We put down red carpets for them to walk along. We queued for their autographs. We loved them; we wanted to be them. But when talentless nobodies became famous just for being famous, the lustre of celebrity was tarnished. The tide turned when we started shipping celebrities off to the Australian bush, to eat grubs and fishes’ eyeballs. Once we were torturing celebrities for casual amusement, we knew we’d crossed a line. The next step was inevitable”.
News is filtering in from the front line. Uri Geller has been stabbed to death with a spoon. Michael Fish expired in a hail of bullets. Max Moseley died “a beaten man”. Brian Blessed was cornered and trapped in a remote part of Cumbria. “They could hear him bellowing as far away as Cockermouth”, Trevor notes, with satisfaction.
He strips down his weapon, as he talks, in preparation for another hunting expedition. Younger recruits sit around, telling jokes, laughing nervously, trying to coax a recognisable tune out of a harmonica. But there'll be no killing spree for them today. “Russell Grant’s up next”, says Trevor. “Normally, we’d send out a search party, but not this time. That fat fucker’s mine. I'll let him plead for his life for, oh, about 15 minutes, then I’ll blow his head off”...