I was in my office checking supplier invoices and daydreaming about throwing knives at my work colleagues, as all office workers do, when it struck me the world divides neatly into the knife throwers and the knife thrown-ats. The knife throwers bring razzmatazz, patter, and fill the tents with punters. That’s a lot of work, a lot of work, they tell you. The knife thrown-ats merely have to stand there and do nothing much other than risk their lives as the pointed steel blades come whizzing at them. ‘Isn’t this dangerous?’ ‘That’s the whole point, it’s dangerous. Trust me, you just stand still, look pretty, and we’ll fill our boots with gold,’ the throwers say. Boxers are thrown-ats. Two lumps trying to rip each other’s heads off. Their promoters are the knife throwers, always in the ring afterwards in their shiny suits, eating the mics, talking next steps, and wasn’t that a spectacle, as the wreck of torn flesh and broken eye sockets glances up from where they lie prostrate on the canvas, having smelling salts waved in their face, else slumped on their stool, trying to feel their face.
It is written somewhere in the laws of circus that the thrown-at must be a girl in a spangled leotard and the thrower a white bloke with long black hair and a flamenco dancer’s shirt. In folklore, the thrown-at becomes a child, hence William Tell and the kid with the apple on his head. ‘Go ahead, Dad, I have faith in you, and wow, your Flamenco shirt looks so cool.’ ‘Thanks, kid.’ Whoosh. The original knife-thrower was God (Old Testament version) starring the Stupendous Sensation, Abraham & His Son! ‘OK, God, just so I got this right: I take my son up the mountain there, and slit his throat but everything works out OK?’ ‘Yup, that’s it.’ ‘Thought so. OK, yeh I’m good. Let’s get up there, kid.’ It’s always the dads, signing off on such deals. William Tell was pulling that shit with the apple while the kid’s mum was visiting relatives or planting crops or something. You can’t imagine the mountain kid’s mum taking the deal. ‘Nah, sorry, God, come up with something else. How about we don’t eat cheese on Tuesdays for a test of faith. Deal?’
The Office Team’s clock cuckoos lunchtime. I get up from my desk. The other staff side-eye me. I have done zero work. I give zero fucks.
Extract from my new book ‘Act Normal.’ Released 23 October 2025. Available wherever books are sold bookshops including here: Indie bookshop locator
