In an increasingly frustrating world, it just doesn’t seem fair that only wrong ‘uns get to pack a pistol

Eufemia Didonato

I’m desperate for a gun. If this is being read by any friends who aren’t sure what to get for my upcoming birthday, that’s top of the list.

“You can’t have a gun,” said an anonymous media source when I voiced this desire. “You’re too short-tempered. It wouldn’t be fair on, for example, that woman at the dental surgery who said you weren’t allowed to use the loo for Covid reasons.”

“I wouldn’t have shot her!” I protested. “I’d have just shown her the gun. Maybe let her notice it tucked into my waistband. Just to see if the health risks of a person using the loo suddenly weren’t so great after all. Relatively speaking.”

“Nevertheless,” said the source, “I would not be in favour. I’m pretty sure the statistical chance of a person getting shot rises sharply if they live in the same house as a firearm.”

“And once we’re relatively speaking,” I said, “you have to think about the fact that the dentist was going to put his fingers into my mouth! That’s where we’d have given each other the Covid! Not by me using the loo on my own! In the middle of a two hour appointment! For crying out loud! It’s bad enough to have root canal surgery, without needing an urgent wee throughout! What a sadist!”

“As I say,” continued the source, “I’m not sure you and guns would be a good match.”

But I crave one. As I get older, I grow more and more like Charlton Heston. (I really must get Botox.) I want the comfort of knowing that I’m packing steel. Sometimes, if I hear footsteps quicken behind me on a deserted street, or when somebody cuts me up in traffic and flicks me a V-sign, I involuntarily curl my fingers around my imaginary Glock.

Charlton Heston has passed on now, of course. I wonder if anybody did actually prise the gun from his cold dead hands?

When I fantasise about revealing a weapon, it’s always for noble reasons. I’m standing up against a bully, or protecting my family or a weaker person. Maybe I’m putting an injured animal out of its misery. Worst case, a pub has advertised last lunch orders at 2.30pm and it’s only 2.29pm and it’s been a really long drive and they’re being all sarky – and even then I’m only putting a single bullet in a bottle behind them. Just to make a point.

Anyone in Britain who wants a gun for malevolent reasons has got one already. They’re not hard to come by. When it comes to gun control, the horse has bolted, and it’s carrying an Uzi. I know where I could get one myself, if my troublesome media source weren’t all “You can’t shoot people just because they promised the sofa bed would come on Wednesday and now they say it’ll be another fortnight.”

Why should firearms be the exclusive preserve of wrong’uns? Mae West once said, “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” The worst of both worlds, of course, is when a man has an erection and a gun. I’m sure the currently gunless among us would only use them for the right reasons. Banks and post offices have all closed down, so there’s nowhere to rob anyway.

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