First Half
1
Tuesday 20th April 2027
Lando
Hello there, gentlefolk, and welcome to the show. On today’s episode ofWhat Catastrophic Shit Has Orlando Oakham-Goodwin Landed Himself In Now?we’re going to visit one of my top-three favourite discussion topics—myself—whilst I attempt to navigate undetected out of a married man’s inner-city apartment.
I’m what some—and by some I mean me and my best friend Daisy if she’s feeling generous—would label a delightful yet . . . contradictory enigma.
Lactose intolerant but addicted to cheese.
Loaded, though financially incompetent.
And the biggest slut this side of the River Thames . . . but not that into sex.
I’m a riddle. A paradox. An oxymoron. A . . .
Honestly, I don’t know what you’d call me except a fuckingmess.
I’m a brie junkie and IBS survivor. I’m the prodigal nepo baby whose father substituted personal interaction, emotional support, and affection with three Mastercards and an AMEX.
And I’m the Southwest’s reigning cum-dumpster champion who’s actually . . . well, ace.
Yep, I’m asexual, or at least I’m fairly certain I am. I don’t enjoy sex, not in the ways other people seem to, and I don’t feel any sexual attraction to anyone, so fuck knows why I spend ninety per cent of my waking hours chasing tail. But there we are.
Orgasms are fun, though, if I ever get to that point. In all honesty, it happens less often than most might assume.
My therapist tells me I’m exhibiting self-destructive behaviours.
Blah blah blah.
I only go to those sessions because Warwick Oakham II, a.k.a. Pops—a nickname he hates, by the way—told me in no uncertain terms he’ll cut me off if I don’t.
Not that he cares. The man has multiple direct debits set up to clear my balances each month. He barely even notices the money leaving his account. Almost never does. Sure makes use of all those air miles I rack up for him, though.
Yeah, you’re welcome, Father. You can thank me when you return from Singapore. Or Copenhagen. Or Abu Dhabi. Or wherever the fuck you are.
Spending problems aside, the therapy conscription is a small price to pay for what’s otherwise a dream life. Like, people would kill for my lifestyle—probably do—so I should just suck it up and deal with it. And half the time I don’t even listen to what my therapist is saying. Not that I need to, it’s always the same thing.
“Lando, we’ve discussed your repetitive behaviours before . . .”
“Lando, this is something the ‘you of two years ago’ would have done . . .”
“Lando, it sounds like you’re setting yourself up for another fall . . .”
I want to hit back with,“Hey, Lisa, I’m gonna be honest with you. I’m only here for the bank. I won’t change. You know I won’t change. You’ll besaying this exact shit to me same time next month, so maybe once—just fucking once—we could talk about something else. Might I suggest Jonathan Bailey? Or Labubus? Or perhaps we could play a rousing game of Kerplunk?”
But I don’t tell her that because one, I’m not as stupid as I look, and two . . . I’ve forgotten the point I was trying to make.
I get it. I have “daddy issues.”
Honestly, though, in my position, who wouldn’t? My father’s been around, but he’s never been there.
The man forgot, or deliberately ignored, my twenty-first birthday. Can’t fool me, though. I know the difference between his handwriting and his PA’s—who, by the way, he’s fucking. You’d think one afternoon, post shag, she could’ve reminded him.“Head’s up. Your only child is hitting a big birthday milestone next month, and perhaps we ought to send him something more meaningful than a two ninety-nine greeting card with the price-reduction label still stuck to the back.”
So if I don’t get the affection or emotional investment from Dear Old Dad, who can blame me for seeking it elsewhere?
