An amateur guide to suburban murder in Dronfield


I must start this article by confessing I have never killed anyone. No matter what it says on Twitter. No matter what the arresting officer testified. No matter what my “confession” said. What do you mean where was I on the night of the 5th? What do I know about her disappearance? I know this – I’ll fucking kill you, you son-of-a-bitch. I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU AND YOUR FUCKING FAMILY!! I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD!! YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD MATE!!

See – tensions are riding high. It’s understandable; it’s a tough world out there. I think we all sometimes feel like we’re a few Facebook game requests away from bludgeoning someone to death with the nearest blunt object, entirely absent of remorse.

Sometimes it’s Wednesday morning and someone sends you an email, and you think: I could just kill you, I could just fucking kill you. Oh man, I would mash your melon to a bloody pulp of brain matter and bone shards with a fucking Sky+ remote and I wouldn’t even care.

Sometimes someone makes you a cup of tea and they set it down without a coaster and it leaves a wet ring mark. For that second you all you can think about is grabbing the handle and colliding the boiling ceramic mug into their podgy face and separating raw cheek from jawbone. The sheer ecstasy of satisfied bloodlust, and red splatters against your face. You rub it in as you look at their convulsing body on the floor. Wear it. It’s your war paint.

Equally, sometimes, it’s your wife. You want to kill your wife. I know.

Let’s cut down to brass tacks. You read the headline and thought: “This could be my way out. I don’t need her. I don’t need her shit anymore. I’ve got a shovel and an alibi. I don’t need her sighs of disapproval. I don’t need her to tell me how much Celebrity Masterchef is too much Celebrity Masterchef. I can watch all the Celebrity Masterchef I want if she was just dead.”

Okay, let’s do it. Let’s fucking do it. Let’s do your wife.

She’s a bitch anyway, probably. I’ve seen the way she smiles wryly at your funny anecdote about the postman (it’s funny by the way, tell it again). The way she undermines you in front of friends and makes jokes about how you’re firing blanks so there’s no danger of another kid (that was a fun BBQ, wasn’t it Carol?). The way she’s incapable of human emotion. The way she goes on weekends away by herself and takes the dog with her. The way she sits motionless in silence with a glass of red wine for hours, staring blankly at the tabletop. The way she isn’t as pretty as she used to be and the curious hope in her eyes has long since mutated into docile, cold emptiness.

The way she records over Celebrity Masterchef in the Sky+ Planner and blames the ‘computer’.

Making things look like suicides is for people who are too lazy to make things look like accidents. Put it this way, do you want to be able to make some money suing Bosch for their faulty mower or do you want to sit with her sister, sobbing, saying things like “How did I not see this sooner? I know we had a problems, but every couple does. I blame myself. I. Blame. Myself.”

If you’re not willing to put the effort in to orchestrate a high voltage power item falling into a bathtub or a heavy light fixture becoming unstuck and calling time on your wife, then I don’t think you’re cut out for this. In fact, you’re bad at murder.

You’re not in an Agatha Christie novel, you don’t have to hide bodies anymore. It’s 2015: that’s a sure sign of guilt. Just ring the ambulance and explain that your wife has had a terrible accident. They’ll probably believe you –  It’s not like everyone goes around murdering people – they don’t just assume you’re a murderer. 

Also, semen (bare with me).

If CSI serves me right, there’s always an unbelievable amount of semen at crime scenes – so heads up: off her in the most semen-free environment possible, because if they start investigating and they find a some funky stains, well, you’re done mate. That’s it.

You’re really on your own from there – this is an amateur guide after all. I mean, I wish I could be more help but what do I care, it’s not like I want to murder your wife. That’s your shit, bro. I don’t even really mind her. Just remember to cry at the funeral. Don’t move on too soon I guess. Petition to have something insignificant named after her. Do what the McCanns did and maintain your innocence. Occasionally trial off during conversations, look to the floor and say, “I just need a minute”. Raise awareness for something. Look, you’ve got this in the bag.

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