King Ryan

The thirtieth instalment of “From the Booth”, my Weekly Story Subscription Service (!”$)

I have pledged my allegiance to King Ryan. It is something I do every day. Unwavering until death. My own death, or his Majesty’s.

He is not a perfect king. There can be no arguments there. He has been known to disrupt raffles. Entering the village hall through the fire escape, setting off the alarms. Shouting, ‘Here I am! your king has arrived!’ Then offering himself up as the first prize. ‘Dinner and drinks, and maybe a film if you like, with your very own king!’ Reaching his bejewelled hand into the basket of tickets, ‘Number... thirty two! Step forward, number thirty two! Three-two. Nobody?’

I pay tribute to the King. I have to. I kiss his feet and the ground underneath his feet. Even ground I am not sure he has stood upon. King Ryan. Appointed by God.

A king with kindness in his heart. Too much kindness. One who sobs when touring hospitals. Reaching out to injured children, asking them to comfort him. Begging them to tell him they will be OK. That everything will be OK. Sometimes talking to them at length about his own problems. His loneliness. Whether he should buy new shoes or just keep wearing the ones he has. He has thousands to choose from. But maybe he could stand another pair. There is endless space inside his wardrobe, after all. Eventually footmen lean in to whisper, ‘The children must sleep now, King Ryan.’

I do not think a King should behave that way.

But who am I to make that judgement? He is an ambassador of heaven. I could never looked him in the eye. It would be improper. King Ryan. My champion. All our champions combined. His image stamped onto coins and printed onto banknotes. He is the glue between the buildings. He is underneath the potholed roads that snake the kingdom.

He leads us not into war. Issuing surrenders in response to the vaguest of threats. Just to get it out the way, he says. And if they didn’t really mean it, it’s no harm done. The nation languishes in a state of insecurity . King Ryan doesn’t see it like that, though. According to royal doctrine, it’s better to live with an exposed soft underbelly. We are setting an example, he tells the television. Other countries will follow.

We are seen as weak now. Subject to constant encroachment from foreign powers. Our windfarms now provide energy for the French. ‘They’ll give us them back,’ says King Ryan. ‘They’ll get sick of them, you’ll see.’

I don’t think he really believes it. But it is of no importance what I think. I have only to serve and honour him as my rightful King. The only King I recognise. May he remain in office for a million years. Long enough for evolutionary changes in apple trees. Perhaps by the end of his reign the apples will be blue and taste of sulphur. Perhaps the final thing he does before ascending to heaven is to remark upon them. ‘Weren’t these green before?..’ Before collapsing onto the heavy marble.

King Ryan is in my first thoughts in the morning, and my last before I close my eyes at night. He appears in my dreams, those I can manage. Do I dream he is a more effective monarch? A more decisive and confident King? Maybe. But I have no control over my dreams. I just have to lie there and take them.

King Ryan renamed the supermarkets. He said it would make them easier to tell apart. Sainsburys became King Ryan’s. And he insists on working a full shift once a month. By half nine he dispenses with scanning the items and just gives people their shopping for free. The queues for Ryanday stretch the length of Holloway Road and the shop is in dire financial circumstances as a consequence. But King Ryan claims all that’s needed is a bit of creative accounting to balance the books.

Our King is not much for learning. He says the classical sciences are largely subjective, and therefore not useful for the nation’s youth. I have heard whispers of secret cabals of maths teachers who meet in oaken groves by torchlight, plotting ways to teach children long division without word reaching the court.

I thank the King for the cold water that runs from the kitchen taps and the hot water in the shower. I get down on my knees as often as my schedule allows and say, ‘Thankyou, King Ryan.’ It’s the least I can do.

Some days I forget to give thanks, and I worry in case this would anger him. Though King Ryan is a great believer in the power of forgiveness. Maybe, I think. Maybe if I could only meet him, he could forgive me. I wouldn’t even need to tell him what is was for. He would just know, from looking into my eyes, that I deserved to be forgiven. This is what I tell myself. I love King Ryan. This is what I tell myself.

King Ryan spends half the year in the Alton Towers Hotel, and the other half in Raddison Blus up and down the country. His palaces lie empty. He says they’re too big. Scary at night. He says it’s like living in a park, and he means that as no slight against anybody that actually lives in a park. This only elevates his standing in my mind. A King who knows what he likes. Isn’t that a way of living we should all aspire to?

What do I like, I wonder? I have no idea. All I know is there is a channel of cold air that follows me around. Would that King Ryan could warm it up for me. But for all I’ve said, I know he won’t.

All I have is the air around me. That and my love for King Ryan, which I work at every waking hour. And the churning feeling. And, ultimately, my unhappiness at calling him my King.