God only knows how he gets away with it. You’d have thought there’d be rules against this sort of thing. Other people have to play it by the book, to follow procedure and whatnot, but none of that seems to apply to him. He makes his own rules, so they say, by being a genius and by virtue of always, irritatingly, inevitably solving the crime. There is no puzzle, they say, that the great man cannot unlock, no code he cannot break. If there are jewels to be found, he will find them. If there is a plot to be stopped, he will stop it. Reading his press he comes across like some sort of Neitzchean superman with a monocle and a waistcoat who always, always gets his man.

All of which is a little bit worrying for me at this stage, to be honest. What with me being the culprit and all, it is a little disconcerting to have to sit here and watch him explain, in great detail and with no little flair, exactly how it was I managed to pull the thing off. Very worrying.

So far, he’s got everything pretty much spot on. The motive – Aunt Charlotte’s money, of course, and her continual threats to put an infuriatingly un-family-friendly codicil in that valuable old will of hers. The method – arsenic in the hot chocolate (I am so fond of the classics). The misdirection – putting the poison into Charlotte’s secret brandy stash too, so as to make it look as though the murder might have taken place much earlier than it actually did. I have to say I’m very impressed. Even here, in my situation, knowing that things can’t possibly end well for me this evening, even I can’t help but admire the skill with which he’s picked it all apart. He’s even unravelled that little bit of double bluff I set up by planting the arsenic bottle in my own luggage (but cunningly making it look as though young Emma – the waiflike maidservant who, it turns out, has been having a dalliance with Cousin Stewart – must have put it there).

Yes, there’s no denying it. He’s seen right through every one of my deceptions. It’s only a matter of time before the finger turns and points my way. I should be upset, I know, but somehow I can’t quite summon up the energy. I’m just enjoying the show too much, waiting to see exactly how he’s going to pin me down. No doubt I made some shoddy mistake somewhere along the way that he’s going to have picked up on, that’s the way these things normally pan out. I’m sure that whatever happens I’ll completely deserve everything that comes my way. I’m not asking for any sympathy. I am guilty after all, there’s no question about that.

So I’m sitting back in my chair, quite relaxed and resigned to my fate when he comes to summing things up and prepares to unveil the killer. I’m not even listening properly anymore. So confident am I about what’s coming next that I’ve already begun to mentally prepare my confession and my congratulations to the sleuth. Something suitably witty and self-deprecating I’m thinking. Something sharp with a little bit of style. If one has to go to the gallows, one might as well be cheerful about it, that’s what I say.

You can imagine my surprise then, when his voice rises to a crescendo, a peak of flamboyant outrage and, standing right in front of me, he spins and stretches out a finger and declares the murder to be none other than…Great Uncle Malcolm? Really? That decrepit old codger in the wheelchair here beside me? Can he be serious?

At first I can’t believe it. It doesn’t seem possible that he’s made such an obvious blunder. I’m waiting for him to crack a joke and turn his glare in my direction, but he never does. Instead, to Uncle Malcolm’s horrified indignation, he runs through all the evidence that proves indisputably that he is the only one of us who could possibly have committed the crime. I’m glad to say that it does all sound very convincing. So much so that I begin to wonder whether I’m not the only murderer in the room. Maybe we both did it? Who knows? Either way it seems like I’ve pulled it off. Managed to trick my way past the Great Detective and all his bloodhounds.

In my jubilation I find myself having to fight an urge to stand and shout, “You’re wrong! You’re so wrong!” and glory in the fact that I’ve beaten the master on his home ground, but I manage to retain just enough self control to remember how much that would not really be in my best interests. Better to sit tight and try to suppress that grin. Take a deep breath and try to think of all those riches that are coming my way.

I sit back in my chair and try to figure out a way to force my heart to stop beating so fast. Everyone else in the room looks sick and drained, as if they’re being dragged through an emotional wringer. For the first time this weekend I almost feel sorry for them, begin, even, to wish I hadn’t had to put them through it all. Cousin Stewart is on his feet and shaking his fist, arguing bitterly with the detective and his sidekicks. The maids are all weeping uncontrollably. Over in the corner Aunt Sophie is turning a very unhealthy looking pale yellow sort of a colour. Poor Aunt Sophie, with her bad legs and weak heart. This weekend’s affair can’t have done her any good at all. She probably doesn’t have long left, really. Much more of this and she’ll probably tip right over the edge, no doubt. She lurches forward in her chair and daps at her mouth with a handkerchief. She’s looking right over to me, her eyes pleading as though she wants my help, needs me to do something to make it all right. I get to my feet and take her over a glass of water. As her frail old hand takes it from me and she nods her thanks, I find myself beginning to wonder just how, exactly, the contents of her will are arranged?

Georgia were scary, but we think they’ll do quite well. Bosnia were brilliant, even though we didn’t understand a single bit of what was going on. We both love the French entry, but are shocked and upset to hear them singing in English (“Do they have no pride left?”). I’ve been watching this stuff every year for as long as I can remember and I like to think I’ve seen pretty much everything there is to see but even I’m left stunned and speechless when Azerbaijan come on and do their thing with the Angel wing outfits and the black-clad devil women writhing around in fake blood on the floor.

During the intermission you get into your pyjamas and I go off to make a cup of tea. We try and figure out who we think will win, who’ll score highly and who’ll get no points at all but all our guesses end up wrong. We don’t even come close. We never do. What I can’t understand is this thing about Eurovision that makes neighbouring countries suddenly be nice to one another when they’re usually such bitter, ancient rivals. Portugal would never support Spain in football or rugby or anything, but here they’re throwing twelve points each others way as though they’re the best of friends. I can’t ever make any sense of it. How come Russia are so popular all of a sudden? We know that noone likes us very much, but what has everyone got against France and Germany? Who can figure these things?

Right at the end, when the winners are dancing around on stage and the credits are beginning to roll, I decide I’ve had enough and need to leave the room. My head feels like its been battered with a mallet for several hours. My eyes are red and watering and I have a twelve second loop from the chorus of the Greek entry spinning through my ears like the worst kind of earworm, but its ok. It might sound like and look like torture (and it certainly feels like it right now), but I know that by tomorrow I’ll have forgotten about the whole thing. More than that, I know that next year, when it all comes round again we’ll say “wow! Is it that time already?” and we’ll make pizza and we’ll buy chocolate and we’ll sit down to watch it all over again. Just like we did this year. Just like we did last year. Just like we do every year.

“I mean ‘the short one’?” (says the short one) “Where does he get off with that? Picking on a guy’s physical shortcomings…?”

“I know”

“It’s just rude, that’s all.”

“Tell me about it.” (says the one with the dark hair) “Have you seen how he talks about me? ‘Dark hair’? As if that’s all there is to me. As if everything you could possibly want to know about me can be boiled down to that little nugget.”

“It’s demeaning. It’s a lack of respect.”

“I happen to think there’re a lot more interesting things about me than the colour of my hair.”

“He doesn’t have any respect for us at all. That’s what it comes from.”

“We so don’t need to put up with this, you know. We should totally go and confront him. Get it all out in the open.”

“Really? Can we do that?”

“Are you kidding? Haven’t you been paying attention? There are no rules anymore, man. We can do whatever we like. Come on, he’s right over there.”

“Seriously? Where?”

“Over there. The guy in the corner with the notebook.”

“That guy? That’s him? He’s the creator? He’s the guy that makes all this stuff up for us?”

“He’s the one. The barman told me all about him.”

“But he’s not that much taller than I am. Bloody hypocrit!”

“Shall we head over? Give him a piece of our mind, let him know that we’re not going to put up with this anymore. Tell him that we’re fed up with his lame jokes and weak punchlines, that we want proper characterisation, proper plots…and all that.”
“I’m not sure. Is that such a good idea?”

“What’s the problem? Come on, when did you ever have an opportunity like this before? Let’s grab it while we can!”

“No, but won’t there be, like, consequences? Isn’t it like meeting God or something, where the walls of reality come crashing down and we all get turned into pillars of salt and stuff?”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you. Come on! I need to get this off my chest.”

(They get up from their booth and head over in my direction. The one with the dark hair is looking angry and belligerent, the short one follows behind slightly less sure of himself, as though he’s not quite sure what’s going to happen and not at all convinced that it’s a good idea.

When they reach my table I smile beautifically and bid them rest. We have a short but rewarding conversation in which I explain the meaning of existence, their specific role in the universe and hint strongly at great rewards yet to come for the virtuous and the worthy. They take all this on board and walk off at peace with the world and all the creatures in it.)

“Good grief!” (says the short one) “That was possibly the single most underwhelming experience of my entire life.”

“I know. What a creep!”

“Did you see the way he was looking at us?”

“I’ve never felt so filthy in all my life. And the way he kept writing down everything we said?”

“Don’t remind me…man, I feel queasy just thinking about it.”

“I’ve had enough of this. Shall we head off?”

“Yeah. Let’s split.”

“I can’t help thinking that this is all a bit anachronistic.” (says the one with the dark hair. He’s stopped for a rest and is looking thoughtfully at the forest all around them.)

“What do you mean?” (says the short one, wearily)

“This place. I mean, this vision of Venus as some sort of pre-historic version of Earth with, like, carboniferous jungles and weird dinosaurs and what have you…it’s the sort of thing you get in 1940′s Science Fiction. It’s not like the real Venus at all.”

“How should it be, exactly?”

“Well, ever since the late 60′s there’s been a good understanding that the climate of Venus is completely different to ours. The surface temperature is many hundred degrees centrigade and the atmosphere is all carbon dioxide and sulphuric acid. There’s no liquid water at all. No liquid anything really. Down on the surface here we should be stuck in the middle of a hellish storm of superheated gases. We’d be dry fried in a second, dude!”

“Right. And you’d rather we were walking about in that would you?” (says the short one, hacking his way through a particularly intransigent piece of vine.)

“No, of course not. I’m just saying, is all…”

(They carry on working their way through the jungle, stopping every now and then to take a drink and admire their surroundings. The one with the dark hair scans the treetops, trying to catch a glimpse of the strange, six-legged monkeys which have been following their progress. The short one bends down to inspect a bright coloured orchid growing by his feet only to jump back startled when it blinks an eye at him and scuttles away on 8, leaf-like limbs.)

“‘Course, the other thing about the portrayal of Venus in popular fiction is its association with the Roman God of, you know, love and fertility and …sex and stuff.”

(The short one stops for a moment to think about this.)

“Is that you’re way of saying that this place we’re walking through is some kind of weird manifestation of the suppressed erotic fantasies of an SF hack writer from the 40′s?”

“I rather fear it is. I suggest we proceed with extreme caution.”

“Agreed.”

(They continue their trek, carefully picking their way through the forest back towards the place they left their spacecraft. All of a sudden they emerge stumbling into an open clearing and come face to face with a tribe of seven foot tall Venusian warrior women – all of them sporting radiant blonde hair, golden armoured breast plates and cavernous cleavage)

“Welcome, Earthmen!” (says the lead warrior woman) “Welcome to our palace of carnal delights! Come join my sisters and I and help begin the reproduction of our once glorious race!”

“Oh, crikey!” (says the one with the dark hair, recoiling in terror. He turns to his companion to look for support but the short one has already beat a hasty retreat leaving nothing behind him but a rustling of bushes and an echoing cry of panic).

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” (says the one with the dark hair)

“Look. Just don’t, alright.”

“I don’t get it, that’s all. There’re about 50 different things here. Can’t you just pick one so we can get going?”

(The short one stops looking for a moment and turns to glare at him)

“Am I going to have to explain this all to you again?” (he sighs)

“No. No, its fine. Don’t mind me. Take your time.”

“Look. Its like this. All I want is a cheese sandwich, right? Just a cheese sandwich. Not this…cheese and pickle, stuff. Not cheese and rocket with mayonnaise and carrot coleslaw or anything. Just a plain, cheese sandwich.”

“Right. Listen…”

“I mean, what’s so wrong with that? What’s difficult about that? When you want a cheese sandwich at home do you add pickle and mustard and peppers and …I don’t know…hummous, or anything? No, of course not. You just add cheese. Easy. So why is it so hard for these places to do the same? Why do they have to complicate everything by adding all these…extra bits? It’s not fancy. It’s just stupid.”

“I know, but…”

“And don’t get me started on those ploughman’s lunch things. I mean, pickle and mayonnaise? That just doesn’t make sense at all. And onions? Would you want to go off ploughing a field after having had pickle and mayonnaise and onions for lunch? No, of course not. You’d feel too sick.”

“Right.”

“You understand?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good.”

“You ready to go now?”

(The short one sighs heavily, turning back to the fridge full of sandwiches that are always, always just too elaborate and over-embellished for his liking.)

“No. Just give me a minute here.”