Matthew had been playing in the swimming pool with Matthew. His white skin was burnt red. Matthew had forgotten to put sun cream on that day and his shoulders and the backs of his knees were so painful that he begged both his fathers to put camomile lotion on him as he lay on the couch watching cricket highlights and stroking Timmy the dog. The father, Matthew, came up to him on the couch. Matthew was tired from having done nothing all day, but the other father Matthew was refusing to help Matthew with his sunburn because Matthew wanted to watch golf in the bedroom. ‘Matthew!’ Matthew called. ‘Yes, Matthew,’ Matthew and Matthew replied eagerly with the big shaggy Timmy happily bouncing and playing and like a good old doggy dog dog.
Then sometime later (and on most days) Matthew Matthew Matthew and Matthew when he tuned 17 drank lashings of Pinot Noir and Vodka and Champaign and Craft Beer and were splendidly happy watching sport and eating and drinking to their heart’s content and driving expensive cars until one day Matthew never came home from a walk because he had been either brutally murdered or had died of cancer or because he just couldn’t care. Matthew Matthew and Matthew were sad but they went to a wedding the next day with all the other white-skinned Matthews and had a jolly good time. Except Matthew hated it all. But he smiled when all the other Matthews were about. ‘I am sorry about Matthew,’ the other Matthews said. Yes, they were sorry to the point of not actually giving a single fuck, and this attitude was extended in particular to the other people not called Matthew who for certain political reasons could not appear in this story. The end.
Many thanks to Ian for giving me an idea.