Bono was sad. It had been over twenty-four hours since he had met a world leader and banged on incessantly about ridding the world of poverty. Big Irish tears dripped from his big, Irish eyes as he reclined on his $500,000 antique sofa, lighting his big, fat Cuban cigar with a $100 dollar bill. It was all-too apparent that Bono was going through a mid-life crisis and was worried about growing old and irrelevant. He picked up his diamond-encrusted Motorola and tried to get hold of the Pope, but it rang once and then went straight to voicemail. Bono just knew that his holiness had seen who was calling and rejected it. Either that or he was on the other line to that wanker, Geldof.
“I hate that bastard!” screamed the diminutive front-man, flinging his phone savagely across the room, smashing the arm off the ice sculpture of himself he had made daily, sending shards of ice dancing across the floor of his Dublin castle. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!” he yelled at the top of his voice, then dropped to the floor and pounded the carpet with his little hands and feet until he had no more energy… and had soiled himself. It just wasn’t fair! Unlike Bono, Geldof was ageing gracefully and hadn’t resorted to hair implants, corsets, elevated soles and daily botox. Unlike Bono, Geldof didn’t really sell any albums any more. Unlike Bono, Geldof was well liked and respected by most people, whereas Bono was widely regarded as an annoying twat. Bono just couldn’t understand it.
Just then, the doorbell chimed (it was the opening guitar riff to “Mysterious Ways”). Bono got off the floor, wiped his eyes and one of his seventeen Butlers appeared. “Shall I see who that is, Mr. Bono, Sir?” asked Ponsonby. “Yes, but just let me get into one of my rock-star poses first”, replied Bono, meekly. “Very good, Sir”, muttered Ponsonby and patiently waited for his employer to stuff a few socks into his trousers, place a John Lennon cap on his head, put some ridiculously oversized sunglasses on and then pose like he was playing an invisible accordion. Ponsonby opened the front door and, standing there, were the other three members of U2 – The Edge and the other two who nobody remembers the names of – not even Naomi Campbell and she shagged one of them.
Bono’s Irish eyes were smiling. “The! Larry! Adam! What the feck are you doing here?” The Edge looked serious as he stepped into Bono’s ridiculously lavish home. “Truth is, Bono, we’ve come here to tell you that you’re fired.” Bono’s rock-star pose faded noticeably. His pretend squeeze-box was deflated. “Fired? But why?” The Edge sighed, “Truth is, Bono, everyone thinks you’re a complete twat. Me and the lads do. Your missus does. The rest of the world does. The Pope just called me and asked me if I’d have a word with you to get you to stop calling him. He does have a life outside being The Pope, you know. You keep on interrupting his Texas Hold ‘Em Poker games with your bleating on about making poverty history, like you came up with the bloody idea.” The other two nodded along with The Edge’s assessment sagely.
“I can’t fecking believe what I’m fecking hearing!” spluttered Bono. “Well, that’s the truth.” retorted The Edge. We’ve asked Geldof to front the band. He can’t sing for toffee, but at least some people might respect us again. Sorry.” With this, the three members of U2 turned around and walked out of Bono’s life forever. “Bastards.” pouted Bono, bitterly. Well, this had really messed up Bono’s day, so he did the only thing he possibly could think of to cheer himself up. He put a DVD on of himself pleasuring himself while talking about making poverty history and settled himself down to have a nice, juicy, Irish wank. All Ponsonby could do is to raise one eyebrow, impeccably, and be ready with the tissues. He’d seen all of this before – after all, Bono was a complete and utter tosser.