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I should have smelt a rat the moment I heard his legendary nickname: “Iron Lance”, wonderfully bendy as objects go, a razor-sharp spearhead! I thought: this one's bound to be a driving force! At the cutting edge of the movement! (Little did I know!)

The moment I hooked him, I should have thrown him straight back into the ocean. But no! I loved him so much, I listened to him for hours and hours… Colossal mistake! Listening to him, because he talks all the time. He talks at the table, he talks in bed, in traffic jams, in the shower, he even talks in his sleep! But above all, he listens to himself talk, with his very own voice-over!

He took me for a visual aid, a marker post, a decorative flutter of eyelashes. After six months of telephone siege, I've become one burning ear, buzzing non-stop. I hold out against encirclement and blockade on sheer endurance, but I'm worn out.

I say something? He bounces back, but not off what I said, off what he would have said in my place, and off he goes on his own. He's training for the verbal marathon, with no water stations and no finish line. I run along behind him, trying to stay on his trail. That's my mistake: trying to work out where he's going with it! Head down over the handlebars, not an ounce of perspective. Don't! I run twice as far as he does! I arrive drained, washed out and wrung dry! “The Pianist's Groupie”*, that's the word for me, the perfect title for my book.

3h33 of “monolong” sponsored by a beer brand. I couldn't get a single word in! I lost his trail at the water station. The further he runs, the more legless he gets, but with words. His sentences are so loooong… they've run out of full stops. No really, I looked everywhere, every full stop has done a runner! Like 80s cassettes stuck on an endless loop.

A Viking who listens to himself talk is bad enough, but a Viking who thinks he's “the Rune Master” in person takes the biscuit! He plays every part: the Lawspeaker, the Council and the whole Thing, all by himself. Faced with him, even sea monsters surrender!

He scrambles my brain by mangling English syntax, admires himself and laughs at his own jokes, says everything and its opposite in the same sentence, the very one he started 3h33 ago! Meanwhile, he's run the whole gamut of emotions and supplied every explanation going. He's even invented ancient runes as proof, to back up his arguments. The Rune Master got fed up and adjourned the session, but he carries on haranguing. The Council of Elders has cleared off for a bite to eat; no use, he keeps holding forth as if nothing had happened.

I put the phone down, checked an hour later: he's still talking. I made dinner, ate, did the washing-up… he's still yakking, nattering, rabbiting on! Once I've brushed my teeth, I tell him:

Me — Right, I'm really tired now!

He carries on as if I'd lost my voice! He's bound to have put me on mute, he can't even hear me! If I'm not careful, he'll make me miss my book, so I insist he finishes his sentence. He does, grudgingly, but no flies on this drone: he keeps the last word with a stylistic flourish:

Him — “Blah blah blah… so you see I'm right.”

(I take a deep breath.) I'll be honest, I'm not going to lie to you. Frankly, at this point in the evening, I know full well it's not true! But if I tell him, he'll go round again for round 2 and I'll never get to bed. Worse, he'll make me miss the rest of the plot! And above all, I need… SILENCE! Because he's fried my brain with his background noise…

So I give in, I fold, like at poker, before the parrot of the Thing, who's worn me down with his TED Talk. But I go for a compromise, dignity oblige!

Me — Mm-hmm (Neither yes nor no) Good night, my love! Click.

Phew! My temples are on fire, my ears are still ringing, my headache has my brain in a vice, and he's the one who's been drinking!

Ding! Light-bulb moment! That's why he's training! The big kid won't go to bed for fear of nightmares. So he talks a lot to drink even more. He waits until he's completely plastered to fall asleep mid-sentence.

For my part, I reckon that after listening to him for 3h33, it's my turn. So I open my mouth, but I haven't even finished my regulation minute before he's snoring down the phone.

Me — Hello?…

No answer, he's sleeping the sleep of the just. It's so frustrating, you have no idea! He pulls that one on me every time! And I fall for it again like a total rookie! And the next day? He's forgotten the lot! The insults, the nasty remarks and other charming horrors he flung in my face.

Him — What are you on about?

Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde. Split personality.

Every night, he says “Hello” to launch his battle cry: “Attack!”, followed by 3h33 of sonic siege. Chatty as a parrot and drunk as a lord!

Ding! I've finally worked out what his nickname means! Iron Lance hurls his iron lances and his flat irons straight at my head! My ear is ringing from the blow!

Looking back, “Charge!” is actually quite funny, because this time he's well and truly loaded!

---

Sunday Is Showtime!

The journalist — So you've turned the conflict into a literary “work”?

The author — Forget it, lovers at war have been done to death since Adam and Eve! And art is what's never been done before.

The Viking — Too right, not a hope of going viral with that. Zero plot. And let's not forget it's nothing but a pack of lies!

The author — Thanks for the plug, who needs enemies?

The Viking — You're welcome, I'm opening your eyes out of pure charity, so you won't be too disappointed.

The author — I've always been able to count on you!

The Viking — Let's be realistic! Your vision is completely self-centred: you're the only workforce on your cash-in-hand work of art. You spend your days navel-gazing and processing your emotions 24/7, since you never leave the house. But however hard you get to work, with your legendary head for business, it's more like charity work, so whatever works! But we like you, so we'll keep you!

The author — I'd noticed! You keep an eye on me, mostly! Next!

(She turns to the journalist.) Quick, ask me a question, or we'll never be able to stop him.

The journalist — I believe you've written a thesis on the subject?

The author — Indeed, after analysing the body of data, the results are startling! Sober, he talks logically. Under the influence, his logic watches a quiet programme while his emotions and his survival instinct* rerun a war film on a loop. Naturally, the next day he doesn't remember a thing, since he wasn't watching the same channel! I called it the Dr Jekyll and Mister Hyde syndrome! That was my mistake: looking for his logic on the wrong channel. My only way out: hanging up! (It took me long enough to work that out.)

The journalist — Why so much beer?

The Viking — Beer is our mead, a Viking tradition going back generations! It helps me articulate my philosophical point.

The author — Very philosophical indeed: “See, I'm right.”

The Viking — That's a universal axiom.

The author — He thinks he drinks to keep his fear at bay. It's exactly the opposite: it comes back out when his logic nods off. A snake eating its own tail! QED. With beer for fuel, Pac-Man races down the motorway of his fears, firing non-stop at anything that moves, especially me, for 3h33, for six months! No wonder he gets me hammered, and I haven't touched a drop!

The Viking (puts down his beer) — Let me stop you right there! If I shut up, I think. And if I think, I panic. So I talk. It's training, to keep up my stamina.

The author — Your liver's stamina, more like! Odin himself challenged you to see which of you could drink the most. He's still rolling around under the table as we speak!

The Viking — You don't understand a thing, I'm a poet! Every beer is a meditation, every sip a heroic poem. When you love, you don't count the cost!

The author — Well, I do count! And the quantified results are conclusive: he drank 4,026 beers, 1,329 litres, 44 kegs, 6 barrels, 2 and a half casks, or 2.6 tonnes, at 22 beers a night, or 1 beer every 10 minutes!

The journalist — At that point, he's a human brewery!

The author — Precisely! I checked: giants have a digestive system on a par with a hop factory. He sinks more beer than a pub at happy hour. Enough to get an army singing or send a whole village to sleep…

The journalist — No wonder he's out like a light after 3h33!

The Viking — Statistics, what a joke! The only exact science you can make say whatever you like! You're time-dyslexic, you can't count! Numbers are strategic, they're just there to impress the enemy!

The author — Yeah, right! You build a wall of beer round your camp and fight inside it. After 22 beers, you sing heroic songs to your battering ram and bang your head against the wall, with an iron conviction that I'm your enemy. And you fall asleep in the middle of your emotional siege!

The Viking — Well, at least I'm romantic!

Come on, let's drink to it: “To the love of beer and battle!”

The author — “To your brave liver and my fried brain!”

The journalist — 183 days, though, that takes some stamina!

The author — I demand a medal with some emotional time off in lieu!

The Viking — I wanted us to love each other intensely! Three hours a day is normal for a couple.

The author — Normal for psychological torture at Guantanamo, maybe! Not for a “love talk” that ends in an alcoholic coma!

The journalist — Were you aware she was part of the conversation?

The Viking — Technically, she only had to interrupt me.

The journalist — As an expert in verbal diarrhoea, you could have opened a pub theatre!

The Viking — True, I'm an orator, a troubadour of the word!

The author — I'd say more Radio Viking FM, volume 200%, 24/7, adverts included.

The journalist — And what did you do to break the spell of the never-ending word?

The author — I invoked the sacred incantation: “You carry on. I'm stopping.” And I left him alone with his echo.

The Viking (sulking) — You could have let me finish my point.

The author — It was a never-ending circle!

The journalist — Why did you answer?

The author — Occupational hazard. Listening, trying to understand, trying to make people see. Works a treat in my job. On a Viking at 3 a.m. with four beers' head start, the success rate is more debatable!

The Viking — We called a truce, we saw each other again in Lower Valhalla, winter was romantic, we made peace…

The author — Thank goodness! Without a ceasefire, I was at the end of my tether! Back then, I'd tell myself: “I'm free, I decide.” Oh, sure! I was just shattered after that marathon, I wouldn't wish it on anyone!

The Viking — I wanted you to fight for me!

The author — And I just wanted to live in peace with you, subtle difference! But preferably not in your igloo of angst, as romantic as a chest freezer with Wi-Fi!

The journalist — Now that the cold snap has passed, how's the thaw going?

The author — I survived a Viking winter without fleeing to Lapland. Conclusion: there's nothing glorious about holding out if it only wears me down. We were stuck in a never-ending loop: he kept insisting I come and live with him, without working, he wanted to keep me. Me, I was scared of depending on him. The more he insisted, the more I backed off, and the more scared he was of losing me. Totally counterproductive!

The journalist — And today?

The author — Today, the anxious-avoidant punchbag game is over. If it's not simple, it's not for me!

The journalist — Moral: if the battering ram breaks down the door… you can always climb out of the window.

The Viking — It's starting to sink in! Thanks to me, you're learning to say no! Come on, let's not fall out. Come and have one last drink with me after the show to sign the peace treaty!

The author — Did you say “PEACE”? I'll sign right now, if you tick the “no monologues” box! But I'm wary of your mood swings, Dr Jekyll and Mister Hyde. You could, without a qualm, spring some little clause buried in the small print on me, and the mere thought of it turns my stomach! Something like “sorry baby, but we don't really love each other”. I'll have your book pulled from the shelves so you can't discredit me, and sue you for damages.

The Viking — Oh yes, because you're so famous! I don't know which of us is the bigger megalomaniac? You break every record, you're like my father: Narcissus the Second, all drama and showbiz! (He lays it on thick, mocking.) Anyway, with the money from the lawsuit, I'll make a film of it in which, obviously, I'll play the lead. Starlets will be fighting to play opposite me. And I'll make you change the ending of the story to give it a happy ending!

The journalist — But why on earth are you here, if you don't want anyone to read her novel?

The Viking — You're completely delusional! With me in it, her book has potential, I turn everything to gold! As I've always said: first I pocket the dosh, then I cash in on the adaptations. I confirm, she has absolutely no head for business!

The journalist (playing along) — Rumour has it that behind your cover as a “yoga teacher”, you run a nice little business?

The Viking — Indeed, making a film of it will be no problem at all: I handle the contracts for the biggest box-office hits of recent years. I've got connections, the cousin of “The Axe” can lean on James Cameron!

The author — Really? How sweet!

The Viking — No, it's just an advance on commission, it's called doing business!

The author — Oh, how romantic!

The Viking — No, it's lucrative! I've got a lifestyle to keep up. Next week, I'm off to a yacht race in Sydney. And you, how are you getting on with your minimum wage? Caught up with it yet? If you spend your time writing instead of working, it's not going to happen!

The author — Since I could finally get a word in, I let rip!

The journalist — And you, what do you suggest to the reader?

The author — To write a three-hour monologue in five lines*.

The Viking — Five lines? You're joking? When you've written 47 chapters!

You've got to let go, baby!