William Shakespeare peered across the room. A sad-looking dark-haired girl sat at a table on her own. After scrutinising her arse for a few seconds, Shakespeare decided he should go over to see what was wrong.

“You all right?” he enquired.

“Ahh, I’m having a bad week,” said Kim Kardashian.

“It’s not a man, is it?” said Shakespeare.

“Yeah, it’s my marriage. I filed for divorce yesterday.”

Shakespeare felt it would be okay to put his hand on her shoulder at this point. “Oh no,” he said. “That’s terrible. But sometimes these things need to happen.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Kim. “You know, I worked at it and worked at it, but it just reached a point, where, you know…”

Shakespeare sat down next to her. “Sometimes people grow apart,” he proffered.

“That’s exactly it,” said Kim. “I feel like maybe we grew apart over the days.”

There was a pause.

“Days?” asked Shakespeare.

“Yeah,” said Kim, without elaborating.

“How long were you married?” asked Shakespeare.

“72 days,” said Kim.

Shakespeare removed his hand from the Kardashian shoulder and looked into the middle distance. “72 days?” he repeated.

“72 days,” said Kim again.

“But you were together for a while before that?” asked Shakespeare.

“Oh yeah,” said Kim, looking up for the first time. We were together for months. We met almost a year ago now.”

Shakespeare started laughing.

“What?” said Kim. “Why are you laughing?”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” said Shakespeare, leaning back in his chair.

“How can you say that?” said Kim, looking hurt.

“You’re a complete fucking idiot,” reiterated the bard.

“I’m heartbroken,” exclaimed Kardashian, her voice betraying her outrage.

“You aren’t heartbroken,” stated Shakespeare confidently. “You haven’t earned the right to be heartbroken. You’re upset, yes, but saying you’re heartbroken is an insult to anyone who’s invested time in a relationship and had a depth of feeling for someone that can produce genuine heartbreak.”

“Don’t tell me how I’m feeling,” spat Kim.

“I don’t know you from Adam, but I bet you miss the attention the relationship drew rather than the relationship itself,” said Shakespeare, arching one eyebrow.

“It was a proper marriage,” cried Kim. “The wedding cost 10 million dollars.”

“You could have spent that better,” chuckled Shakespeare, a tad mockingly.

“Well that’s where you’re wrong,” countered Kim. “Because that wedding made me 18 million dollars.”

“What the fuck?” spluttered Shakespeare, all the humour shaken from him. “How does a wedding make money?”

“If you’re important enough, you can get magazine and TV deals.” Kardashian fluttered her eyelashes outrageously.

“There was a TV deal? For your wedding?” Shakespeare was staggered. His head hung and he stared at the table in front of him.

“One of the worst parts about this divorce is that E! might pull out of the deal to show the re-runs,” said Kim.

“You fucking dick,” cried Shakespeare suddenly and with feeling.

Kim Kardashian, looked at him in astonishment.

“You complete fucking knob,” continued Shakespeare, as if the point needed making again. “You know, I saw you from over there.” He gestured towards the doorway. “I saw your arse and your tits and I thought ‘there’s somebody worth talking to’. But I’ve been here for about two minutes and I’m already wondering if you’re the most despicable human being I’ve ever encountered.”

Kim Kardashian’s eyes moistened.

“There isn’t much in life worth living for, but the few things that are good all revolve around your relationships with the people closest to you. If you’ve acted-out the closest relationship there is, you’re a fucking prick, whatever your reasons – even if the guy was in on it and felt the same way.”

“Well that’s your opinion,” sniffed Kim.

“It fucking is,” replied Shakespeare. “And you know what? Now that I come over here, I see that your face has a bland quality that might not seem apparent from a distance or in a small photograph. However, once you get close, once there’s clarity, it is totally without beauty. You’re like a pale, hollow mannequin that’s totally devoid of any of the human qualities that truly make someone attractive.”

“Your clothes are fucking retarded,” retorted Kim.

“Good job I haven’t based my entire life around them then, dipshit,” said Shakespeare, sauntering off.

“This scenery is quite breathtaking,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

William Shakespeare groaned.

“What’s the matter?” asked the guide, directing his horse towards Shakespeare’s. “Are you getting saddle sore?”

“No, no,” replied the bard. “It’s not that. I’m just struggling a bit.”

“Is it the horse?” asked the guide with some concern.

“No, it’s not the horse. Well, it’s not this particular horse. It’s just generally being on a horse.”

“Maybe try standing in the stirrups, eh?” suggested the guide.

“What?” said Shakespeare, outraged. “Why? Are you saying it’s my arse?”

The guide was taken aback. “No, I just thought it might help. I don’t really know what’s wrong. It was just a suggestion.”

“Well it’s not my arse, okay? You can get that idea out of your mind right now, you little bastard.” Shakespeare’s temper subsided a little before he spoke again. “It’s not my arse. It’s more of an ache. A dull ache.”

“Oh, okay,” said the guide, who had little to offer beyond that.

Shakespeare tensed his jaw. “It’s just the bobbing. The motion, you know?”

“Mmm,” said the guide, who didn’t know.

“The constant movement just sort of… sharpens the pain. I’m finding it very difficult.”

At that moment, there was a wail from behind them. Rapidly turning their horses, Shakespeare and the guide were confronted with a crazed looking Ellis-Bextor. Tears stained her cheeks and she appeared in great distress.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” she screamed. “You made me do it. I don’t like it. I don’t know why we have to do that.”

The heat and humidity were oppressive and Shakespeare’s sheer linen collar was troubling him. If the air conditioning in the hotel were working properly, he wouldn’t feel like this.

That was another complaint.

He turned and addressed the man behind the desk once again: “And what the fuck is up with the air conditioning? It’s like a million degrees in here. If I weren’t sweating my nads off, I’d fucking chin you.”

The manager looked at him blankly, so Shakespeare added a postscript: “…you bastard.”

The man ignored him and squinted at a monitor in front of him before addressing the Bard.

“You can move into one of our superior rooms if you pay an additional 20 dollars a night.”

Shakespeare bridled. “Another 20 dollars a night? Fuck off.”

“Sir, I don’t think language like that is really appropriate for the Waldorf Astoria Orlando.”

“Oh, but it’s appropriate for there to be a pube in my bed, is it?”

“As I said, sir, we believe that having just got out of the bed yourself, there is a chance that could have been yours. But we are happy to upgrade you if you’re willing to pay the difference.”

“Pay the difference out of this,” said Shakespeare raising his middle finger and thrusting it in the manager’s face. “This is shit. This is weak. This a weak holiday, man. Weak!”