Monday:
I often wonder whether being left-handed might account for the fact that I lack any kind of mechanical aptitude and have a tendency to bump into things, or trip over furniture and people. The vast majority of humankind is right-handed and the way things are ordered in the world reflects this. Buildings and the rooms and the furnishings within them are laid out to favour the right-handed. I once went into the labyrinthine offices of a record company to demonstrate some songs that I had co-written. It went very well, but on my departure I opened what I thought was the exit door only to be attacked by a cascade of brooms and mops. The fact that I emerged from what was clearly the cleaner’s cupboard with my foot jammed into a plastic bucket seemed to double the mirth of those whom I thought that I had so recently impressed with my musical ability.
At school, we used old-fashioned pens that we dipped into inkwells on our desks. Being left-handed meant that my hand was always brushing over what I had written, resulting in smudges, smears and frequent cuffing from the psychopaths who passed themselves off as teachers in those days. This is why many older left-handed people like me write in a crab-like hesitant way. Had I been born an Arab, writing from right to left, this wouldn’t have been a problem. However, I’m sure that I read somewhere that Arabs exclusively use their left hand to wipe their bottoms and only ever their right hand to select morsels from the communal plate. To do otherwise, might invite the caress of the scimitar. Under these circumstances, I would either have been a very messy eater, or starved to death.
There have been many distinguished lefties, including Leonardo, Rubens, Toulouse Lautrec, Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Munroe, Napoleon, Einstein, Churchill, Barack Obama, Paul Mc Cartney and Horatio Nelson. The latter, however, had little choice in the matter after losing his right arm in battle. I wonder if this made things awkward during foreplay with Lady Hamilton. I imagine that the missionary position might also have presented problems, with poor old Horatio toppling over and disconnecting during the final vinegar strokes.
Tuesday:
Watching the weather forecast on the TV, I try to figure out why I find weathermen so irritating. For a start, they stand before a map of the British Isles and deliberately block out most of the Irish Republic. It’s only a small part of the bigger picture and a small step to their right would at least allow those of us with a passing interest in what’s going on in the skies over Dublin, Killarney, or Cork a chance to phone our distant cousins to warn them or commiserate. It seems very petty to me – almost as if the Met Office is getting its own back for the Easter Uprising, Val Doonican and The Nolan’s. Perhaps the whole of the Republic is, for them, now beyond The Pale, or has the mythic status of Atlantis or Avalon. I imagine that if they did take a step to the side, the hidden part of Ireland would show sea serpents and dragons.
Then there’s the annoying way these weathermen have of pronouncing place names: “a-London, a-Glasgow, a-Manchester” – as if this unnecessary prefix gives greater weight, or gravitas to their pronouncements. In between being generally smug bastards, they occasionally give a wry chuckle at some impending disaster. “Stock up on sandbags, Dorking. There’s a severe weather warning in place for your area”, or “Pestilence in Penzance, followed by a plague of locusts and then a blizzard. Stay indoors and wrap up warm”.
Who are these people? How did they get their jobs? They look as though they would equally be at home probing one’s tax returns, or scrutinising toothpaste at an airport check-in. I imagine that they have degrees from jumped-up polytechnics, sensible pension plans, two point five kids, and enjoy a daring bottle of Lambrusco, or Blue Nun of a Saturday night with their dreary wives in Carshalton, Woking or some other unspeakable suburb, followed by sensible sex perhaps and a Sunday to look forward to re-arranging their moth collection, or pottering in a miniscule, but well-ordered garden - weather permitting. They strike me as men who have never ever taken a chance on anything, but have a vicarious life of adventure, reporting the risks of turbulence, maelstroms, high pollen counts, black ice, floods, hurricanes and blistering heat waves from the comfort and safety of the Met Office, or TV studio.
When they return home from work, perhaps a dutiful wife is waiting to offer solace.
‘Hard day at the office, Kelvin?’
‘You don’t know the half of it, Norma,’ he sighs as he removes his hi-viz jacket, crash helmet and cycle clips.
‘I’m making your favourites for dinner. “Be Good to Yourself” fish pie with succulent vacuum packed farm-fresh broccoli spears, followed by Gambian Free Trade raspberries and simulated Devonshire cream. Shall I crack open the Lambrusco?’
‘I think not,’ says Kelvin, ‘I need to keep a clear head for tomorrow, there’s apparently a threat of a squall on The Serpentine and with any luck, the Earth might go off its axis. I’ll be buffing up the magnetic warning triangles, just in case.’
It’s irrational I know, but these nerds piss me off. Having lived a life of almost unremitting chaos, perhaps I secretly envy them their certainties?
Wednesday:
A visit to London to attend a symposium at the British Library on the “Psychology of Humour”. Arriving at Waterloo, I decide to take a taxi rather than brave the Tube, because I get vertigo on escalators and seem prone to being accosted by mutants or religious fanatics. I’m settling back in my seat when the cabbie goes into an uninvited monologue.
‘’Ere, I had that David Attenborough in my cab the other day. Diamond geezer - very sprightly for his age. Not a big tipper mind, but then I expect he’s still trying to get his money back on that Gandhi film. He was going to some function to celebrate Darwin’s bicen-bloody-tenary. What’s all this fuss about bleedin’ Darwin? As if he was some kind of genius or something. I mean hands up who didn’t know that the fittest survive? Stands to reason don’t it? If you had a race between say Anne Widdecombe and a whippet, who’s gonna win? Eh? Or a pie eating contest between John Prescott and Twiggy. Prescott every time. Fit for purpose. Same thing with giraffes. If they didn’t have long necks, they’d starve to bloody death. Stands to reason.
So this Darwin geezer spends five years on the other side of the world looking at bloody sparras and turtles. He throws up all the time on account of his seasickness. Catches some tropical disease and is nearly murdered by the natives. And when he gets back home, he spends another 20 odd years thinking about it. And what does he come up with? The survival of the fittest. I could’ve saved him the time and trouble and taken him to Wimbledon greyhound track. “’Ere, have a butchers at that Charlie boy”, I’d say. “Do you see any fat Dobermans winning a race? Eh?” Stands to reason.
It’s the law of the jungle innit? You gotta duck and dive, bob and weave. Be adaptable. That’s why mankind has progressed and chimps are still scratching their arses and swinging from trees. Can you imagine a monkey doing what Beckham does with a football? Or an armadillo inventing the iPod? I don’t think so. And then there’s the miracles of modern science. Look at what doctors can do now. They can even give you a face transplant. They can take your face off and graft a dead person’s face in its place. Imagine looking in a mirror and seeing a complete stranger, or worse still someone you hate, like Simon Cowell, or Liam Gallagher. But that’s progress. My old dad used to say, ‘Ron, if things don’t change, they’ll stay as they are.’ He was a deep thinker, my dad.
Anyway, if that Darwin wanted to study something really interesting, then he should’ve asked how we got here in the first place, instead of stating the bleedin’ obvious. I mean, you can’t tell me all this was put together in six days. It must’ve taken donkey’s years. Stands to reason, don’t it? That’s twenty quid mate.’
The symposium is a complete waste of time. There’s a panel of academics and some well-known comedians. Some good gags are told, but they wilt and die under the analysis of the eggheads and the earnestness of the audience. In the coffee break, I meet Barry Cryer, a great comedy scriptwriter, now in his seventies. He mentions the dread that all comics have of dying a death before an audience. I decide that I’ll tell him my Roy Castle story.
Roy was doing a poorly attended matinee performance at the Glasgow Empire, which was long known as the comedian’s graveyard. He told a few jokes. No response from the audience. He played the clarinet, drums and piano. He sang a song or two and tap danced. Nothing. He then attached a trumpet mouthpiece to a kitchen sink and played Scotland the Brave. Nothing. Then a small Glaswegian voice piped up from the stalls:
‘Is there nae end to this twat’s talent?’
Barry listens politely, mainly I suspect, because he’s heard it before. He acknowledges that the Empire was indeed a difficult gig and relates the following.
Mike and Bernie Winters were appearing at the Glasgow Empire. Mike came on first and told a few jokes and played the clarinet. He was lucky enough to get a smattering of grudging applause. Then his buck-toothed brother, Bernie, stuck his head out between the curtains and pulled some silly faces. Perhaps the same small voice that damned Roy Castle piped up.
‘Fuck me, there’s two of ‘em.’
Returning home on the train, I decide that the funniest thing that I’ve heard all day was the cabbie’s take on evolution – but I don’t know why. Just stands to reason.
Thursday:
The electric razor that I got as a present last Christmas has seized up. It makes a pitiful whirring noise and then conks out. I switch it off and give it a gentle tap and try it again. It sounds like an asthmatic mosquito on its last legs. I repeat this several times until my patience runs out and I bang it sharply against the bathroom sink. The business end flips open and cogs, wheels and various mysterious components fly off in all directions. As I scrabble around on the bathroom floor to retrieve these, I notice that there’s also a considerable amount of fine powder and gunge which I think might be my facial hair and sliced off pimples and warts from many months past. I’m surprised by this, because I had assumed that all this stuff was somehow ingested by the razor. I spend several hours trying to reassemble it, feeling like a fruit fly or a Galapagos finch grappling with a Rubik’s Cube. I fail miserably. I’m utterly flummoxed and resigned to returning to the savagery of the disposable blades from the minimarket.
Friday:
A last minute local pub gig with a band that I haven’t played with before. They are very young, but into rock’n’roll and their set is mainly old standards that I can tootle on quite happily.
‘Do you know the Beatles number, Slow Down?’ the singer asks me before we go on. I assure him that I do, but don’t tell him that I once had the pleasure of recording it with the late Larry Williams, who wrote it long before he was born. Beatles indeed!
After the gig, I’m bought a drink by a man of about my own age.
‘That was great,’ he enthuses. ‘I’ve always wanted to play an instrument. A bit late now I suppose, but it must be marvelous to be a musician.’
I’ve had this conversation many times over the years, but I thank him and ask him what he work he does.
‘Oh, I’m retired now. Spent forty years in the Civil Service. Got a good pension, but I would love to have done what you’ve done.’
Standing beside him is an attractive woman who I presume is his wife. She says nothing, but smiles indulgently at his wishful thinking. If he had been a musician in his youth, I doubt that she would have looked at him twice. Only the brave take on that challenge.
Much of his enthusiasm is, I suspect, fuelled by alcohol and most musicians, including lowly ones like me, are used to it. What amuses me is that people like my new best pal have no real idea that for many of us it’s never really been a choice. We didn’t wake up one day and ponder whether we should take up music or become a clerk, or a Mars Bar rep.
Of course, he doesn’t really want to be me – I not always sure that I do either. I drink too much and walk home.
Saturday:
I retrieve the Micra from the pub car park. Returning to my flat, I get a visit from Jason, the community policeman. He is, as ever, festooned in technology, a stab vest and a cycling helmet and is puffing from his efforts to climb five flights of stairs with all these encumbrances.
‘We’ve had reports of some disreputable looking characters lurking about,’ he tells me. ‘It might be wise to double check the locks on your doors and windows. You can’t be too careful.’
I thank him for the tip off and wonder what constitutes “disreputable” in in his mind. As the only windows in my flat face onto a seventy foot sheer drop, perhaps I should be alert to anyone wearing a Spider Man outfit, or carrying grappling irons.
Sunday:
Contrary to the weather forecast, it lashes with rain for most of the day. I imagine that Kelvin will be wracked with guilt as he peers out from his garden shed in Carshalton.
© David Sherrington 2012
