Friday, 27 July 2007

Ying my Yang

Yes, yes, yes, I know, I’m a terrible blogger. Three weeks since my last entry. Not that any of you bastards seem to care anyway – I haven’t exactly been overwhelmed with emails and comments checking that I’ve not been diced into little cubes by some hot sociopath, made into pickled heure d'oeuvres and fed to his chihuahua at a dolls’ tea party with fucking Barbie. What an indignity.

The thing is, it’s not actually my fault (it never is; just ask The Sister and The Best Friend). Y’see, for the past few weeks this ship has been steered by Dr “Homemaker” Jekyll, and Mr “Bender” Hyde only managed to seize back the reigns of command last night. Word has it he achieved this by beating Jekyll over the head with a bag of mixed metaphors, but that’s just an unsubstantiated rumour mill that catches the worm.

Homemaker began to get some leverage on my brain as early as April. He’s always been there, lurking in the back space I’ve given him between the cerebral aqueduct and the medulla oblongata. Last year he got inspired and decked it out like the fucking elephant from Moulin Rouge; red velvet curtains, shag carpets and a Louis XIV imitation bath-tub. We had a bit of a bust-up over that, with him complaining that the patterned wallpaper wouldn’t stick to the fatty tissue of the walls, and that as his landlord I needed to get someone in to fix the damp. I told him to fuck off and find another brain if he didn’t like this one, and he’s been lying low ever since.

So April trots around, and I start getting emails from mum about the holiday that she and dad are having in July. My parents both have green thumbs, and this year decided to have three weeks in sunny (ha!) England looking at beautiful and historic gardens. As mum explained, she just needed a little bit of help sorting out the finer details… like all of it.

Car hire, booking accommodation, route planning, journey times, visiting friends, train travel and buying a bloody thermos; they all require the use of the practical parts of the brain. These are the areas where Homemaker lives, and suddenly he found himself in demand again.

As July approached he used this new influence to garner support from the other brain residents. First he got Id on side, allowing him to infiltrate my dreams with visions of arcadian landscaped gardens lit by golden sunshine, where naked men wrestled in the box hedges (it seems that not even Homemaker could keep Id fully under control). Next he convinced Ego to get on board, and then in a stunning coup d'état won over Superego with promises of intellectual growth and moral betterment. Poor Bender Hyde was shackled up in the dungeons while Homemaker set himself up in a dictatorship, and as his first proclamation announced to the world “mum, I’d love to join you and dad for two weeks of middle-aged fun fun fun discussing the difference between ginger- and day-lilles in a small rental vehicle. Oh, and let’s bring The Sister along for a laugh.” Homemaker is one nasty piece of work.

The worst part is, I absolutely loved it. Every raspberry-picking, lavender-smelling, topiary-admiring moment of it. We meandered through the Lost Gardens of Heligan, St Michael’s Mount, The Eden Project and even Longleat, where Homemaker made a lot of fuss over the deer that ate from your hand. What a fucking loser; he can be like soooo embarrassing.

The whole experience was made all the better for having mum and dad there, whom I love to bits and who are very clever people. At the end of it all I returned to London feeling relaxed and bucolic; with grass growing on my head and a nasty cough apparently.

Ah London! The throbbing pulse of possibility, the pressing heat of humanity, the grinding pelvis of indecency. I was back! From his darkened cell Bender caught a whiff of a TFL announcement, and knew his time was nigh.

But Homemaker is a cunning weasel in a pink frilly apron, and had foreseen all of this. The first weekend back he directed the HW flesh-mobile to Dorset to stay with family friends and help organise a country fete. More wholesome air, warm bread in the morning and conversations about Kafka over sherry. In a further Machiavellian twist the return to London was organised to coincide with the release of the Potter Bible, guaranteeing the only interaction I had with other human beings was with the pervert whose room overlooks my bedroom window. No pervert, I’m reading a children’s fantasy novel, not “What Little Boys Do When TimTum Has Been Naughty”.

Then last night it finally happened. An Aussie friend – The Amusing Hairdresser – dragged me out to Old Compton Street last night and pickled me in vodka. At the first sighting of an overdeveloped bicep Id was won over, Ego came skulking back at the first sounding of “Umbrella” and Superego simply passed out behind the throne. Without their backing Homemaker was powerless to stop Bender Hyde returning to power in a glorious rainbow-bannered street parade.

The Thoughtful Epilogue

And yet, something is definitely different.

With the tragic inevitability of life The Amusing Hairdresser and I ended up dancing the night away at Moral Cesspits ‘R Us. In a pause between throwing some eggbeater shapes we sat down with a drink and he asked me who, out of everyone in the room, I fancied.

“The man in the suit.”

Sure it was pin-striped (we’ve been here before) but he sat there curled up with a glass of white wine, practically foetal with discomfort. You could see why – he was the only person not showing off the top seven-eighths of their underwear and alternately wearing/removing their tank top (I know boys, it’s so hard to decide; now I’m hot, now I’m cold, now I’m hot, oops cold again).

Choosing him was a 100% Homemaker decision, as he looked like the sort that would be able to carve up a Sunday roast while holding a conversation with my dad about dirty spark plugs. Unfortunately Pinnie replied (yes! I spoke to him) in a voice that only a mother could love, and only if she was deaf in both ears with a tolerance for high frequency vibrations. Imagine Ringo Starr making love to a chipmunk; their devil-spawn would sound like Pinnie.

Extricating myself from this situation required all of Bender’s skills. These mostly consisted of distracting Pinnie by pointing at the wall behind his head, then making a slicing movement across my neck as a signal to The Amusing Hairdresser to come save me. Later on it was Bender who decided that, actually, every single man in this club was a fucking Adonis (in fact, I suspect that if I popped out to the loos I would have found every single man fucking Adonis, the lucky bastard). Yet it was Homemaker who sensibly decided that this was the cue to go home. Amazing.

In the light of this evidence I now suspect that Homemaker and Bender are power-sharing my brain, and that this is the way it should be. Between the two of them they seem to know what they’re doing, and as long as they keep me out of it I'll remain a happy man.


Liam said...

I'm also there, and you got a good few years than I did Bender being in control. At 19 I was basically a mother, and at 20, I'm a fully-fledged cake-baking stepford wife. 

H said...

you really must get a grip on the regular blogging thing GBF - if you don't deliver on a regular basis they'll wander off and look for entertainment elsewhere, you know. Which can of course always be found on my blog. Every Sunday.

Loving your work, by the way.

Liam, cake baking is all the rage, dontcha know. Don't knock it, there are few men on this earth who can turn out a quality muffin. Wave your whisk with pride, my friend.

Anonymous said...


An apprehensive semi-delurk follows.

Speaking personally (which is lucky cos am own favouritest subject) I have not previously left my stain here because:

a) you are kind enough to provide an exquisite window on a world of which I know nothing and therefore upon which I feel unqualified to comment. I content myself with gazing upon your demimonde in vicarious voyeurism and am learning things the like of which are of a frequent surprise to my mother.

b) The H is too modest. 'Tis quality not quantity which adheres me to her purpleness like a bluebottle to blackberry jam. Not that LITTOC suffers by comparison, but rather that the H, having precipitated indecent eructations of giggling in her readership, ices the cake with a (doubtless reluctant and long-suffering) cloaked invitation to deposit idiotic observations. One therefore feels slighly less of a gate-crashing knob when twatting about in response. "Help - what should I do?" or "what the fuck does this mean?" are surefire ways of attracting a delinquent commentary; this may or may not be what you wish to encourage.

Right, I'm off. Sorry to have wittered. May I distract you and others from inanity of the above by means of a gratuitous link to something. It has been a sad 24 hours in terms of inconsiderate people dropping dead. This is in keeping with the current poignancy:

HW said...

This is most exciting; a mystery writer. Welcome Anonymous, if that IS your real name. It sounds wonderfully Eastern and exotic, like steam rises from a bowl of hot prunes.

May I also say, !what the fuck? in response to the Sylvia Plath documentary. Again, !what the fuck? If this SP-fest continues I may have to actually read some of her work to stay ahead of the game. H and JW, you are most certainly to blame for this rise in intellectualism.

And Liam, I fear that if you ever wave your whisk at a muffin you will have to return your Gay Passport. Remember, we only wave our whisks at whisks.

atticus said...
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