Our favourite place to donate clothes and books at the moment is a cat-themed charity shop.
It’s not the closest charity shop to our flat, but it’s spacious and clean and pleasant to browse in. It also has some funny pictures of cats about the place. They say naff things like, “give the purrrrfect gift” and “cat’s a wrap.” Imagine if one of them just said “DOOM” and you didn’t really notice until six hours later when you were brushing your teeth.
Coming in from a walk, I say “Hi Darling!” and then, “Hi Moths!”
Apparently, a large moth once flew into Judy Garland’s mouth while she was singing “Over the Rainbow,” on stage in Los Angeles. She couldn’t just gob it out like a midfielder in the middle of a show, so she popped it into her cheek for later, like how a hamster stores nuts and berries.
Walking in town this morning, I notice a young man standing outside a sexual health clinic. He’s smoking a Sherlock Holmes pipe.
I like to think we’ve become dab hands at murdering the moths that encroach upon our expensively-rented-but-decidedly-modest flat.
We have all manner of trap and deterrent about the place. We’re also swift at smiting them the old-fashioned way when they’re not wearing their invisibility cloaks.
This morning, however, I spotted a moth in the base of our wardrobe. I pressed him with my index finger, which is usually enough to obliterate their fragile insect bodies but something about the action didn’t feel right.
I’m not talking about morality here. What I mean is that it didn’t feel right, physically, on the pad of my finger. I’ve become so accustomed to moth murder that I could tell by touch that his soul had already left his body and fluttered away to Moth Afterlife.
(I very much hope Moth Afterlife is a different place to people afterlife. I do not want any kind of reunion, thanks.)
I tend to assume, optimistically it seems, that we kill the moths shortly after hatching, but today’s moth had clearly died of old age. I hope he was happy living out his golden years in the Moth Florida of my silken suit linings. Moths tend to shit silk though, don’t they? It’s equals-pequals really.
It’s our fifth wedding anniversary and Samara’s mum sends us a framed print of this photograph.
It was taken in Saint-Hippolyte, Quebec, in 2010. I was out of my element and nervous about being on a boat but I look strangely at ease in the photograph. I suggest we display the picture prominently at home so that guests can glimpse my heroic outdoorsmanship.
“Let’s not do that,” says Samara. “People will only ask us to go camping.”
We celebrate our five years of marriage by drinking from a coconut.
There’s a nice piece about Simon M. in today’s Times. It’s good to see the world has woken up to how lovable he is.
“Your paper reviewed me a few years ago and said I will die in a gutter with all my ideas stolen from me,” he laughs. “I studiously avoid gutters.”
Cluub Zarathustra is mentioned. As usual, I feel partly to blame.
I overhear a young Canadian telling her English boyfriend about International House of Pancakes:
“You can go there in the middle of the night if you want to. A lot of young people like it but so do old people. And you can eat pancakes, which is always a good plan. And it’s like a portal, because if you’re travelling, they’re all the exactly same. It’s like a restaurant… but for everyone.”
Man alive, what a book. I’m all shook up.
My Elvis Blackout by Simon Crump, handed to me as if it were a woodland dirtybag, by my good friend unclef, is a novel about the King of Rock and Roll. Well, sort of.
It’s properly hilarious, experimental and odd. The violence that characterises the book is bewildering and sometimes even upsetting (as when Elvis tortures some Vietnam vets with fishing hooks) but is largely Viz-like knockabout joy.
Barbara Cartland staggered out in front of us again and this time we got the bitch exactly square-on. I felt a sickening, thrilling jolt of malevolent teenage delight as her misshapen, shrivelled old body bounced off the windshield straight into the path of a monster truck which had sharpened electrified spikes protruding from every one of its fourteen greasy axles.
The appearance of “real life” personalities is wonderful too. As well as the Barbara Cartland bit here is one of my faveys:
He called up Roy Orbison, who he’d recorded with in the early days when they were both still signed to Sam Phillips’s Sun label.
Roy was down on his luck as well. He’d been showing off in front of his few remaining fans. He’d written his name in lighter fluid on a glass-topped coffee table, set it afire and burned his house down. His second wife, Claudette, had run off with one of the firemen, and his second daughter who was passing by on her motorcycle had been so distracted by the blaze that she’d ridden straight into a tree and broken her back in three places. His dog had just died and ten minutes before Elvis called him up, Roy had found out that he only had six months to live, plus he’d worn dark glasses for so long that the skin on the bridge of his nose had grown around them so he couldn’t take them off now, even if he wanted to. On top of all that, he was flat broke.
Some consolatory emails arrive from friends in North America re: Britain’s new PM.
I don’t really want to think about him. My feelings about the new PM are largely summed up by Gary Younge who writes:
The rise of Boris Johnson was only really ever improbable if you were under the delusion that we live in a meritocracy.
I’ve never cared for the post-millennium year names. Not only have we lost the plunky-plunky-plunk rhythm of “Nineteen ninety-nine” and “eighteen forty-two,” we also have year names that sound decidedly Star Trekish while all around us lie the ruins of civilisation. It’s too much to bear.
So! Today, after nineteen years of suffering this crap, I have devised a new calendar. Critics will draw comparisons to the years of the Chinese Zodiac and may also suggest that I’m spending too much time alone and indoors.
2019 – Year of the Aphid
2020 – Year of the Coconut Crab
2021 – Year of the Ring-Tailed Lemur
2022 – Year of the Mantis Shrimp
2023 – Year of the Globular Springtail
2024 – Year of the Orangutan
2025 – Year of the Centipede
2026 – Year of the Barreleye
2027 – Year of the Tardigrade
2028 – Year of Just Arthropods in General
2029 – Year of the Octopus
2030 – Year of the Talking Lavatory Who Sings to You and Is Alive
Unlike the Chinese Zodiac, my calendar is not cyclical. One does not return to the Year of the Aphid after New Year’s Eve of the Year of the Talking Lavatory Who Sings to You and Is Alive. No, no, no.
Additional years will be added if required.
I’ll find out if there’s a way to hack the date display of this blog to conform to the new calendar. But I’d better get a move on. We’re already halfway through the Year of the Aphid.
Or, as some will see it, four months into the Aphid-Coconut Crab Financial Year.
In the park this afternoon, a teenager heckles a cyclist. She says: “Real men ride women, not bikes!”
Kids! Do yourself a favour and read Chapter Six of Only Americans Burn in Hell by Jarett Kobek. It’s just so much fun that it will improve your day if not your whole week. Go out for a walk and get it from the library. Read the entire novel if you want to, but Chapter Six is the part I’m telling you about. Got that? Wee!
A morning walk to the Fossil Grove to commune with pre-history.
I’d seen the fossils once before but Samara had not and, every time we’ve tried to see them together, the bloody place has been closed.
There’s something funny about setting out to touch Deep Time only to find it closed. “The Eternal is not accessible today due to staffing shortages. We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.” Of course! The bloody council! * waves fist *
Anyway, we finally saw the fossils today and they really are something. Evidence of life on Earth some 325 million years ago. I mean, come on.
I was distracted from my sense of deep time only by the fossils’ passing resemblance to Linda Barry’s magic cephalopod. Look:
On the train, a trio of wretched-looking youths were hunched at one end of the carriage while a group of glowing young mums chatted at the other.
Samara and I sat at the centre of the carriage and, suddenly, a baby’s bottle half-filled with milk rolled speedily past us from where the healthy young mums were gathered, all the way down the aisle to the ratboys.
It landed stopped rolling at the feet of their leader who picked it up and sniffed at it. He looked gloriously bewildered for a moment before returning it to a thankful mum.
“It’s a sign,” I told him.
“Blerg,” he said, and squirted Weil’s Disease squarely into my face.
Later in the afternoon, I’d get my own sign from the babygods when, at a barbecue, a little koala-like baby dragged himself along the lawn and used my leg to pull himself unsteadily onto his feet.
I touched the back of his head in an investigatory and hopefully-affectionate way. It was like a warm cantaloupe.
I was slightly drunk and unsure of what to do about this stranger’s child potentially pulling my trousers down, but his father soon came over to rescue us both.
“Don’t you think the world is overcrowded as it is without your sexcrement running all over the place?” is precisely what I didn’t say. “And why is your face so blurry?”
At least, I don’t think I said it.
I like barbecues.
I’m looking forward to seeing this.
I agree with Stewart’s Brum-baiting remark that Birmingham “has a great history of rejecting its culture.”
As well as rejecting the King Kong statue featured in the film, another fibreglass statue–“Forward” by Raymond Mason–was never popular, on the grounds that it optimistically and apparently irreverently depicted Birmingham’s graduation from heavy industry.
It was finally incinerated by vandals 2003. A sibling sculpture survives contentedly in my other hometown of Montreal.
I like the Nightingales a lot (I treasure memories of Robert Lloyd singing loudly into my wife’s tiny face in a Glasgow pub basement) and, of course, I have much love Michael Cumming and Mr Stew.
As it happens, the last time I trod the Rotunda-shadowed streets seen in this trailer was to see Cumming’s own Oxide Ghosts at the Arena Theatre in Wolverhampton last year.
It was a deeply nostalgic trip: I’d performed at the Arena a few times as a student (most memorably as “a demon pouffe” in a daft version of Anansi Spider Stories) but Wolverhampton was also where, agog, I watched Brass Eye and bonded with others over it, and set my sights on a lifetime of nonsense.
On the same trip, I was shocked to learn of the refurbishment (the DEVASTATION!) of Mr Egg, a late-night lifesaver near to the Glee Club.
Stewart Lee has mentioned Mr Egg somewhere and, oddly enough, Richard Herring refers to the refurbishment in his podcast this very week:
“I was hanging out at Mr Egg the other day… just late-night, having a bit of an egg… the original Mr Egg was there, not the new one, the original Mr Egg, the good… the proper one.”
Anyway. Yes. I find myself earnestly hankering to see King Rocker. I email my Mum to ask if she remembers the King Kong statue from its six-month Bullring residency in 1972. She does! She also remembers it being in Edinburgh.
The ape seems oddly familiar to me (and there’s apparently a maquette in Wolverhampton Art Gallery) but, alas, I do not consciously remember it from either location, despite their significance to me as places.
Gentlemen. If you have the urge to hula-hoop in the nude, oblige it. But know that you’ll remind us all of some chewing gum caught in a ceiling fan.
You’re on a train. The man across the aisle is reading a book and he keeps smiling and occasionally snorts with laughter. It’s one of those times when someone is reading something funny and just can’t hold it in. Something is really tickling him.
The cover of the book is nondescript but you want to know what’s so funny, so you make as if you’re standing to stretch your legs and you walk around behind him and glance over his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of the text. The book is blank.
That’s how you discover YOU’RE IN THE TRUMAN SHOW. It is Season 2 and the ratings are in the toilet.
To Liverpool to see my parents. They don’t live in Liverpool; I just didn’t want to go to Dudley and they didn’t want to come to Glasgow so we meet partway.
At the Walker Gallery, we see Glasgow Museums’ travelling exhibition about Charles Rennie Mackintosh. It feels a bit silly being there when Samara and I essentially live in a Mackintosh theme park, but we see plenty of archival items that aren’t typically on display in Glasgow. I think about my pals in Glasgow Museums boxing up these treasures up and loading them into the van.
I’m disappointed that Dad at no point says, “Ohhh Rennie!” with reference to ‘Allo ‘Allo. He spots a Blackadder in the list of names on a war memorial by the Mersey though so not all is lost.
In the exhibition, I’m taken with a Talwin Morris ex-libris bookplate. It reads, “There lyeth more in ye telling than in ye tale,” which I like. “Style over substance,” is a tedious criticism, isn’t it? It’s Sontag or bust for me.
We retire to a pub and talk about how Mum doesn’t like The Beatles. She keeps speaking with her mouth full. She used to tell me off for that.
Not for the first time, I feel bad that my mum saw her baby slowly transmogrified into a weird, awkward man who lives so far from home. But when I see the Kenn Dodd statue in Lime Street station, I realise it could have been worse.
Dad points out that the statue version of Doddy’s tickling stick looks like a revolving column of doner kebab meat. It does too.
AJ from New York is staying over. Kicked back on the chaise this evening, he suddenly sits bolt upright. A moth has landed on his eye.
I don’t say this at the time, but I actually saw the moth en-route. It came up from a gap in the the floorboards and went straight for his eye. Direct flight, no connections.
I still think our rent is too high.
Wanting to get my eczema fixed, I attend a clinic this afternoon for a long-overdue “patch test.”
This should involve having adhesive patches applied to my back, each one instilled with a common allergen: wool, polyester, dust, gorilla saliva, etc. I’d then endure them for three fun, fun, days before reporting to a dermatologist to see which materials must be expunged from my world.
In the event, my skin is too eczematic to conduct the test. It doesn’t seem particularly bad to me, but the nurse says the test wouldn’t be conclusive and I’m to come back in two weeks to try again.
The fact that my skin doesn’t feel particularly bad to me at the moment is a little troubling. Apparently I’m in state of allergic reaction so perpetual that, to me, it just seems normal.
So now I’m in a state of Allergy Catch-22 in which I’m too allergic for the test that will allow me to escape the reaction. Bloody hell.
Unclef and his six-year-old daughter come over for tea. They bring books. And what books!
I’ll see you in the autumn.
Cooking together in the kitchen, we’re surprised when a clothes moth appears seemingly out of nowhere. We do not dwell on what the little bleeder is doing in the kitchen.
The moth scourge is known to all who live in old Glasgow houses and, while they’re easy to smite when you catch them in repose, they’re surprisingly difficult to twat in mid-air.
They have a crazy tendency to turn invisible (perhaps the light hits their wings a certain way or they fly too close to your eye or something) so once they’ve got your attention, they hold it for a while as you try to spot them again before they escape. It’s mildly annoying and it happens at least once day.
Tonight’s moth had apparently become invisible to Samara but not yet to me, so when I lunge and squash it against the tiles of the splash guard, I look like a genius. “Your power!” she says, “It’s real!”
Ever since Peter introduced me to the pre-installed app in my phone, I’ve had more than half an eye on my daily step count.
I wish this weren’t the case. I’m a flaneur by nature and step-counting is hardly of the ethos. But it’s also in my nature to be quite obsessive, and anything involving personal data capture appeals to me on a level deeper than sense.
Last night, I knew I’d be walking from our home in the West of the city to a bar in the East and then back again. This is a longer-than-usual walk so I felt confident of wracking up around 16,000 steps and being able to say something triumphant along the lines of “who, precisely, is your daddy?”
Imagine my despondency then, when on the way home in the early hours of this morning, I look to the app to marvel at my step-based treasure only to be met with the paltry number 1,700.
What Peter didn’t tell me is that the bloody thing resets at midnight. I suppose now this should have been obvious, but I hadn’t thought of it. Modern life is cruel.
Still, the 5,000 steps I technically earned before breakfast this morning can hardly be complained about. Now then. Where do I cash them in?
I’m out for a walk this afternoon when Samara texts me something about how we need more exercise. We’re putting on weight since I became a full-time writer again last year and Samara quit a physically-demanding job for something more desk-based.
I’m about to reply with “I like big butts and I cannot lie,” when something makes me stop. I realise that the person walking in front of me has a huge, entirely-likeable butt.
While this is firmly outside the boundaries of all reasonable likelihood, my catastrophising brain decides not to type this text message after all. It would be just my luck to drop the phone and for it to go skidding along the street only to be picked up by the big-butted pedestrian and for terrible, misunderstanding-based outrage to follow.
You other brothers can’t deny you’d have done the same.
Reggie emails first thing this morning purely to say, “they should have cast Bruce Willis in Die Hand Die Verletzt.”
I like to think he woke up with that in his mind. A good day to die verletzt.