Who was Joke () phine?
My father figure—a secondary head of modern languages who took early retirement, and a sculptor in wood of raptors and big cats, that died aged ninety early in 2014—was a poorly constructed excuse for a woman (or neologism) that took the material signs and display of a female identity or alter ego very seriously.
He performed sexuality and the supercilious drag of paternity alone in his first floor room that looked out over the hedge on a six acre pea green, girls’ public school lacrosse field at the far end of which were several square hundred yards of pinetum, obscuring the Tudor-cum-Jacobean-style school mansion and its grounds.
A quietly iconoclastic and prickly princess had been schooled there til 1968.
A milky turquoise pool lay somewhere in the centre of the pinetum, beyond the spikes of monkey puzzles, walls of rhododendrons, and a maze of concrete paving stone paths, that we were lucky enough to be able to use with a permit during long, childhood summer holiday afternoons.
Bobbing, floating and doggie-paddling.
Buoyed by persimmon plastic water wings and cakes of azure blue polystyrene.
And listening to the judder and boing of the springboard as a diver described an arch…
His wife alleged, before she died in six weeks from diagnosis to death in ’97 of liver cancer (a bitterly contested move), that many years previously he had performed sexuality in character, fully attired, with her present.
No doubt with a well-thumbed copy of The Collected Works of Melanie Klein on the nightstand in case of emergency or the need for references.
Maybe with a clunk of the tautly-sprung play lever, thirty degrees to the right, on the upright Akai 4000DS reel-to-reel tape deck, and the quivering blades of the VU meters might cut a passage through uncharted waters between the wow and flutter of verdant green and illicit red, to the strains of Tristan and Isolde unspooling as they left the security of the diatonic nineteenth century home.
At my mother’s hospital bedside, after my birth in 1963 (she alleged), he chastised her for a failure to fully empathise with his predicament as an artist lacking the embodied, reproductive and creative capacities of a woman.
Perhaps a prescient example of “check your privilege” way before its time.
In Dina (see previous post “Property”, about a comedian and drag act, seen recently in the Soho Theatre) I saw, rightly or wrongly, a character that seemed to transcend both parody and preaching to the choir, to transcend the predictable and – of course – the closet; the real closet or numerous metaphorical cupboards.
One cross-dresser was a real one, the other was a fake?
What an idea.
It smacked of conceptual gymnastics, of arbitrary signs and correspondences; made-up worlds that mightn’t get very far except towards making their fans feel good and better than others by moving sets and signs around on a stage.
One was ordinarily, courageously, out and out and out funny and enjoying himself and giving joy – and by the looks of it doing something personally fulfilling – by making characters and worlds in an act of both invention and self-revelation.
He was rehearsing an openly flimsy, fake-believe world made up out of pop cultural items and particulars and both making it come alive and drawing attention to its fictionality, its materiality, the stage—or his own—character’s constructed and imaginative nature, and its familiarity and predictability.
In a way that was both movingly self-parodic and side-splittingly antic – not to say piqueing.
He was the dead frog of a joke, its performance, and its vivisector.
The other wasn’t out or offering of himself or his fictional world and imagination to scrutiny – or embrace – on a theatrical, or social, stage.
An out and out, sucker-punching psychosexual bully, desperate for attention.
Paranoid, perverse, and out to get one in behind closed doors, he aimed to ridicule hard and to ridicule first – so high up his own behind at just how hideous and dismaying he could snickeringly be.
To protest was merely proof of resistance to the idea that you liked the dog-in-a-manger’s cruelty.
Or, worse, evidence of resistance to the idea that you deserved more than this eccentric’s stampede – the village Trump in the living room; the pointillist, pixel-brick grand dam of a gauzy small screen character, an augur ever ahead of the shifting curves of twittering murmurations above cow fields and playing fields; lighting up the other cavity walls of the whitewashed gallery around him with the mottlings of the cathode ray tube.
But then, with a bedside manner, through a lambent Anthony Hopkins impersonation, a cigarette end selflessly ministering some kind of arcane wisdom to an unfortunate navel-gazer, or to the Wild Boy of Aveyron, he’d act for all the world as if he were a priestly D.W.Winnicott—or moist-lipped eavesdropper—with a shaming degree of empathy that undressed and stroked you with looking glass eyes behind half-moon tortoiseshell spectacles.
Or holding a lens to the Stalinist or Hitlerite stone gargoyle—or beast with grabbed crotch for brains—you really were;
Or beast with grabbed crotch for brains spouting received ideas either blindly or opportunistically; re-enacting history in microcosm.
Joke-o-phine disturbing the comfortable.
Comforting the disturbed.
Most people want to get away from pain, can’t be fully present in the presence of pain, or listen to it. They want to forget.
And even as he spat out such words and pictures, he realised they were true.
Because anybody was a goon with a cordon sanitaire around them who was suicidal with despair at the decades of organ-exposing ambushes, truculent and throat-tearing odium, the endless emotional, physical and social squalor – and, hopelessly drunk on their own ego, wanted to help to change it, to put it right.
Or to stub it all out – on ashtray, navel or forehead – and leave without one’s change, never to return.
And at roughly three hours after having shut the door of the latest second-hand, motorised mobile representation of your make-up—the clunking thoughts of André Lefèbvre’s tin snail or Volkswagen’s air-cooled contraption in the pebbled clay lane—and opened the spavined wooden gate on a loose post in the holly hedge, minded the overhanging thorns, walked up the metre-wide, still-cooled and raked river of the concrete front path, crossing the one acre garden to the front door, stepped through the Janus face of Orchard Cottage, and having met bitter censure or satirical lampooning of either your musical enthusiasms and gigs or recordings, of your friend, your girlfriend, your sister or mother, your trip to Thailand or Tyne-on-Tees or Tesco’s, a glitteringly surreal Moscow nightclub, a non-smoking, L.A. sushi restaurant or a Burbank TV studio (the shame of having such a spineless social tree climber for a son, a gadding hologram), your gift of a single malt or singular virgin olive oil or tragicomical London pub gig anecdote, of your undergraduate fascination with the radical impact of the digital on the humanities or history, or (when his Stakhanovite wife had passed away), of your effort to clean up the grime, the memento mori, the muddy Wellington boot prints—the sharp and drip-nosed caricatures brought to life with a purity of hand-wringing anguish and the pert, incisored hiss, heat, sizzle and crackle and pop and frame-fresh primary colour and ripeness and juiciness of a TV chef behind a TV screen in a TV land determined not to be upstaged—he’d insinuate that he wanted you to do just that:
to jolly well f*** off and leave him to dress up and/or carve wood or sing Schubert’s Die Schöne Müllerin song cycle.
Bulging, rosy chorizos brushing the keys of an upright rosewood Bechstein on curling cork tiles in the pool of the studio building behind factory-size glass panes.
Or to add to the shelves on the sides of walls or Dormobile dashboard – with 1mm galvanised steel wire, finishing nails, Araldite epoxy resin glue, half-inch ply and a couple of wall brackets.
Another tenement for the brood of flora and fauna guides, spectacles, lieder scores and Duralex glasses of Valpolicella.
An occupied territory of released, silky-soft and open-skirted, loving creative play and honest work.
If there were anybody else around, he’d make your eyes water with a William Hague—or Harold Wilson—impression.
You’d be transported to a distant retreat resonating with Tibetan overtone sounds – the gurgly gravitas and expansive gestures completing the pastoral picture of a young grandfather, surrounded by scampering tweens being patted on the head.
An overalled over-man who rotely slapped and shelved everybody else with the sticky barcode of consumer drone unable to cope with imperfection.
As a sucker for the air-brushed and the made-over.
The fashionable, the gimmick.
Or—in the gastronomically-challenged British Sixties and Seventies, in a house lucky enough to have a wonderful cook and her kitchen garden with a rich variety of greens under plastic netting, who understood nutrition, had great skill and tireless enthusiasm for fresh, Mediterranean food and homemade soups, and quince and medlar, marmalade, and damson jams in recycled jam jars complete with skins and stones, tomato chutneys red and green, and fruit liqueurs made with eau de vie—with the epithet of dog’s palate.
Grotty little tykes stripped bare of any buds for to appreciate the simple pleasures and superiorities of the unadulterated, un-processed, diverse and authentic fruits of the earth.
Like two saccharine stirred into tea or coffee with a pinging, duplet flourish on the rim of the spode, floral-patterned porcelain.
And Sarson’s malt vinegar, sugar and sunflower oil dressing on a white iceberg forked out of a Tupperware salad spinner—to the side of a canned, cubed chicken Vindaloo—whipped up after the biblical storm he’d blow on the rare occasion when he found he was left to the job of fending for himself.
Out of nowhere would come the cluck-cluck, the spitting, and then the screaming of a two-stroke, 50cc Suzuki trials bike at full throttle, airborne.
If you said no.
No: you’d eat the speckled and not the squishy black lizard of a banana on offer.
Yet more confirmation—if it were really necessary—of the blight he had to put up with and that ruined the free-range wilderness the backwoodsman was camping out in on blow-up lilo under tarpaulin.
At six AM the next morning he’d swap the cuculiformed teasing and chaff for that of an electric chainsaw buzzing through a knotty turkey oak trunk.
Chuckling inside behind the muffs, plastic glasses and pigskin rigger’s gloves sprayed with sawdust at how he’d just alerted us to what non-airborne excess hayseeds and slow, sleepy bumpkins or scarecrows we were.
For the sculptor of work in the Naive style, of depictions of the cat and bird family capturing or signalling simplicity and frankness—and signalling something that could never be found in his marriage nor in any other relationship, nor in music, dance or song with others—the folk music of Ireland and America, with its bursting joy and melancholy and simplicity (and, more recently, complex substitutions for simple chords and ever more intricate rhythms, cross-rhythms and melodies borrowing from Eastern Europe, jazz or African music, the repetitive tunes overlaid with intricate, lilting ornamentation), was just the kind of melody, harmony, rhythm and song that quite frankly, quite simply, signalled the derivative or simple or cocksure or monomaniacal character of the player or devotee.
The mob in miniature; fake, made up tradition from an illiterate, backward bog or desert with no pedigree nor aesthetic worth.
Unless it came from the Auvergne mountains, in southern central France.
In which case the folk and peasant euphonies, the voices with their rich, earthy Occitan twang—that he’d heard a few bars of, introduced by an urbane France Musique radio presenter, that accompanied the serendipitous appearance of a rare bird of Western Europe in the woodland—were both as rooted in the soil of authentic social and historical tradition and as clean, as pure, and as sparkling and clear as the glissandos of that snow-capped mountain region devoid of petty paces, that we could gaze at with binoculars, above and a hundred miles beyond the phosphorescent fingers of local valley mist at dawn – from the top of the hill above our three hundred year old second home, nestling in the thick red clay and limestone of the Causse de Martel, amidst walnut groves and vineyards and an hour’s drive, through twisting lanes amid wild boar-rich wild oak forests and gorges, from subterranean caverns on whose walls roamed bison, aurochs and wolves snagged in serpentine lines and stipplings of charcoal, ochre and metallic oxides beneath the hinterlands of the Lot and Dordogne rivers.
The sulphite-powered sociocultural broker was reminded and humbly conceded, however.
After he’d paused work on a nestling osprey, encircled in the rings and whorls of a block of walnut sat in cicada sunlight, laid down his 40mm bevel edge steel butt chisel and beech club mallet on the waist-high bench bisecting the black square of open barn doors hung with droopy brushwood eyelashes that dappled those handsome, broad bronzed shoulders.
After he’d walked up smoothly cratered steps beneath a canopy of vines in stock-still creep around four by two, green-creosoted timbers over a terrace atop a subterranean limestone cistern.
The ionosphere whistling the same snatch of Brahms’ Clarinet Sonata No.2 for the tenth time that afternoon.
After he’d shuffled in Clarks brown leather sandals through the door past two foot-thick quarried walls over the threshold onto the bumps of stone flags in the farmhouse kitchen beneath a steep, uneven slate fish-scaled ski-jump resting on seventeenth century, Quercy oak joists.
The kitchen as cool and quiet, and as riven by a dusted shivelight ordering the chiaroscuroed peace, as the Byzantine churches he liked to disappear into with a Praktica SLR all over southern Europe and Asia Minor.
He was reminded that people need entertainment and diversion.
To divert all those self-uncensoring analysands away from the appendixes and concrete, sink estate cul-de-sacs of the narcissism of small differences, probably.
The curious thing for him was how the inert filigree of black scrawled slurs, crotchets, quavers and rests and bar lines and thudding, clanging acciacatura, the largactil largo and the pipsqueak and prattle presto, the dead, lagging or over-eager time signatures in endless passages that that left him cold—in the score that he grunted then groaned at on the page in front of him—were actually able in voice or on an instrument to add up to the likeness of a true, live musical and cultural object.
I belonged to a score of faceless marks and creepy copycats in London – a piss-poor, pale imitation or transcription bereft of integrity, originality or spark.
As I was at pains to point out, any good stab at “inducing effects”—like a soul voice that might make one or two skins prickle with recognition and delight—was enabled by learning from your body, your bones and cavities, your breath and gut coils, by ear from others, and from memory, and improvising in live situations where the music was constantly changing as it was passed on and exchanged.
Commerce or no commerce, authenticity or no authenticity, pleasure or no pleasure.
Or witless apophenia and pareidolia.
Not just by reading off the musical or cultural page – the eyes, the mind’s eye and the limbs tethered to marks on paper, and in pursuit of a work set down by an author or origin that one might not be embarrassed to be reading or reproducing.
One’s breeze singing – through staves, lacework and tracery – into the yonder.
If Alter-Mitty, Our Lady and the inverted saint, was consummate at baiting and swooping—for all the world as if he were a Tinto Brass or eagle-eyed Orson Welles, a drecknicolor bad dreamcoat, an insurrectionary carnal master of the old in-out-in-out of titillating victims with the sublime, orgiastic social pornography of their own abjection and gulling…
And if he delighted in presenting an empty void or bag into which one retched up desperate pleas and righteous anger at the crossly-dressed pseud’s torturing of his wife and children – with the sight and smell of their own nose in the dirty, stinking nappy of their own yearning for love and for someone better to be around than this…
And if he did this as a matter of routine for years…
Well-oiled ball bearings for corneas – to match the graphite shaft of a sculptor’s, 7B pencil swivelling astride a turkey oak trunk stripped of hairy bark…
Tight paunch pate bloated on an overcooked cobbler of sacred cows, pickled in Johnny Walker or Soave…
Fists punching and elbows elbowing and feet kicking at the babbling and self-absorbed babies clinging to the skirts and petticoats of platitudes…
Spines blistering and rending beneath the seized, screaming lorry transmission of the ‘The God that Failed’ script – mewling babes without the courage to face their nursed but un-acted thoughts and desires…
If he did, then only once would I as a young adult on another ever hopeful but futile home visit from London watch him look wide-eyed with alarm as I rolled my eyes in deaf disinterest at the cacophany and spectacle of rancorous taunting and harrumphing.
If he then slammed another empty glass down, disgruntled…
Broad bear shoulders hunched over gynaecomastic tissues cupped in leather-patched elbows folded on the stripped pine table, gazing at the embossment of Orion’s Belt, through branches of the ten foot high hedge silhouetted against the night sky outside the kitchen window…
Assonant with a full head of salt and pepper, flyaway Ted Hughes hair in a streamlined formation commanded by a rake comb in plaid shirt top pocket…
It was then that a passive, draining misery brought into relief the waste of emotion and energy, the slime of jealousy, the proprietariness, the gimcrack grand narrative and empty, prophylactic biscuit packet this bricoleur rubbed over the Arts, music and performance.
A relief too wrist-slashingly awful to contemplate.
Was my weariness shouting out something I was too prim or self-deceiving to own up to – like all the other mediocrities?
God forbid one might have an idea or emotion or make a gesture that wasnt seeking a gallery or an Art or Literature or Drama award.
Or just to seduce.
But such a thing could only be close to Communist kitsch – a vain imitation trying to pass itself off as an everyday original, a found object.
As an innocent, humble particular pretending to no plinth.
A symptom of contemporary shallowness – as depthless, as dumbly solid state, as the drive to display ourselves digitally.
Not unlike the barnacled detritus, the dark brown and orange tanks or containers, the struts and cross-sections, their edges and bolt holes serrated by potassium and sodium salts in the sea air, picked up with callused grabs in reach of the nuclear power station and in view of the red flags.
During days birdwatching for common terns, little bitterns, linnets and smews on the sea kale-, catchfly- and shingle-covered expanses of MOD firing ranges littered with blown up military ordnance, west of Dungeness on the south east coast of Kent.
They were transferred into a red leather interior and—as yet oblivious to runnels of rain on a windscreen beneath the charcoal and cottonwool girded bottom of the sky—transported twenty miles to their new home.
To the beatbox putter and sputter of the black Morris Traveller.
After being assembled in the studio workshop, they’d be brushed with bright orange pantone and air superiority blue oil paint, varnished, and life blown into them as Modernist abstractions and medicine men and women, with painted pebbles and rusted nuts and bolts for eyes and monkey or fish moue mouths.
Uncannily sentient beings.
They’d spend an old, unfashionable age out of view in the dark damp of a parallelepiped woodshed along with my chemistry set.
And with smooth, carved wooden monoliths – rudimentary beings emerging from the Earth, that nodded imperceptibly to Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore, brimmed with a sense of an inchoate or a mythical past, and had perhaps one, two or three holes in them.
Smooth, unembroidered voids you felt like putting your fingers through.
As is well-known, Hepworth was an educator too and thought sculpture should be touched and loved, and without secrets. According to her grandchildren, Hepworth encouraged them to roam and interact, to get involved with the works in her workshop. She also accommodated fans who turned up on her doorstep.
I wanted to be a self-sufficient science hobbyist as a pre-pubescent. But bombs made with sodium chlorate weedkiller and two dog food tins, one sheathed over the other, only fizzed, fell off the fence posts I sat them on, and spun and whooshed an orange jet back out through the puncture in the tins acting as a fuse hole, instead of blowing up properly.
The only success I had, as a thirteen year old, was syphoning a pint or so of home-made elderflower wine from the row of bottles—on the terracotta tiles bordering the Aga in the kitchen, glass airlocks plopping in broken rhythms—and topping the gallon demijohns back up with water, then scuttling back to the shed and a configuration of flasks, funnel, cork bungs, meths burner and test tubes.
And quarter inch glass tubing snaking across the view through the cracked window pane of the slit-slotty-eyed shiplap bird hide posted at the brow of an apple and pear orchard that ran down the hill away from the garden border.
The reduction was so watery it took several further goes until there was almost nothing left of the stolen measure. The brandy tasted awful even to an excited teenager so I didn’t drink it.
But maybe I’d have been young enough to get drunk on the tiny distillation.
Our cardinal sin as a family was in fact the failure to configure ourselves as either useful idiots or ideal spectators for the wildly vested, Wildean manhoodie of Scorneo’s amateur, psychosocial epidemiology; tongue clucking at those buzzards slavishly in thrall to a big, wide but meaningless world of appearances beyond.
Even in the days before the internet the subversive, Promethean message might go views-flasher viral.
If only the bleeping, périphéreaking Splutniks in perpetual, orbital tin-can traffic and white bread jam sandwich would oblige.
In the years before my mother died, such were the operatics of a fifty year marriage—marked ever since I could remember by planned, drunken character assassinations of my mother and her children as she cooked, by psychical stiletto waving, by games, by in-jokes nobody in their right mind would want to be in on, and proxy wars that one was dragged into again and again, by showdowns that would “finally” lead to divorce—that at any moment spitting gravel and driving out of the right of way to escape the frenzy one might expect to smash into and tear a hole in a painted wood and plaster wall depicting a horizon flanked by trimmed hedges, rhododendrons and rosebeds.
To spy out of the corner of the eye a cheesey-grinning suit hard at work, delivering to other consuming but unseen eyes sales pitches for hi-fi electronics or Black & Decker or Distalgesic (or Gaviscon Antacid).
The suit being bundled out of sight into the bushes as the clueless, gurning naif—or automaton gone on rogue or mercenary walkabout—materialised where he ought not to.
A paranoiac’s fantasy of social and creative mastery; a ludicrous stand off between competing imaginations; Platonic Caves borne by vast tectonic plates.
With all the self-aggrandisement of the campaign trail or fractious team-mates competing for leadership and membership on a reality TV show.
Broad horizons indeed.
Movie billboard- and sound stage-broad.
And you stupid enough and well-meaning enough—the way sons and daughters tend to be—to take it all as worthy of study and respect.
Ever mindful of being not so extreme, not so intolerant, as to perforate the elaborate image.
Ever guilty of failure to be in the sneer- and jeer-leading Delphic braggart’s VIP box – or looking up at him or her.
With a sotted, quiver-lipped, baby-shaky-cam, prurient leer and rictus titter or twinkle.
Reading you like a book.
From the inside and out of a book.
The great secret may’ve been that the ladies’ underwear – or contrapuntal undersong – came not from the Grattan mail-order catalogue but was knocked up afresh each day with papier-mached pages torn from Artforum and ‘Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious’.
(The V&A may have burnt the last example mouldering in its basement that never saw the light – never mind a glamrock stage.)
A new Fluxus replete with sogginess, entropy and fumbliness all adding to the sense of happening, event and change.
Ever the subversive and brave transgressor, Jokiephoney could get into his own anti-heroes by flicking a flyleaf – or launching a mobile guerilla transparent’s raid on see-through cant and falsehoods.
The transparentheist, a man of the psychoanalytic cloth, who could not copy, struggled with drawing a likeness with a pencil, and could not truly reproduce truly like the Eternal Feminine, was pretty piss-poor at any self-parody too.
At any generous send up of his crumbly cracks and facade.
He liked to slap you around, though.
But seeking rest and refuge—after striding the streets of the dysmatopian metropolis alone and incognito, on a shopping spree—maybe he looked with umbrage and accusation through the blank, guilt-free grins, stares and well-stocked shelves in Ann Summers outlets, and through their tools, baublish products and machines.
Things of which he—as an un-reconstructed male, trapped in the amber of social construction and determination—was denied the benefits.
Cruelly denied the ability or rights to be present as a woman.
Or to perform one.
Along with the denial of the flirty, friendly and sharing atmosphere of the Party Plan franchise.
He’d perhaps exit from the dead end alley in fits of pique, wobble on his rope-bridge way over coursing street riverbeds, to then dive into the embrace of Tiranti’s sculpture, modelling, carving and restoration supplies shop in Fitzrovia instead.
For a tin of powders, some resin, and a pot of rubbery, red Vinamold™ mould-making material.
For to perfect another batch of bronze madonnas, birds and oedipal wrecks.
They would silently woo and win admirers – in halogen light-loaded galleries all over the prow of the South East – all obediently looking but not touching.
According to bourgeois convention.
Despite the gallerygoing acquaintainces and subtly hazed followers, his only accommodating friends were cats – and, to a lesser extent, dogs.
He spurned the I-love-myself look on those soft, licked, black wet noses.
(Although it is true the drawers of the Queen Anne commode with a hutch were awash with pictures of spurned creatures, carefully captured.)
Some time in the late Eighties, after moving to London in ’82 aged nineteen, I broke up after five years or so with a Geordie working class hero.
She bore a resemblance to Juliette Binoche and that spark that transcended appearances.
The lustrous crop of sometimes short hair, and her bone structure, made her compare well with the pop-romantic Tony Hadley from Spandau Ballet – proportions and symmetries in need of no make-up.
In a new fusion of personal and political expression, she had finally removed the phallocratic ego from between her legs once and for all and grown up to join the cadre of socialist lesbian feminists.
After some winnowing (or confident, predatory cruising) she found a lover in the form of an avowed ex-IRA member from the North of Ireland.
The soulmate had the caché of having been a “political prisoner” and her tower block council flat in Finsbury Park served as a halfway house for a couple I met there—when I went round for a cup of tea—who were apparently en route to reconnoitre Dutch airfields.
She did allege—and one hoped not merely to impress—that her flat was a way station for the Special Branch on their interrogatory rounds too.
It made me look around myself and up and out at the stalks and cross-pieces of aerials on the roofs and tiny black rectangles of CCTV cameras, parading on eaves and lamposts, in a whole new way – a way that was all too familiar in its strangeness.
Some clear-sighted and scandalised people amongst the radicals, sniffing the wind, wondered if the queen bee were not in fact friends with the Special Branch.
Scandalised – but perhaps a bit jealous at not being so well-informed or close to the centre of things.
Another bulky, squat character, with a large hairy mole on her chin that only served to enhance the smile, she had a twinkle in her eye and—in the palm of her hand—the lilting butterfly of a mellifluous, Six Counties’ delivery.
She did write and sing songs with a guitar too – full of passion and childlike charm enhanced by a rawness, a lack of smoothing technique, belieing an idealism that elicited warm feelings about future social possibilities.
We were in Bethlehem again, every time, plucked out of the world and inserted into story, and she was down with us in the nativity play too, playing herself, as words took on the quality of music.
A sonata of political change.
The form desired by so many freeing the dumb beat, mercurial harmony and technocratic, diatonic notes to be who they really were.
The vibrant dots and staves of a re-enchanting, living and breathing congregation uniting note and flesh.
A new, musical species breaking out of the shell of self-harmonisation.
The butterfly could hypnotize her left-wing, English, middle class acolytes – and me, the pathological non-joiner – with a prepossessing folksiness.
And then, once she’d gained their gratitude and confidence, about turn and tread as she hectored the Brits, community betrayers, sell-outs and patriarchal apologists amongst them.
To show the guilty above and below in no uncertain terms they’d been told.
A marriage of heaven and earth to make the damned tearful with gratitude as they made their way to hell.
You could catch her hunched in a corner of a humid North London Irish pub, glottally coughing nervously and blowing smoke into the dark oak veneer table (the dry ice that lacked an audience), and disgruntled because someone else held court in her place, because she could not dazzle and haze with stories about Sinn Fein or with faraway-eyed homily about the struggles around the world.
Or, more significantly, because she lacked the presence of an adoring partner – one to give the bigwig the confidence to clear the spit ‘n’ sawdust floor and build a flash community in the blink of a twinkly eye.
Deaf to any whisky-soaked wag in another corner mimicking the kind of attention she craved: “And who’d win in a fight between Karl Marx, James Connolly and Germaine Greer?”
One day around that time, driving east across North London back from Harlesden High St in one glorious summer, with a gay, republican, fellow band member hot on the trail of my bisexuality in the passenger seat, we were stopped by the police twice in the space of thirty minutes.
The second time was under the bottom of Hampstead Heath – where the gay comrades would gather for orgies and I’d drop off my comrade there on my own lonely, homebody way home after a long night’s gig in a Fiddler’s Elbow or an Auld Triangle so he could join in the midnight demonstrations, rehearsals and performances in the London lung.
In answer to the officer’s question “where have you been, what have you been doing?”, I said “buying electrical equipment”.
We had the guitar amplifier as evidence.
I still don’t know if by using that phrase I was trying to wind the police officer up.
It seemed a close thing as to whether we were about to end up in custody. (Perhaps just to punish me for the insolence of my clown outfit.)
On another occasion, after disembarking from the ferry from Harwich in the port of the Hook of Holland, we were taken to a deserted warehouse and surrounded by a group of polite, bullet-proof-vested policemen with machine guns who gutted my beat-up bronze Rover SD1 (the car the Metropolitan Police drove at the time) and removed for inspection the equipment inside.
The violin, guitar, accordeon, penny whistles and amplifiers and microphones packed for an incendiary tour of folk clubs in Belgium and Holland.
The tours—apart from this brush with anti-Irish anti-terrorism—were a respite from the crush and cacophany of London pubs and being treated—in the cause of human rights—like low-wage skivvies by people organising fund-raising gigs for the Miners’ Strike, the Birmingham Six, A.I.D.S victims or the Guildford Four campaigns.
Organisers keeping an aerial watch on mercurial imaginations flashing far below, irrigating the fields under the international sun.
The neat and tidy Dutch towns, the polite and appreciative audiences, the hospitality of those that gave us a bed, and the warmth and appreciation of a very organised ex-patriate Geordie man who took such good care of us as our agent, mollified the bitterness of our Northern Irish Protestant lead singer and guitarist.
An Anarchist of no fixed social abode, he’d torch the believerballs of any lazily opinionated barfly larva within range once several shorts and pints in the proper order had given him some full canisters to play with.
Segueing smoothly from softly-spoken, Lennon-spectacled mousiness to Old Testament fury and scorn that appeared to set light to the bristling shaved head and Abrahamic ginger beard.
Ignited spirits did not transform his guitar accompaniment from soggy dirge to carefree, dancing linnet o’er the bee-loud glade.
Except when he sang a haunting slow ballad with a heavy hint of menace and irony.
As Jackanory met the sectarian nightmare of The Troubles within and bore a terrible beauty in the form of a hoarse and gravelly yet lyrical Belfast baritone full of portent, singing verses more often than not affirming dream or imagination in a dark, traumatised or imperfect real world.
A cool poultice for the second-degree burns.
The duck legs of the dream whisperer, on peaty Guinness pond, paddling furiously all the while underneath – in what they perceived to be the direction of a Peace Prize.
There we were bottled up inside the condensation-beaded, yellow-tarred walls of pubs and this flame-hairy man projected the aura of being able to sell both the demise and spectres of innocence and humbug better than the producers of the Hilltop Commercial for Coca Cola.
Mefistopher Robin did in a previous life used to edit and make story straws for IPC mag readers to suck on and see in new stars with.
But he could rip up the peat boggy calm, setting the stage on fire and tearing down the house – the latent fury powering a darkly comic talent stamped with a wriggly smirk.
He rattled the cage of your soul with the glinting, coarse beauty of another Luke Kelly from The Dubliners.
An escaped, angry goat, hopping up a shale-strewn, mountain curtainscape of pub-theatrical dazzle and scuzzy spit ‘n’ sawdust rock ‘n’ roll.
Or delivering from the coastal path of Holywood, Co.Down a missive to shake down a sensible but unwary man or woman to their intimate magma.
A magma that might then erupt from under the dikes of a carefully husbanded Dutch history of integration and compromise.
The one thing that might’ve danced to one of the dance tunes was an out-of-place, bluefin tuna netted off the North Sea shelf – its flips, spasms, tics and twitchings on white tiles in the marketplace slowing inexorably, as it eventually expired, flat as a map, from lack of oxygen.
Or a solid, regular pulse.
And from nerve damage.
One might be watching Andy Warhol’s factory-produced Empire State Building popping out from the dusky canyons of a celluloid Manhattan.
Watching, staring back at us.
Winking and rippling as if we too were all full of pinhole, chromatic detail and inscrutable gesture.
Using the fingers of the inner ear and learning even just a few tricks, merely to enhance the raw talent and energy one already had, to transform emotion and experience into performance would’ve been wagging the tail of the originary, digit-less dolphin of freedom in a way worthy of Leni Riefenstahl and her ein volk-vizdom fantasias.
Using the technology of going out and looking and asking or having the cochlear nerve to listen to recordings of people with a better grasp of their instrument’s neck than you, and as an uncommodified, independent gift to your fellow musicians to lighten the load, to really set things alight in the marginal confines of an outdoor music festival or broadcasting studio, would’ve been symptomatic of a dangerous trend.
In pub music, if you found the virtuoso technique of holding your drink or forth with homily in the key of life or withstanding the nasal sear and the tic- and twitch-firing jolt of hollowgrams of cocaine cut with Anadin, amphetamine and Mannitol—more in order to geld oneself against tin-eared harmonic paralysis than much else—all quite eye-watering and smacking of a cluelessness buttressed by a great, grey, greasy, Beaubourg eminence grise of Y fronts on the outside:
well, that was yet another symptom of the way you captured and killed or misrepresented the masterpiece that was the social ecology.
If you baulked against the bold, ball-busting and truth-telling inability to recognise in from out of tune or a coruscating off-beat guitar stroke from an over-eager shovel shoved into a cement mixer rebounding into your jaw, a Timelord from a sonic screwdriver torturing the temples, or against flat and sharp speech-level singing trying to break the bonds of slavery by stepping through the fourth wall of melody, timbre and phrasing into a wondrous, brave, collective metalepsis, then this was yet another predictable instant whip up of the kind of deaf-blind blowhard without nuance that you were.
Remorselessly hanging, drawing and quartering the puppy of soul—or genius loci of punk and pissorderliness—with an unsympathetic magic can opener.
Have a generic understanding of the relationship between feeling and form, idea and execution, musical tastes and the present necessity of making and spinning a future shape, an ensemble, an audience, an entertainment and diversion, out of what you were given, and you were Satan.
The murderer of live feeling and the feeling of liveness.
In all its glorious, unmediated spectacle.
ˈkʌmɪŋ tu ə ˈfjuʧər nɪr ɔr ɪn ju sʌn.
Anyone with a finger on the social pulse knows knowledge, experience and competence in the performing arts are a denial, a defence mechanism.
Enslavement to norms.
A labour to produce stillborn, lifeless offspring.
The cruel suppression of genuine encounter.
Less know-how=more integrity=more realism.
We remained in contact after breaking up but my the Geordie’s head-squaring caucus continued at every meeting without prompt.
It was the Social Olympics as well – she’d batter you with questions to prove what a people person she was, with bottomless interest in what was outside her.
Shredding your misplaced devotion and care for her with her own rat-a-tat-tat, she’d then drool and coo over your paralympic solipsism and shame.
The Geordie’s hump of a social conscience was also massaged and stimulated by me refusing to grow up, to be straightened out and groomed, as a gay man – a willing proxy of politicised sexual intimacy and desire.
To be tattooed, adorned and beautified along with the other designers of colourful social fabrics and unembarrassed bodies of theory; nipping and tucking, exfoliating and highlighting, chopping, thinning and texturing the grass roots—or astroturf—of the psyche in the progressive salon.
Like the make-over she gave those Soledad Brothers and unsung gay revolutionaries, the Kray twins, when the biopic came out starring the Kemp brothers from Spandau Ballet.
Which was the greater transgression – and brave act of political resistance?
Ronnie and Reggie’s torture, murdering and myth-making and Violet the matriarch’s indulgence?
Or the City Airport runway semaphore portraits and the rheumy gaze of the film, lapping up the terrible twins and the fluids they spilt in a supposedly widely misunderstood system of bonding and exchange?
Once I’d come out as deciding to build a gay sexuality and practice, maybe I could graduate to copying the kind of searing, terrifying domestic violence she got up to with her soulmate—at home and out on the streets—that she gave such world-weary accounts of.
As if it were heroic warfare between otherwise solidly bonded common soldiers who made love and played football in no- man’s or woman’s land from time to time.
She imagined I would bond with her in her attempt to aestheticise the violent, as yet unarmed struggle against the everyday.
One day John Lewis or Marks and Spencer will reflect social progress, how far we’ve come, by making Christmas ads featuring rats fighting in cages in a snowy halo of sentiment and nostalgia.
And yet will then with hindsight sack their agency for not being au courant or creating enough publicity and causing a slump in sales.
A defence of obscenity is that nature is the greater obscenity. It was all of a piece with stormin’ Norman Mailer and the Vietnam War – parsed avidly along with Featherstone, Greer, Friedan, de Beavoir et al.
Around the time of our break up, Joke-o-phine’s cat—a placid, long-haired, sprawling splat of a cat like black candyfloss—had died.
Sight unseen—for Joke-o-phine in clamorous silence punctuated life with no visit, nothing about multicultural London or my life in it interesting the meta-narrator more than anything he’d imagined, said or authored already—he was eager to replace his cat with our loved and loving, small, thin, black and white half-Siamese with a nervous disorder.
Her male twin Didi had gone missing—in the transitions surrounding the end of our relationship—and she was licking and gnawing at the fur at the root of her tail, almost down to the bone.
I was eager to affirm Joke-o-phine’s generosity.
The innocent proxy so deserving—unlike his own bedraggled quacklings and chatterlings driven by random, misinterpreted, meaningless signs, by language and object-causes of desire, hawking made up fantasies of hurts and loss—was relocated to the west Kent countryside and thrived and transformed from mewling shut-in who spent life perched on your shoulder into svelte, agile, mewling ball.
She cut a swathe through the common rats, dormice, twittering coal tits, chattering chaffinches and robins and their Heifetz-esque noises in the hedgerows, the orchards, the pasture and in the farm tracks surrounding Orchard Cottage pushing up teasels and cow parsley.
The anachronym renamed the new Minnie-Me.
And with a snigger, after his youngest son.
It was a word with a clanging allusion that the entrance sign for feminin-ism—tongue lolling and stopped up behind the bilabial aperture—could barely give voice to, let alone explain to the outside world.
Almost as if his new familiar had given Joke-o-phine a feline stroke, an apraxia, that left him groping to enunciate the name of his pride and joy.
The Geordie and I—or it was me, obliquely protesting at the wires, the galvanometer, and the thermometers parked in every orifice—had named her Gogo.
This was a throwaway joke, after we’d had a blast seeing a gently mirthful staging of the Beckett play on the Dublin Fringe.
One of the only times we spent together at a show that did not feel like a stillbirth, strangled by the crossed umbilicals of prescribed and proscribed language and discourse.
This in turn was a small ocean away from the stark image that the pin-drop and hum, monochrome, BBC studio of my imagination had derived from the written play.
And, weirdly, from listening to young Mr Cragg, a junior teacher who loved football and could talk matily about both the ephemeral in pop music—to over-serious Led Zeppelin fans—and the state of play for English Literature.
The way he talked it seemed like it was humanity’s premier league.
Or it was doing community service – to be rehabilitated eventually.
The head of English, my housemaster, did not coach team sports and had a gentle, liberal attitude, a pair of large, thick, rectangular-framed spectacles, and a John Major-ish voice, firmly rooted in Birkenstocks.
They padded along the corridors behind the study bedroom doors in our Sixties brick and white aluminium-clad boarding house.
His was a calm and gentleness that belied the supple forces of a hirsute, six foot athlete.
He could return a squash ball three low inches from the floor and wall in a back corner – a cat with a liquid whip that redirected the spherical rubber bullet at a hundred miles an hour towards front, back or sidewall from which it rebounded again and again, four times in a second.
The Brownian motion of your own game lost its kinetic energy in an instant at the base of the tin crown at the bottom of the front wall, leaving you to contemplate in dazed awe the stretched and doubled shadows of squash balls on whitewashed plaster walls.
I was both desperate to join with Mr Cragg—so deft at mixing it up with the high and the lowbrow without sounding suspicious—and recoiling in horror at Beckett’s landscape stretching to infinity.
Blotted with two blithe tramps holding court and hogging the T in the centre.
Mr Cragg’s niceness—and invitation to me to act in Waiting for Godot—just made it all worse.
The feline soul wasn’t degraded with fractionated and noxious, addictive hydrocarbons, napthenes and aromatics from the breakdown, refining and emissions of language and imagination.
But so why not make a life-affirming joke about our cat?
An innocent, with no sense of time or the tick and tock of punctuation, born Waiting for Godot too?
Font of Wisdom – speaking, playing and singing to us through the Bobos Words for Windows
We snickered about Hubert, our housemaster, and his low, reedy, Mongolian monk voice blowing through grass and his unnerving gentleness.
He was seen laughing around a corner once, at a raucous crowd of boys around the boarding house snooker table—with its four mahogany elbows edging them to the walls of the television room—taking off ‘Hubie Moore’ loudly.
The boys were then stunned into fear and embarrassment—if not a baritone, falsetto yodel too—by the flapping gesticulations of another boy in a doorway indicating at Hubert in the wings.
I was non-plussed by my final school report in which—in perfect, small, bubbly cursive that ran silently, clacked and potted softly, and commentated in a tone as smooth as a baize bowling turf surface—he wrote that he had never met anyone like me.
I was just seventeen so no one so particular as him had ever been revealed to me.
A bobo was just the kind of character—for peeping mollies-to-toms in social climate changing rooms everywhere, hungry for some zeitgeist to put up their noses—that the working class hero would seek out to press-gang into a program of ideological re-construction.
The hot metal she’d been squashed under needed modernising or even being made redundant.
Especially at his merest hint that “social” – not to mention ‘6/8 time’, ‘B flat Major’, ‘learning to drive’, ’empathy’, ‘phoneme’, ‘technology’, ‘Crime and Punishment’, ‘close reading’, ‘picking your nose’, ‘Kant’s categorical imperative’, ‘watching ducks’, ‘korma recipe’, ‘life-drawing’, ‘literacy’, ‘gestalt’, ‘David Bowie’, ‘dyslexia’, ‘spectator’, ‘Pop Will Eat Itself’, ‘London Transport’, ‘talking to the checkout woman’, ‘Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy’, ‘phlogiston’, ‘The Flintstones’, ‘monomania’, ‘life-drawing’, ‘inverted commas’, ‘scare quotes’, ‘having a drink with friends’, ‘Lee Krasner’, ‘the origins of Labour’ – and even ‘Samuel Beckett’ – might not be synonyms of “socialist”.
But they could be – if they really wanted to be reclaimed. (Or, at least, to be united together in the same thesaurus entry.)
Even ‘cant’ could find its escape from abjection, crawling mechanically.
To Bethlehem – to become a team player. Stripped of its porcelain banality, it could be a readymade to the byre borne; a humble, manufactured good – a loo-print for to overturn the conceits and facades of art, craft and soul-murdering consumerism.
To Wapping, even.
Accompanied by the Devil’s interval of the Diminished Fifth – the restless, dissonant formalist – happily diverted from it’s usual role of scratching around, dividing perfect octaves and buggering up musical temperament and scale.
To become a member with the right characteristics.
All was a very hot, pressing matter of class struggle – and one could maybe only note with admiration the village explainer’s efforts to translate everything into a Marxian Esperanto.
Or perhaps one had no option – on pain of being a pre-meditating murderer of the innocent or the unborn.
Or having my wires ripped out when this mechanism, that some divine source higher up was keyboarding code into, failed to produce the Turing-tested thoughts, copy-edited speech, sexuality and behaviours urgently required.
The required, re-drafted Vitruvian – awake, woke, fully conscious, fully present, tooled-up and prepared to clash by night with both his own tritones and the ever augmenting, atonal, serialist forces without.
Her failure, or her being forbidden, to argue her way out of a paper bag—when an incandescent, bug-eyed glare was finally met with an equally immolating, nothing-to-lose demand for scrupulous argument and (self-crucifying) impartiality—was authored by patriarchy, capitalism and the middle classes.
She refused to argue, propped up by a redundant modifier of honours degree in English and Education that she did have (she re-trained as a car mechanic maybe because a revolutionary attitude as a woman in Trades was easier – easier than being flipped about in the ins and outs of bureaucratic policy or staffroom politics), and instead morally blackmailed this philosophy undergraduate, a year beneath her, that she’d found at North London Polytechnic in ’83; a suitable candidate to put on the fast track of a pikestaff-plain crucial re-education.
I did drop out, torn and unhappy as I was, which pleased her because otherwise I’d have been even more intellectually threatening than with a secondary education and a reading age that approximated my chronological one.
The prospect of the power and its perpetuation gifted unfairly by a tertiary education in philosophy and critical thought, a barefacedly exclusionary and oppressive institution, was just unacceptable – to this trainee teacher hanging decorations, pinning up work, barnstorming and barn-building and fostering solidarity among the Flauntleroys, down at Back End of the Class Struggles ‘r’ Us.
Building portals and opening them, causing problems and solving them, for the People.
But half of those exclusionary, oppressive and barefaced sceptics in my year were involved in walking away from the world by occupying the Prince of Wales Road annexe in protest against the presence of an anti-christ – a Damian Omen II lookalike; a National Front bigwig dressed in a Harrington jacket, enrolled on the philosophy BA.
A nasty, hatchet-faced twerp—so valiantly defying political correctness—called Patrick Harrington.
The insinuation, by a backward Ignoramish like me, with his donkey and trap notions specking and soiling the landscape, that gut instincts might not—at least in some instances—be identical with the elephantine heft of an empirical world, was a conspiracy that the Geordie’s own grassroots, DIY sociology of knowledge or social science fiction was destined to expose.
As the unacknowledged legislator expanded the boundaries of her revolutionary individual form and hewed, chiselled, sanded and waxed autonomous, multi-part, invertible contrapuntal imaginations, without damaging agendas.
If Art was irrelevant, if it were bourgeois, then one had to wonder why she was designing and building things in her own image.
But politics was about people – and actually calling assertions—or accusations—to account with equal opportunities scepticism was anti-social, anti-life and anti-women and showed a lack of humanity.
An insidious courage of lack of convictions.
More of that unclubbability and she might be out on her rump along with P.T.Barnum and her personal Forer Effects – dumped by someone who was loathe for it to appear that the invisible woman he was so attached to only made his own misery worse in a self-serving way.
A sorry end to her efforts straining on tiptoe to make it look as if the dynamic were quite the reverse – and that no one could survive outside the Big Sisters’ and Brothers’ House (or ‘I am Making History – Don’t Leave Me Out of Here!’).
A big, beautiful, toothy wall of presentation – worthy of Valerie Cherish’s life blocked out behind the scenes in ‘The Comeback’.
Voting with my feet would be making off with the picture of a Spartacist slave rebellion anyway – and pooping on the glee of using a boyfriend as a community revengineering experiment.
Or as a psychiatric case study on display from R.D.Laing’s shop of horrors or an asylum in the Gulag.
Where the mental—and mentor illness—was Marxisticle.
“At least I’m trying”, she’d blurt, after an attempt as a red Walt Disney to draw pooh and poohing as a vaunt on a political platform and to animate a platoon of my oppressed spoor into rising up on jerky joints against my terror-forming, colonial invasions.
Soggy, sentimental and right-on as I was, they’d surely have my vote if they could dispose of self-interest and agree on the nature of the ballots, fairness and material benefits in the U-bendplace.
The guff propelled me—and any swing-voting readers, probably—into a suicidal abyss; the gap between the personal and the political.
Between the cute, sparky, socially-connected personality and the shill of a dummy standing in a puddle of shallow-centric sweat, deaf to the smack of her lips as she dished out the Glasgow kisses it deserved.
In the course of her workout on the scored and bleached, pale blue and white lino tiled surface of the only damp basement kitchen in the terrace at 22b Norcott Road, Blokel Stewington Village.
In the quest to make (or highlight) a difference, to un-slit the atom, she tracked the conversation of anybody she came into contact with—for a sign they were in fact a double exposure or a millimetre to the right out of sync with her framing—and ostracised or played bantering party stags and hens with comrades from far left to near dead centre.
Or hissed and spat at the sisters in the consciousness-raising ‘hood.
One could only wonder what genius created this eternal, “shut-up-I’m-Spartacus” moving image.
Just who did they think they were and what they were doing, those middle-class lesbian feminists – if they contradicted her or just made her feel out of place or wanting.
Picture a scene, late night outside of a North London bar—with limpid, electronic, kitsch ringtone music bringing to life the scuzz and luminescence—if I’d ever been stirred to have it it out with one of them in her defence – and in her presence and earshot.
The certainty about what “the people” were going through was a bit like Harrumphrey Hogarter, the stockinged character and image racer’s fulminations.
The transvestwright knew all about, he second-guessed “Woman”, he’d done the research of entering her psyche like Malkovich’s; being her, inhabiting her, speaking her, speaking for her, wearing her, fashioning her.
Reproducing her with her everybabe in endlessly repeated Madonna and Child busts.
Like me or you the People, Woman had much to learn – or ape faithfully.
To master – or get – the Part.
To really be and be loved.
To understand how to really act.
However, his wife was probably the only particular instance of the universal form of Woman he’d ever known intimately – unless one included his mother and elder sister.
And sexual intercourse had almost certainly been disinvented—in the feisty taboo-buster’s universe—not long after my birth in 1963.
He was reduced to wagging his clay-slipped, Freudian middle finger-tail at his family; backside in twitcher’s anorak flashing at random in a way he probably thought was more daringly furcoat-no-knickers.
If my mother had got a bit of real, unashamed joy, lovemaking and filthy, banged-up baseness in behind closed doors now and then, together with the man she had fallen in love with and married—instead of sophomoric spade-calling, leering and chess piece-chasing—then maybe she’d have looked less like the remote control freak or stitched-up and martyred Muffet the sandalled bunk inspector liked to go “Boo!” to.
And emotionally and intellectually goose, rape and whip into shape, along with his children, in the cod-Freudian strip joint.
Klein Bottle is Best – “Triple Klein Bottle Cross Section” – Julian Hoeber. Part of ‘The Inward Turn’ exhibition at the Jessica Silverman Gallery.
A routine he’d lashed together years ago, in fifty minute hours filled with free-associating, tummy-stroking truthitainment in the consulting room.
Always up with the lark in Nature, he spent more time out of the nest birdwatching – listening to their poetry and song; answering along with the chorus of Nature.
My mother was a strong and exasperating personality, in later life standing shorter and marbled with arthritis.
She was not physically warm.
Revealing an episode with an uncle when she was thirteen, she shook her head convincingly as if she had shaken all of him off.
But she was deeply supportive and gregarious.
Her own mother was the daughter of a ship’s cook, and after my maternal grandfather’s death and several marriages she finally found the love of her life in a distinguished captain of ICI and decorated hero of Monte Cassino.
Margaret Thatcher might’ve flinched at the imperious profile, the impeccable, tweedy couture, and enviable Forties British film star looks and inflection.
And an artistry with the lipstick that extended the border of her mouth ever so discreetly with Russian red.
I was angry when Diana died.
Who the hell cares, I thought – tutting and rolling my eyes.
But watching Helen Mirren in The Queen, years later, Stephen Frears seemed to me to have breathed life into pap and pablum I’d cared nothing about previously.
The tension between two versions of royalty, Tony Blair’s go-betweening, and what it had meant as regards the sentimental or sociologically specious idea of a national or collective psyche.
Watching so far away, ten years ago, in the comfortable bairro of Botafogo in Rio de Janeiro—a place so like a waking dream and so uncanny—in my landlady’s open, brick, tile and concrete, fifth floor apartment, one tropical summer evening why did I suddenly care?
Because all the Brazilians around me in front of the television knew more than I did about the Royal Family and I felt the need to catch up?
Or because looking at Mirren’s work as Elizabeth II, breaking down, in the presence of a wild stag she and her family routinely shot for sport, was like looking at a ringer for my mother?
My grandmother had liked to party and dance in London’s high society as a young woman – or at least this was what was captured in beautiful, large format black and white photographs on stiff, anniversary card-thick paper, kept in the drawer of a gorgeous Queen Anne hutch and commode in our sitting room sporting a brass carriage clock.
Bunny was repulsed by the liberal arts intellectual and artist her daughter had fallen for. The beachcomber in turn hated her, her aloofness that belied a vacuity (material for his anima to work with, no doubt), and her Pont St, Sloane Square SW1 and Hampshire G&T-set life.
Layers of Precambrian loyalty and persistence—no better illustrated than by my mother playing dresser to The Walter Ego when it got out of Wrangler denims, pale green, sagging cardigan, the drenched cowl of the fatherhoodie’s anorak, and bobbled, thick black nylon socks and burnt umber leather slip-ons and into instant character—were worth little more than for chipping away at with a small rock pick to unearth the chattel —that gifted him the personal, human touchi-feeliness—as the graceless fossil that had already given up its meaning in one of his handbooks.
Trinny or Susannah embarked on an Open University degree in the Humanities, around the age of forty.
She was escaping from the local Party Plan concept and social selling, from being a secretary to local Tupperware manager Ronnie Wallace – part Bob Monkhouse, part Graham Kerr the Galloping Gourmet, the Liberace of chefs in the Seventies.
She studied in between working and holding a family together unaided.
The spam and soup can-hoarding, wartime rationing and organising spirit and remote control-freakery served a purpose.
She went on to be a schoolteacher specialising—with nary a whisper of Melanie Klein and the story of the breast—in dyslexia and autism and inner ear problems, helping children at various points on the spectrum.
Those for whom words and letters are dumb beasts blurring, changing shape, jumping around, making a racket, and kicking up dust on the ground whilst making a god-awful mess and refusing to give up secrets or just looking deceptively complex, knowledgeable and imaginative.
In a word: stubborn…
But she lacked no talent for friendship…tsk…
As he said to my face when I was a teenager, massaging and elongating and squishing the scaly, bulging chorizos, sealed in almond-smelling PR88 Hand Protection Cream from Tiranti’s.
Taking time out from the studio closet to reflect, dispense and to advise.
And as he also said to to my mother – one wet, cold, blowy afternoon on Hastings beach.
After having torn her head off from the driving seat, as he lurched the Toyota Hiace dormobile down the A21, picnic glasses and thermoses rattling in the back in an apple box – for admiring Dudley Moore’s parody of Schubert lieder on the car radio because Moore was merely an entertainer and merely amusing and not the real thing.
Really not of the stature she’d thought or desired.
Well, she was a tone-deaf blurt for admiring Jokeophine the lieder nerd.
And he knew it.
After the caustic petulance at the wheel, and over a white camping mug of tea, sat on the rings of an ironwood groyne cut from Cameroon, he contemplated the kisses of snotty brine clawing back the clattery shingle.
He withdrew his parted lips from the chipped blue rim and turned and with his back to me related how their own ingratiating clown – and closet authoritarian – was so uncannily similar to an acquaintance of theirs.
A patient drip of a male nurse.
No substance, no vitality, not an idea in his head, plainly inadequate.
But at least—he observed charitably—I had a talent for talking to people.
Wonder of wonders. The genius, scandal and operatic image of being another look and set of limbs in the bombed-out, battlefield Britannia hospital.
So cruelly detached from another’s particular Furies and obsessions.
If the Salieri of the art of womanhood liked trying it on, why couldn’t she?
Why could she not add a bit of horizon, a bit of education, a new kind of role? Look a little bigger in a new outfit? Teach, or be taught to look at herself a little differently? Make up a new story, with new people? Learn about Emil Nolde and Expressionism? Learn to paint still lifes and just revel in the common or garden exuberance, the visual deliciousness, of oil paint pigments?
Instead of an eternal audience with one big haughty bum sat on a seat so clueless as regards what to wear and what not to wear.
(And despite his talent for depiction in three-dimensional form, he couldn’t draw or paint well either, which made his scorning and bullying of my sister—gentle, sensitive and a talented artist herself—seem all the more sententious.)
By having her own life, outside of a social, emotional, cultural and intellectual basement closet, was our mother in danger of not being a real Woman? Or a real mother?
Or was Daddy the real Mummy we never had – cruelly ignored and unboxed in the pre-Youtube Middle Ages.
The amateur anthropologist—closely acquainted with Desmond Morris’ work of pop-ethology “Manwatching” and the acclaimed television series that everyone who fancied themselves as an observer was talking about in the Seventies—no doubt clashed with the native over the accuracy of her local knowledge.
Who could he blame for the fact that he had contaminated the fieldwork by frazzling and check-mating his ethnographic informant such that she was no longer the natural candidate for Eliza Doolittle to learn about speech, clothes and behavioural patterns and body language from?
And was the problem with Nolde that his raw and primitive art aroused feelings about ownership?
Or that he was an anti-semite?
Or that he had been denounced as a degenerate by the Nazis, his fellow travellers?
Or was the problem that my mother went to see Nolde the degenerate with me at the Tate and me and her were clearly Nazis together, hopelessly wayward and beyond the pale of his civilising influence?
When we had been partners, hadn’t the Geordie ire-brand enjoyed defending her socially-forged identity too? In knock-down banter with the Kentish charmhands who were so patronising—but tolerant—of her jocularity?
She put them in their place good-naturedly and no mistake.
Signing, sealing and delivering with a broadly telegraphed wink, a feint and a handshake.
She’d remove the gloves and un-sheath the claws when she had the floor behind closed car doors in the ninety minute journey back to London – when she had the space to reflect and analyse out loud, point by point, everything that was just so wrong about them.
And then, as she drove the sand glow Austin Minivan down the long, straight, Garden of England motorway tarmac, with her peddle down she also drove the tarry Truth down to the bottom of the gulled young master-mouthpiece’s craw—ignoring the panicked oncoming traffic—in order for Little Lord Fauntleroy’s voice to get to where she was going.
The as yet un-reconstructed business class passenger – whose soggy, un-business-like fairness either in the pre-Internet Second Life of political opinion or in the day to day was in fact a self-serving or self-deceiving apologia for the Omaha Beach-like eternal present of sexism, racism, homophobia and class exploitation.
A partner, an auto-mate, mixing business with pleasure, in a very special NPO indeed.
If I’d been less concerned about keeping things cohesive—or about being a bovine boor—I’d have taken a leaf out of her own version of ‘The Prince’ and recited lines out of something like Szasz’s ‘The Myth of Mental Illness’ just to get her off my back. She’d’ve been overjoyed that I was laying the blame for any unhappiness at the door of sick Society—the hegemon that duped people into a sense of personal pathology—and not anywhere else too problematic.
And not in her present back yard.
But like other tyro bosses, she’d never have then been able to trust me – suspecting me of playing her at her own game.
The few times I ever walked in her shoes—more to see what it might be like than anything else—it elicited a furrowed brow, searching looks, and recourse to censure for being “so right on!!” – as if my foot-in-mouth had infringed her artistic and intellectual property rights.
One bullshitter telling their would-be protégé or groupie to be honest – otherwise they couldn’t play in the yard, couldn’t have access.
What she meant by “right on” was reciting scripted, calculated party line or formulation face to face.
In the proper, unalienated world—yet one so deliciously replete with gasping epiphanies—there were no formulations.
And real Being—i.e. social existence—was apolitical, participatory, and unadulterated by language or examination.
Or practical detail.
As if somehow the squabbling, the back-biting, the back-stabbing, the personal vendettas and grievous personal and psychological fallout in amongst and between the various groups and freely assembling associations she frequented were in fact conscientious praxis.
Or it was not what it looked like – to the gimlet-eyed speculator in social market futures and derivatives.
If I’d pretended suddenly to believe in UFOs, reiki, pre-cognition, conspiracies or astrology, or to study Laozi, Lao Tzu and Lao Tse’s Dao Day Das Ding, and other sidekicks to the spectacles, she’d’ve been thrilled.
Because I’d’ve then entered an alternative universe; the universal, social or communal consciousness outside the mainstream; openness to a secret—and both common and elite, popular and aristocratic—idea that things weren’t what they seemed.
With that potential for enchanted, shared meaning the Marxian dialect teacher, the magical view from nowhere, would’ve had a lever or toehold giving purchase and body English to something that looked objectively like mere grasping and putting.
She could have made headway with hope, edging me away from the limitations of the occult towards the predictions of ‘scientific’ historical materialism – the road and map below her horizon with the likenesses of human faces attached.
Maybe even shared her personal or community access pass to the spectres of Rosa Parks or Rosa Luxemburg – or the invisible, networked world and pop-up Facebook they lived in.
We’d’ve being singing the facts together in beautiful meters in no time – no jobsworth attendant or conductor in sight demanding we pay and display for the spaces.
I stuck to scrupulous argument—misdirected by her lessons in history—but never looked too long and wondered if she was not all she seemed, or all there.
Sleeping as I was with my mouth close to the fleet, five-toed serif of marxism-feminism-republicanism-oneirism, with a fragrant culture all of its own.
Both too smart and too stupid.
And too full of faith.
In our hearts we know good fairies and bad fairies are better than the unspeakable, nameless evil of no fairies to be getting away with at all.
I got a clue to something when a while after our break up she supervised a match with a friend of hers – a fierce, freckled and fair-skinned nurse with long, wavy raven hair and a tough Dublin keen.
Her eyes shone and white teeth flashed, and she came from a family of many, many brothers. I was five or so years younger and she regarded me as such. She was in the Socialist Workers Party – and looked up to that family unquestioningly.
She was also recalcitrantly heterosexual and hunting for her man—despite mounting pressure that made the straight die wobble with embarrassment and conflicted loyalties.
This firebrand was convinced, on word from the Geordie—who pumped the Dubliner with puckish winks and crashing innuendo for information about our progress as if I wasn’t in the room—that I was a badass, a Divil, secretly socially armed and dangerous. This was on account—I pieced together—of two humiliations or excitements the Geordie had apparently experienced at my hands in all the five years we’d been together. And I am pretty sure they were not in the bedroom.
The Dubliner waited patiently for this bad boy to turn up – especially in the sack. He was the real man, not boy, who was going to give her the honest, grown up, uncomplicated seeing-to and Divil’s Music she wanted.
She’d yell at me to come on!!! And really give it to me!!! Yeah Dan, oh yeah!!! Fook me, like dat, yeah, fook me HA-RRRRD!!!
I was seeing and hearing things – it was great for her.
But I wasn’t so sure about casting around for the crowd with the right diagnosis who’d interpret how it was for me.
Maybe I should’ve looked harder, found the camera and waved to comrades watching the live news feed – or broken the fourth wall, looked to camera, shaken a fist, and counted myself lucky to be in Kevin Spacey’s version of Coriolanus in contemporary costume.
I really wanted to oblige her and she had a spectacular figure. But given recent experience, I could not—despite the compliment of being wanted by her—get out of my bell jar head the tone and style of the air guitar of chanted Party slogans.
This was a collective enterprise – football, serious, unabashed protest, a slave galley, an inspirational day out with a deserving crowd of the disadvantaged, whalers at work…or folk singers pretending they were whalers…..gah!!
(Cut me some slack – I was only twenty four or five.)
The Geordie pastor found her own home-made, not-for-profit brew delicious.
She’d presided over the set up, the mess up, and the right and proper deserved ferment, breakdown, distillation and bottling of a heterosexual relationship.
Would that I’d had more badass, kickass or jackass sense of humour more often about such petty sexual and class politics and personal betrayal; and the absurdity of those who wrought personal damage to the tin-eared tune of rattling and clunking elastic couplings and universal articulated joints in motion, floating giddily on a fragile suspension of disbelief.
But it’s HA-RRRD to act devil-may-care when they demand that you take them so f******—or fookin’—seriously.
In reality, I knew sex was a widely occurring seismic disaster – it would’ve been better if we’d all united to call to account the designers and their social engineering responsible for so many untold, blameless victims – instead of just selfishly, blindly giving in to the problem or pretending it didn’t exist or perniciously smoothing it over.
I’d intuited as much at the age of sixteen when my girlfriend’s sixty year old, engineering professor father was generous enough to offer to mentor me too.
He opened his home as a refuge for me from both my home and from the local boarding school which I had selfishly—against my father’s wishes—revolted against living in any longer.
Those pastoral efforts to be the alternative father figure and tutor in unconditional love and affection every boy dreamed of, and to get me to trust those who did mean well, who made one feel special, unfortunately did not end in the surrender that, in blinked-back desperation, I avoided.
He was a socially well-connected, plummy-voiced cherub with unkempt, curly silver locks and a well-rehearsed twinkle in his eye that had served him well working in a boarding house and at Imperial College.
Mired in me-me-me narcissism, blinkered by the distrust in my own family, I could not break out of the prison of my wants, awake from my slumbers, and submit to the healing available by opening up to the very social body politic that the portly, name-dropping professor so keenly desired to offer me.
I lacked imagination.
I needed guidance – if I was to get anywhere and fulfil my intellectual potential and go to Cambridge.
The eyes on Gromit ballooned as he sat in the passenger seat of the Volvo 200 Series Estate under the shade of an oak, at the end of the lane to Orchard Cottage, braced to return for another pasting at home.
The professor, hand on thigh, pausing for effect every now and then, brow gently raising and lowering, waxed lyrical and plumbed about what men, in loco parentis in the trenches, did for solace with each other.
Gromit’s eyes widened yet further at the deeply considered suggestion that his morphable, plasticine figurine—and seeing as he was special, nearly grown up, so full of integrity, and could make his own decisions—might do right by himself and his fellow soldier by copying the entrenched heroes.
What a coward Gromit was to spurn the challenge, to reject love and guidance.
Roger, a rugger bugger who beat me up a few times and simulated rape with parodic gusto (he idolised Bob Dylan as well as Alex in A Clockwork Orange too) wore a bowler out of school.
He had an ongoing feud that played out on the streets of Cranbrook—watched by his cronies—with the toughest, nastiest, skinhead brick shithouse from the comprehensive up the road.
Jordan had a jaw and cheekbones you could split limbs on.
Roger used to laugh about how a master called Gaines at his previous prep school used to pay the boys in some shape or form to use their jockstraps as gas masks.
Oh, how they laughed.
Keep still moving images alone in the dark
As the forever-gobsmacked Geordie knew so well from her own experience of the distortions, barbarities and violations during years in the abattoir of a heterosexual relationship (as do other self-sacrificing young warriors, trying to roll back the alienating effects of secular, technological modernity on the human soul), great inner strength, intimate bonds and community come only from humility and a lack of bourgeois pride, selfishness or scepticism.
They are the only way to allow the personal to connect with the wider picture.
The professor’s daughter, Penny, said she was disturbed by her father’s concern and closeness to me.
She had a hippie-chick ease and aloofness and wickedly balletic, sari-draped legs.
But, along with her sexual precociousness, and sly jokes about Dad being a “Professor of Lubricology”, maybe the front she presented belied a deeper knowledge – that explained why she so often rolled her eyes at me and my desire for her.
Maybe she had more imagination.
On the other hand, good little soul that I was, misreading mischievous come-ons, I was not alive to how much she just wanted me or sex.
Something to obscure or dilute Daddy’s creepwalking, teddy bear presence and sacerdotal, confession-box scrotum stroking.
I met the Dubliner hunting the Divil some time later.
She was kind to this middle class dweeb and introduced me, with an air of both contentment and pity, to the new-found love of her life.
It was not a woman.
Unrepentantly retrograde as ever, she’d found a six-foot builder. By the looks of him—I imagined—he was a man’s man. He’d be steady, loyal and uncomplicated and the business in the bedroom.
Like the other working class hero, I’d like to have been there when he was giving it to her so emphatically and she was transmuting or fusing those energies into epiphanies on the Easter Rising or ‘Left-Wing Communism: an Infantile Disorder’.
It would’ve been an intimate education; amongst friends.
In the flesh.
Our eyes and ears open to any instructions from the eagle-eyed backseat lovemaker-in-chief to halt or check the mirror or check speed or watch for pedestrians.
Or political enemies.
Lewis Warholl’s Alice
And if Miss was in a wicked, badass mood, perhaps with a nod and a wink and a divilish giggle we’d’ve been given permission to road test and inspect or flick the bookskin.
We’d’ve found imaginative things to do with a rolled up copy of one of Lenin’s pamphlets – just to selflessly sanctify it all the more; rather than to violate.
And to learn how to know the difference between sexing up a document and telling it how it is, without deleting its secrets and caché – in a playful, nurturing environment.
We’d be Isms at the human soulface – along with other speaking body parts gathered around the community noticeboard.
Grooving images for the soundtrack of Kevin Costner’s un-released but bootlegged masterpiece “Makes-Love-to-Manifesto”.
Many, many backs good. Two backs bad.
She’d have us in stitches – of joy, of laughter, of liberation.
And cauterised despair at the state of humanity!
All filling in, all supplementing, the joins, joints and cracks with life to complete them.
A very special community effect and not just a cheap, commodified thrill.
Philosophy in the flesh. In action! Writ large!
A climax that didn’t have to give an account of itself.
Or had no fear of doing so and ruining the joke.
But it would be a confidence only fully realised after we’d taken up the baton in the round, painted the town within the eruv red and overturned vehicles and faced down the riot shields and surged as one beast au manif on the ‘oof in a duel with sparking hooves on the tarmac surrounding Trafalgar Square.
And broken open the department stores and the fire hydrants – the underground networks and circuits of waters unrepressing themselves; all by themselves, spontaneously.
Sorry, that’s America. Collective movements aren’t a television drama or a commercial – making waking life, courage and necessity into a cliché and commodity. Are they.
Presumably the builder—-someone who laboured hard and probably with little time or inclination for intimacy with words—would also never neurotically perceive mixed messages, ruminate over gender, pussyfoot around, dick around, and not hear or see and not give the Dubliner what it was she (misguidedly) wanted for fear of giving offence.
And fail his test.
Some time in ’91, there was a postcard from the Geordie singing with joy at the sense of solidarity, directness and trust all around her.
Working in the coffee plantations.
She’d just finished a period of volunteering organised by the Nicaragua Solidarity Campaign.
Shortly after, or even before I received the card, a rip tide swallowed her (the Act of Nurture didn’t use the passive voice), in probably shallow waters, off the shore of Nicaragua. The male comrade she was with on the beach five thousand four hundred miles away had reportedly failed to warn her of the likelihood.
There were bureaucratic nightmares, there were tussles with the Geordie’s mother over getting the body back, and there were speeches from the queen bee back in Islington as she pronounced and capitalised on the ongoing situation – to the extended family of activists sat in her flat who came to pay their respects, day after day.
The funeral in Durham was a stand off between two parties who wished to lay their claims: the guerilla lover and a posse from the Geordie’s women’s running club versus the mother and family from her mining village. (The lack of solidarity or gratitude must have wounded and goaded.)
The controlled explosion of her mother’s presence was announced by a precisely elocuted rockfall of North East consonants and vowels – if one was there to see and hear it. A tall, shrewd and indomitable nurse who’d formerly disagreed with her daughter over the Miners’ Strike, the socialist republican paramilitary cause, and female sexuality.
Some time before Nicaragua, on a visit to Finsbury Park, and enquiring about Marie, I was told that she’d been down recently and had swung ferociously without warning at her daughter on the hypodermic-, beer can- and sweet wrapper-strewn concrete of the estate warren in daylight.
Unsung Clown Planners
In the West Wing, against a backdrop of anaglypta (a smart self-parody of working class identity – apparently), whatever lay behind the actions of this sadly undeveloped, unevolved woman was painted over as a bemusing mystery – as if they were the customs of some faraway, newly incomprehensible culture with strange tics.
Marie exchanged insults with the ex-inmate of the Women’s Prison as they sat side by side in the front row of the crematorium chapel.
They came to physical blows and then the Republican threw herself, with a public display of ownership and a neck-prickling vixen’s cry in an inner city midnight, at the coffin – before it disappeared behind the curtain.
‘Imagine’ by John Lennon—chosen by Marie—played over the chapel sound system.
Myself, my girlfriend at the time, and one of several of the Geordie’s excommunicated friends from college and an erstwhile consciousness raising group, served as spear carriers.
Marie greeted me and her daughter’s former best friend, now a catering manager in the public sector (and who’d pipped the Geordie to the post in coming out), afterwards. She had always been fond of us, she assured us.
A grief-stricken and harried woman whose relationship with her difficult daughter, with her tearing rage and burning to act, had always been fraught and whom she’d never intended to put on the stage.
There was an open rally in London some days later – in the entertainments hall at the back of Finsbury Park Labour Club.
The rough, unvarnished boards of the three foot-high stage were bedecked with pine canteen tables with a hard-wearing clear varnish, German-style folding latch legs – easily stacked, stored and transported.
They were arranged end to end.
A narrow-gauge mountain train draped in a flag (can’t remember quite which colour or design) – and behind it sat several activists who deferred to the keystone of the station arch presiding in the centre.
And many speeches from both the stage and the floor, taken in turn, about the Geordie’s staunchness, bravery and other inspirational qualities—that did transport us from sorrow toward hope—were made.
I played guitar and sang a ballad that was beautiful to me and had a mini nervous breakdown; torn between personal loss, bitterness, and fellowship in the midst of those around me clapping and cheering at the end, hugging me afterwards, and willing that I too shared their noble feelings about a noble fallen comrade so beautiful to them.
They looked at me from behind upside down, chin-mounted and pointed, proscenium smiles that had parsed and scored a cut through the lines of those lyrics and music.
Another former friend, a former nurse too—and mature alumna of the Polytechnic—gave a well-judged speech that lilted lightly from peak to trough to peak and calmed our tides of feeling about the fallen Geordie’s steadfastness in the process of struggle and spoke of the need for the legions to keep struggling.
She spoke for everybody – expressing sympathy for those who had got burnt out or self-destructed on the way, beaten down by the damaged world we find ourselves in. She looked fondly in my direction with fecund brow.
This was a woman, the daughter of a Kanturk postmistress, who had routinely brought tears to my eyes with her warmth and joy, her ex-Catholic generosity of soul and County Cork grace, and won my heart with elfin bossiness, disarming humility, and with a bug-eyed, scampish smile hooked and dragged my Adam’s apple down to bob and jostle in a gentle whirlpool of love, physical warmth and ambivalence.
And anti-racist self-questioning.
She had been someone who could make you feel excited about ideas once more and their capacity to change the world and we looked in the mirror, copped that we weren’t so diminished and irredeemable, not mere hollow and portentous fifths, and we recognised the picture she helped us draw with hopping, skipping, dancing and joyful saccades – and how our countenance could be altered and augmented with the right guidance, tools and skills.
And she could make you believe—like Billy Connolly—that not only Jesus but, yes, even Neil Kinnock—the prolix, big-hearted but misguided scourge of Militant, dividing the Labour Party—played for Tottenham Hotspur.
And that even Billy Connolly, the scabrous Glasgow spark, played for Revolution FC.
The Geordie had several years before blown the whistle on her as a middle-class class enemy.
But, typically, the former Very Social National Health Servant—who died of cancer fifteen years or so after, and her king, a Cambridge chemist, ex-bornagainer and PhD who applied his knowledge of causality to events, died of a heart attack or grief eight months after that—always thought the best of everybody.
A left winger serial killer with excess kindness to burn, a yea-sayer, eine kleine ja-sagender not to be trifled with, she had always sung the praises of the Geordie.
No wonder the Geordie had segued in a few years from Archimedean infatuation with her friend, united with her against common enemies, to sullen begrudgery.
She couldn’t compete.
So she said no.
The nonsense these professionals made of Death.
The pesky wasp sting.
In the early Nineties, I began training in the sport of combined striking, kicking, grappling and wrestling in which the Brazilians and their own hybrid Jujitsu were dominating in new amateur and commercial reality-based contests.
The new Mixed Martial Arts were kicking the kickboxers—who dissolved in a clinch or on the ground—or white pajama-ed, dojo-born and bred martial arts experts—who had only demonstrated their skills before on admiring accomplices—into touch.
The Brazilians later found their match in former Amateur Freestyle Wrestlers, often Russian or American, whose Olympic sport was so superb at the technique of zooming in to grab one or both legs of a kicker and puncher trying to keep a striking distance, and taking the opponent to the ground and putting them on their back.
If the bull-shouldered, Freestyle Wrestler juggernaut was often not so superb at the striking and locking techniques necessary for a knockout or a tap out in submission.
They struggled against Brazilian Jujitsu stylists whose very game was partly based on fighting from on their back – four octopodal limbs able to engineer a submission or reversal of position from—to the untrained eye—the most crushing predicament.
I ran half marathons up the canal and back, in east London’s Lea Valley, and up and down the stairs of council tower blocks like a maniac til I dropped—savouring the vertigo at the top for a brief moment—and getting a fetching split lip and black eye or two every now and then in three-hour, no-holds-barred sessions, three times a week, with the Daves and the Keefs.
They would talk with pride about gunning down gooks in playstation paddy fields in their leisure time or the Truth about the scientistic conspiracy gaslighting them about the reality of the paranormal internet forum.
As we worked it all out on the wall-to-wall, artichoke-green, plastic-coated foam mats of a fug-filled, sweat-dipped sports centre basement to the right of Belgravia, a short walk round the back of Victoria station.
And, later, there were batterings from a good-hearted Yorkshireman out of the National Judo Squad, apparently – a stone lighter and almost a head shorter than me, and who appeared to dance and sting like Ali.
With the implacability of a twin-armed JCB, he also grabbed, spun like a gyroscope, and hurled this mannequin over his hips and shoulders repeatedly, slamming it supine onto the mat, pinning it in place with one grab and tying it up or beating the &%#@ out of it with the other—until the cataclysmic, expert onslaught ceased to fatally hurt, stop or make me tap out and he was left gently scratching his head as to strategy.
In non-stop, thirty to forty minute bouts, twice in two small national tournament finals in Nottingham, six months apart.
At the unanimous decision in our first final, and the fair and square, final arm-bar submission—or near broken elbow—in the second, he would then hug me, cackling, in salutation – a long-dead language resurrected: “That wuhrra right good ol’ scrap we ‘ad, Dan, weren’t tit?”.
This was reassuring after the pain of a match with a self-defence expert who I knew taught the Guardian Angels.
Thinner and lighter than me, and not even bothering to engage in much technical countering, he smirked and rolled his eyes as I worked away (mostly) on top of him.
I nearly lost it—and he knew it—as I pondered who he was trying to impress.
Finally uninterested—in imagining how in a different, more “realistic” situation the satanic vigilante might headbutt me, bite my nose or ears off, jab two thumbs in two eyes, or fish hook me by sticking his fingers in the corner of my mouth from behind and ripping me a new, wider smile—I think I finished him with an armbar.
Or Saturnalicius princeps gave up – with a titter. Or a scoff.
I can’t remember.
What on earth was he doing there – if we were all such naive, egoistic, chestosteronal children, so blissfully blind to our vulnerability to the horrors of street violence – that could have an elephant that thought itself so strapping squealing like a mouse in seconds?
Guardian Angels, those admirable public servants—but some maybe as narrow-minded as pen-pushing public sector workers too—spank the backsides of those who deserve it; those who don’t face their victims and blindside them for material or sexual advantage – if not perverse satisfaction at their weakness too.
In my semi-final six months later there was barely a scrap at all to satisfy the crowd. It was silent, save for the scuffling, and brief. I put an imposing figure probably nearly a stone heavier than my seventy two kilos on his back – and choked him out from on top, with little finesse, after maybe five or ten minutes.
His muteness throughout, difficult to read, and look of resignation on losing, stood in contrast to my apprehension at his size and potential.
I was filled with a sense of apology as we shook hands and I tried to catch his eye and smile reassuringly.
On reflection, the big, tubby, twenty year old bear with a black, pudding basin haircut may have been as apprehensive about facing me as I was at the prospect of facing Fred again.
And Fred won the second, just as lengthy and even more dramatic final against me – but also in not just our seventy two to seventy nine kilo weight category but the sixty five below us, too.
Fred was effectively prepared for all-comers in a weight bracket of maybe twenty kilos or more.
If I’d ever actually managed through weight training and eating offal and protein shakes and pills to gain some weight, chasing the grail of growth hormone and testosterone replacement therapy like so many other men and women—instead of boiling and burning muscle and fat away on the Walthamstow Marshes, in the pee-stained, twenty four storey, concrete stairwells, and in the pungent, slippery crotches and armpits of the Queen Mother Sports Centre—I might never have faced him.
After that final—with post-mortem admonishment from my team-mates about the Truth—I remembered the one instance in which I had plodded through past the pistons, forced the JCB backwards, and pummelled Fred to the ground and gone in for the kill.
The whistle blew – because in the blind heat of zig-zag, up and down battle we’d strayed over the duct-tape margin of the vast matted area and onto the shiny, sealed, composition block hardwood floor.
I had not properly registered the wide eyes, the look of real fear, before the whistle, on his usually half scowling, half grinning face as he hopped away, quickly tying up his heavy, double-weave jacket with his belt.
In a fairly well-rehearsed, if halting, gnarled sentence, I had passed from the inside of his guard position in which we had smashed into the ground—him on his back, me over him, kneeling between his legs—to then lean backwards, and, as his arms and legs flailed and the rogue wheelbarrow desperately tried to wriggle away, to grab one of his quite easily manhandled, spindly legs in order to then move to jam the small serif of his foot in the vice of my armpit and brace his calf upwards with my wrist to a full stop, parrying the odds and sods of his frantic light legs with my own thicker thighs, shinbones, calves and heels.
A forgetful Aladdin in a fugue state, I was deaf to the yells of my team-mates pointing out this weakness as the fight was then quickly restarted, back in the centre of the thin, pink, interlocking foam mat arena – by the proud and immensely encouraging referee and organiser.
He was another fiercely jovial man, an ex-Hong Kong police inspector and Japanese Ju-jitsu black belt and instructor. A vocal and passionate figure in the burgeoning scene of amateur MMA tournaments in the UK.
The referee was all the more full of both respect and gratitude for the exciting showcase we were providing that drew roars from a large crowd he had primed in a crescendo of hyperbole and anticipatory pep over the public address system beforehand.
It summarised our previous meeting in claps of thunder.
(A few days later after I’d got back to London, the phone rang in the early morning. Elbow aching, struggling to prise apart both my sticky eyelids and the knots in a bunjee of plastic coils, I came to as a sizzling, sharp, ferocious voice down the landline demanded to know who exactly he was speaking to and proceeded to drill and harangue me with compliments and appreciation for fighting like a lion!!)
Before the second final, the apprentice authoritarian personality quaked outside the fire exit in a flapping skirt of viscose, maroon running shorts over black lycra cycling pants and a holed, pale green Marks and Spencer’s T-shirt (and violinist’s ponytail), awaiting entrance into the sports centre, to then go and meet Fred, coming from the opposite end of the hall in a thick, crisp, bright, white cotton judo gi, in the centre of the matted arena – ponytail swaying slightly in a tide of applause.
I don’t think it was ‘Eye of the Tiger’, but something similar played over the tannoy as we made our entrances – and there were rotating, flashing, blue, red, green and white spotlights too.
I had been so convinced of his invincibility.
Perhaps the fearsome, black belt Judoka, who had also trained in close quarters kung fu and who knows what else—his kicks and punches landing with all the dumbfounding thwack, sting and bone-juddering thud of invisibly-swung steel pipes out of nowhere—did not know his leg-locks, and how to defend against them, quite as well as us shootfighters and submission wrestlers.
Knowing Fred—the supremely able sprite, with a seemingly supernatural strength-to-weight ratio—he would have smartly put that right later – after the trouble a grimly dragging upstart and hanger-on like me gave him.
Whilst not very self-harmonising, at least the wins, defeats and one gutting mistake in these tournaments did not make me squirm or feel that I’d been mugged or loomed over by a begrudging coward or liar.
Or that my thrashculinity had tangled with a bad loser, a chest-beating winner in a Nietzschean rutting contest, or a left-witted ideological bully shunting the moral goalposts every ten minutes whilst pretending they are the beating heart of humanity.
I hadn’t had such a blast—in that national competition with unknown outcome—maybe since I spent an evening as a ten year old at a professional wrestling show.
With masked villains, blonde heroes and goodie-baddie tag teams throwing each other in and out of the ring, hopping around and gesticulating at pretend injuries.
As we screamed “Oh la vache!! Vas-y!! A
Without thinking about, without taking apart, why we or they were doing it.
One grasshopper- and cicada-filled summer in a village outside Angoulême in south west France.
Staying, and bonding a bit, with a family of Parisians, their château-bound country cousins, and their village compatriots.
Not a Guardian Angel in sight.
Some time around this time of hard physical training, Joke-o-phine—so against violence but not against using the squat menace of his bulky presence or mugging you at random with a hurled epithet apropos of little but Schadenfreude—sent me a Sunday supplement cutting by post.
It featured a silk pajama-ed, Chinese Shaolin monk on a mountain top.
The monk was making beautiful lines in rosy fingers of mist. And he had condemned himself out of his own mouth.
The Observer reporting him as saying that a warrior monk’s sensibility is a cross between that of a humble virgin and a fierce tiger.
The Dadfly Anorakist’s gnomic dig at his acronym of a son: his “bobo”, the bourgeois bohemian, the cartoon of priggish anger and self-deluding, black and white-writing decency.
All that prim distance from the real deal.
Or from the more artful image so deserving of attention.
(Maybe Nuncle John had meant “fool” – from the Spanish word “bobo”. But then it only mattered what he got you to read into it; like in a leery, fearsome fifty minute hour but seen by Hammer Films.)
Arse-picking perversity enough to transform anybody into a philistinic windbag – with secret, embarrassing longings for some reliable directness in their intimate and social lives.
A windbag primed to launch a stream of invective without warning at oily molehills like Lucian Freud’s vision of one of his sitters in the Tate – or an anarchic upchuck of poorly-improvised comic turns to relieve the tension with any embarrassed or delighted companion; alarming the Imitate Britain and Modern gallerygoers minding their own business.
If we’d named the cat Pogo, maybe that would’ve given the gorgonian provocateur something to jump up and down around his handbag about, spit-flecked and dyspeptic.
Anything but those creepie-cruellie games.
Strength through joy – as the misanthrope liked to sigh when you showed a bit of resolve.
A bit of pro-life.
Flashed the unearned new money of life-is-too-short independence – wagging your I-love-myself tail in front of him.
A sense of humour is good – but experts like Joke-phine can see when one is trying too hard.
They can see when someone is really just waving their generosity of spirit around like aroused genitals in people’s faces.
One cannot be accused of happiness envy when that happiness is a sham, an act, a front – social and sexual triumphalism in vitro.
Julie – Prue’s much-loved and very smart Border Collie Cross. 1984
Gobsmacked and too pathetically hurt, I did not reply to the magazine cutting that he’d created a cartoon, a virtual doll.
A simulacrum he released into the world that maybe he thought was either all the more interesting for bearing little mimetic relation to reality at all—not unlike a performance artist with exaggerated features created with cosmetic surgery—or that was as timeless, as archetypal, as penetrative of the misrecognising self straight down through to the collective unconscious, as one of his primitivist sculptures of the big feline beasts of Nature.
It paralleled an obsession with the Oedipus Complex, illustrated by a series of twelve bas-relief pieces sculpted in clay then cold cast in a resin mixed with bronze powder, the finished works then daubed in hydrochloric acid to give them a verdigris patina, an instant ageing. The pieces depicted moments in the life of the monomyth.
If he was frustrated and inadequate as a man and father, at least he could gain weight and potency as a symbol in an eternal trope, replete with inescapable influence, for good or ill.
Rendering everybody else ciphers in his tableaux of the big “O”, as the figure-head of its time emptied them of tears and filled them with melodramatic despair at the overweening conceit.
Or am I riddled with the same self-mythologising memes?
Making the horrendous mistake, in my late twenties, of disclosing a brief—and tragic—infatuation and the discovery of the wonder of lovemaking—rather than the disposal of desire with a genital sneeze—I might as well have been describing Big Daddy writhing on the plain weave canvas and biting Giant Haystacks on the ankle in a 1970’s British Pro-Wrestling bout.
Or Big Daddy feigning unconsciousness after being slammed again and again against the ring corner by Haystacks.
To a young master of passion pulling rank at having already discovered that it was a corny, fixed spectacle, it would be a delight to crow at any idiot so caught up in it.
Joke-o-phine’s own antics and dressing up were no doubt both more truly competitive, spontaneous, virtuosic, passionate and artful.
Both a better spectator sport and a more alluring secret behind closed doors.
The authoritative news about the opposite of sex—from the priggish, Ray Mears of the Kama Sutra—that shattering, mutual multiple orgasms and post-coital transcendence might be forgeries, or pornographic derivations or kitsch corruptions of a Platonic Form—or an idle, vain, bourgeois luxury one should not be able to afford—had me beetling off crimson-cheeked to discover more.
More penitence and hot air about why a doomed affair ran away down the drain in the pub cellar of The Auld Triangle.
A doomed affair with someone married that’d hit me like beer kegs coming off the back of a lorry, and was conceived in creamy stout-sodden, incestuous social chaos.
Should one focus on the news? Or annoy the outing outlet—a consummate artist at grabbing deplorable pussies by the short and curlies—by getting more satisfaction elsewhere?
The more girlfriends I had—most of them fortunate not to encounter the pedantic copy editor or art critic, at least not behind closed doors—the more the London tube train tunnel seemed to rattle and roar in misdirection.
It’s difficult to fake a genital sneeze—unless one’s partner’s habit is never to check the condom afterwards.
But not impossible to fake an orgasm.
For good reasons or bad.
But it was doubtful if St.George the Draggart Racer really could’ve known the difference – from the captain bird’s eye viewpoint, perving in his cod-Freudian closet, simulating a sporting interaction.
Blocking out the scene like a pro.
When I grow up, I’m going to marry the Oedipus Complex – and then, drunk, tear the received notion a new one every evening.
And then dress up in a cartoon of it just to prove I have the deeds.
I didn’t reply to the monk cutting that, despite living in the world as an adult and with a woman for nearly fifty years and co-conceiving and authoring three children, he’d forever trod a line between a mincing, fading, floral-patterned, Betty Crocker or Stepford parody of womanhood Betty Friedan attacked in the Sixties—the MILF, the Me-I’d-Like-to-Fuck, the witless replicant straight out of his own desires—and a sexually menacing, charlatanous psychiatrist.
(The MILP, the Me-I’d-Like-to-Psychoanalyse – probably a cuckolding of his own erstwhile shrink.)
Another role he was jealously inadequate to play: the biographer, the teller of lives.
But maybe pretentious self-parody was the point – possessing and controlling the joke that was Woman, that had so much power over him, such that she would vanish into a dot on the printed or painted horizon.
So as to give him the privilege of some perspective.
And a specious, rounded three-dimensionality.
I had not once called my father names for what he did in the boudoir – or aped him and his cod-ethological delusions of grandeur.
All that had ever seemed to matter to me was the desolate, twitcher’s paradise of a marriage and how he stranded us there, shadows in the fall out.
Not who put what where, how, with whom, why, and in what context, wearing whatever they did wear (and whatever the @$#& it did mean for a semio-sexual or their admirers).
People send up the tensions between private, personal sexual desire, sensual appearances, and public discourses and political morality – send-ups sceptical of ideas of either biologically or ideologically constructed sexuality and identity; send-ups both conservative and progressive, that both reveal and obscure, that parody gender relations, stereotypes and performance, desire and the act of coitus, and skewer the vanities of any shape or colour. Both men and women, like Dina Martina, who might be both as well, do it in burlesque and cabaret.
Professionally trained actors search themselves and work to inhabit and realise many complex, written roles throughout their lives using the imagination, the world and the people around them for empirical research, as well as the text.
They generally don’t, I suspect, play—or seek to embody—a stereotypical cartoon or inflated archetype and identify with it as their alter ego. And perform it to an empty room where the soul can make lines and shapes and dance like nobody is watching – or like an indulgent but chaste companion is.
(Kids do, obviously.)
Unless it is part of a well-written script, story and production.
But—illiberal Nazi, neurotic macho martinet, and backward and sociopolitically illiterate and repressive hack that I am, a pussy tied up in the tentacular reeds of type, a mere reproduction of genital (or phallocratic) sexuality, and secretly so timorous and so wet or low down or stuck up to join with those who have the balls and the ovaries to charge through the fence and dare to walk upright over the border to the transforming wild side—I fail to give any quarter to the redemption of the anima, the inner feminine, the inner child, the gender and identity politics, of Art or the hipster.
Or my own grief.
Or the scorched-earth tactics of a brat determined to both lay claim to and to raze every last word, every ventriloquised opinion, to the salted ground.
Joke-o-phine would have held his nose and sneered at any LGBTQRSTUVW progressive politics that tried to recruit him to a trans cause or to the missionary position of transmogrifying sexuality into political manifesto, enlarging lived sexual life into a so much more enchanting, interesting and sophisticated sign; the sensual, the expressive, and the embodied now a bolt-on, cut and paste, drag and drop, shot/reverse shot, edit, and zoom combination of political abstractions and collective values.
Dina Martina – empty sign-maker, prop-mover, entertainer (and a performer with some generous humour) – would have elicited both jealousy and belittlement.
Just as I did as a young man too—also on a stage, a musical one—awakening and vulnerable to the limitations of life, to the generic parochial absurdities and injustices—and menace—of both my domestic existence and those of the wider world.
Except: the feisty sculptor, in half-moon spectacles and glue- and wax-spotted, pale green cardigan—as he set his glass down carefully on the stripped pine table, my mother in front of the Aga, one hand clutching an iced gin, eyes lowered to the black and white lino-tiled grid of a kitchen floor—had once intoned Nietzsche’s words, or some slurred translation from the deep, dark depths:
“when you go to Woman, you take your whip!”.
The Nietzsche groupie met his feisty, fluid and flexible match in a form of the maybe Nietzscheanised Feminist Left.
My mother once, after a protracted firefight, said she wouldn’t leave because he might top himself.
This was not a believable vision to me until later.
Blithely taking me into his confidence, he told me about the rat poison he’d kept hidden in the rafters of the old garage reached by the right of way, round the back of Orchard Cottage, and that had housed the Morris Traveller estate.
A dark brown, wood and rusted corrugated iron shed that had long been demolished.
He recounted the story as if such problems were long gone.
I did not feel reassured but was too angry to poke around in what had been sicked up down my front.
In the midst of my mother’s abandoning of him in ’97, and anomic as he was, it suited the self-styled “Old Bastard”—and seeing as he wasn’t about to condescend to go out and date—to hold his nose and procure the companionship—if not love—of his deceased straight wife’s best friend and co-worker of twenty odd years.
She had dazzled and delighted with her wit, her clever stories and her mimicry of their colleagues.
And who after waiting and watching patiently for so long was then lightning quick out of the traps next to the deathbed.
The inspirational character gave the impression to the children that she’d rebuffed the misogynist’s demands and advances.
She’d planned it all along and saw her chance the moment my mother fell ill.
They got together—never f*****g, always fighting—for his last decade and a half alive.
His children finally retreated in exhaustion – the last frayed threads of care and obligation left to gather in dust.
(Or mewling self-pity, tottering in umbrage on their heels and in disdain for their own scent – the shrewd tail-wagger might have observed.)
Signs and props subordinated to the greater picture of a fumbling, bumbling brewery piss-up of local performance art, ideology and social engineering.
I had driven up and down three times a week or more from London during my mother’s short illness and death in ’97.
Only to be greeted with remarks like “this is a nursing home” – as if I really had little right to be there.
A nursing home out of the headlines – where the dying wife in her bed was in relentless screaming matches with a husband in high dudgeon at her thoughtless exit.
The screaming reverberated throughout the whole house up until the point at which she was finally unable through medication or illness to speak.
She was even on her deathbed driven to ponder and then conclude—like the young woman she had once been, endlessly rehearsing the same problem—“Oh, yes, he does love me…doesn’t he. Doesn’t he?…”
The morning after the afternoon she had died, I awoke in my childhood bedroom next to my father’s on the first floor of the house to hear him giving a report to some unknown interlocutor:
“…and Daniel was late!! Got here half an hour after she went…” – he spat into the phone.
If I’d ever once received a phone call from him, I might have got there earlier.
I had been too exhausted to take him to task—or headbutt him—for not bothering when I saw my mother lying there, gone.
Prue’s bedroom 2015
Gritting teeth, kicking against embarrassment, I howled and keened over my mother’s shrunken, burnt sienna body, in a white cotton dress with a floral pattern, on her single bed in her first floor room overlooking a six foot diameter pond in the back garden, with circling goldfish overlooked by a pale blue stoneware ornamental cat with sapphire eyes.
All I could do was let out some anguish ritualistically.
We had got even further apart as she was dying as I was unable to show any sign of warmth – or she me, as she hurriedly put her affairs in order, clearly worried about our fate after she’d gone.
Any closeness or final words of reconciliation were out of the question inside that nightmare.
It was Scylla and Charybdis at home in London as well with a girlfriend who felt unfairly overlooked at not being at the centre of an experience.
My father looked on, over shoulders, as per usual.
Once I’d finished, my older sister then kindly attempted to engineer a group hug between the three of us there, to create some semblance of a family together, reconciled in the face of Death.
The defenceless mockingbird offered no resistance – but showed exactly what he thought of my sister with a bemused scoff and twitter.
The smirking socialist lesbian feminist got her second marriage certificate, adoptive daughter status, half the house, a large supply of pocket money, and—like a squeaky-dirty, subversive anti-hero—she valiantly did her best—according to the accounts by family friends—to quicken the demise of that ailing “vile man” by availing him freely of the pills and the booze.
It is fair to say—as she indulged his cross-dressing behind the blinds or curtains of the kitchen or sitting room, until she went home to her own cottage, a cottage he thought he was paying the mortgage on—that she had him hanging on for sexual favours (“a bit of—you know—hetero”, he confided to my brother) and the promise of intimate terms she’d never allow – or at least stand by.
If she had got to the point where she did not object to relations with him, then, while they were at it—giving and taking received voices and notions—the Freudian Action Hero and kitten killer could’ve turned on the voice recognition software and produced his own version of a quixotic classic.
Just to contain himself.
If sexual apraxia—if being an expert about everything that needed to be done, expressed, and experienced but being unable to carry it out—didn’t render it all a non-starter.
But at least the Kleinian go-faster stripes would’ve meant getting it all over quicker – to the closet separatist’s relief.
She could always flick the bookskin afterwards in her own time, eschewing protest.
And pop down to the West Country in person where her badass partner “Miss Whiplash” could lick her wounds for her.
Whiplash, according to the friends and family grapevine, had no heterosexist strings attached.
Her very social enterprise was getting a boost by receiving donations from Jokeophine who was none the wiser.
Maybe if he’d read something like “Switch, Birch and Bait” magazine, if he’d done his field research properly, he might’ve understood a thing or two about the subculture.
He could even have strung others along about his knowledge too.
Masked shining parrot (Prosopeia personata). Paul de Man says autobiography is like prosopopeia in that it can represent the voice and name of the subject but the result is a deprived and disfigured representation.
As the former social worker and former private girls’ school mistress had many years ago impressed with such gravitas on this dead, white, male teenager so desperate for meaning, foundations and respite from the screeching asylum or mental, maximum security prison of this family “life”—or so scared of plopping into a self-protective stupor, barely alive—she knew only too well that all males (or just those reassuringly compliant ones like Joke-o-phine for whom sex is theoretical, those who can only think with their eccentric theses) are rapists.
Intimate with straight cliché, baulking at the homogenous, hetero denial all around her, her gut instincts probably told her too that the flailing for security—and the oxygen of diversity, in amongst anguished, perverse people torturing each other, day in day out—was just more narcissistic, undeserving heteronormative and patriarchal nest-feathering too.
Another example of petrification by an anonymous gaze ever keen to spy and throw covert, violent shame on the failure to play the right role.
Nothing like an off-the-peg frock, apron and multi-tool Victorinox penknife—on a leather lace, hanging off a denim jeans’ belt loop—taken from the trench doctors’ bag of critique to make a personal world so grandly, so passionately engaged and creative.
And brush and touch others’ lives, guilt monger and emotionally blackmail in the process.
And on one or more occasions the emancipatory mother of two by a previous marriage, in her sixties, took the metonym for the heteronormative patriarchy by the ear down to her own metonynm for the missing institutional critique (the solicitor) when it looked scandalously like her youthful drive might be in danger of not fully disinheriting that nuclear family of his for the good of the (missing) sisterhood.
Colonel Imp had however, with natural authority, reportedly put a comrade-in-arms firmly in her place at an eightieth birthday party for that “vile man”.
Through the pressures of drink and nerves he had doubtless reverted from creamy smoothsayer and daddy cool, cuddly waffle cone to odious, bullhorny type.
Her Madge honked in anserine contempt for the more fragile, the less fiery, the less dedicated: “I married him for the money!! Stupid!!“.
A virtue signal to give succour to Nietzscheans—and memoir writers, social constructionists and just-so storytellers—of every stripe.
Or, as Josephine—more Nietzschean-than-thou but long-time subscriber to The Humanist—might have remonstrated against the mobile guard of raggle-taggle metaphors, creepwalking idiolects permanently on the move below his glass ceiling, looking upskirtwards and/but devoid of empathy:
“use your *&%#&% $*&^%$#ng im*g*n*t**n!”.
As the former social worker might have said, to paraphrase Nancy Reagan corralling a pack worried about the person in charge and hungry for news: “we’re doing everything we can”.
At the time of our mother’s death, none of us—my elder brother, elder sister nor myself—thought that Her Madge was explicitly doing what she turned out to be doing.
It was too horrifying to contemplate after those years of contemplating horror by putting up with him. It was better we gave her the benefit of the doubt and hope she would provide him with some security, love and sanity.
My brother mediated between them over the phone from the South of France where he worked and lived and worried with his own family – not realising, or just not wanting to think, that she was cutely playing everybody.
The jealousy and a sense of being caught short fuelled outbursts not long before and not long after my mother died in ’97, after the whip wrangler and his crack of black lightning got together with the flashing, misandrist blade runner.
It turned out that the feckless bobo at some indeterminate place on the social, cultural and musical Asperger’s or autism spectrum, with nary an idea in his head, was not—and maybe never’d been—the credulous listener or head of cattle so thirsty for pronouncements on Freud, humanism, or the authoritarian personality.
Or the son was, like Audrey Hepburn, a shill – but one only pretending to have no substance.
And the larval habitat was under threat from an unecological developer keen to capitalise on the divisive shame all around by curling her unopposable thumbs and articulated joints around the fingers on triggers.
He saw my studies at that time for a BA in History and Politics in London as plague, poison, plagiarism or a fiction.
He then boned up from recent, post-’89 histories of Germany, the Soviet Union or Europe—by triumphant historians that had been able to write fuller accounts as archives opened and to flesh out the genocidal details of the Soviet and German pasts for us—in a bid to catch up.
To catch up with someone not as interested in a pissing contest about history or sociology behind the door of the gents as a conversation at a kitchen table with someone that had forever advertised themselves as more knowledgeable and more curious than everybody else.
A conversation—informed by the study of the interpretation of the past—with the aim of bridging a gap between two people so at odds – and who had endured the death of a wife and mother.
The family glue.
The event of the study of history caused a bloody contest.
I had been enacting the study like countless others both simultaneously, before and after me – faceless others with countless, different viewpoints.
Not an uncanny rhyme or repeat of the Weimar Republic, the collapse of a fragile, liberal polity or the gleeful snuffing out of a cultural renaissance, then.
The supposed re-enactment of mid-twentieth century mass politics threatening civilisation in his own house served only to highlight the hollowness of his derision for my mother’s enthusiasm for the subject.
It was plain that the blame for the exposure of the flimsiness of his vision lay at the door of her OU Humanities degree, its remnants kicked upstairs to stock shelves on the landing.
His failure to hide his ignorance of quite ordinary, old and widely known debates and agendas—as he tore strips off me for a lack of deference towards a work of armchair anthropology, that pre-dated the collapse of the British Empire and the development of modern social science, with all its social and institutional critiques—had him fit to bilabial burst with umbrage.
A seismic quake and tube tunnel roar right next to the ex-social worker, the billboard bilk-wife lurking in loco parentis, watching, silent, elbows on the blond-wood, her unblenching eye avoiding mine and—as it turned out—more focussed on the job of appropriating his estate.
A naked tableau leaving my flat blank slate of a mind upended.
Jokeophine’s younger brother that I hardly knew, who was also at Oxbridge, did German – so maybe his knowledge of European history was another clue to the erasure of the history of the study of history—the unconscionable mise en abyme, the cuckolding three dimensionality—from the family story.
Does the ditching and disposal of bad readings add up to an Oedipal slaying?
If so, the Geordie working class hero was really a father in disguise.
And history seminars are really violent, Sophoclean bloodbaths – or the class struggle in drag.
How exciting – as an underlying warp and weft.
Unless you have a party-pooping, wallflower view of James Frazer and his book on imitative and sympathetic magic.
Real inspiration to people stoking creativity – but, if you believe anthropologists, his theories were superseded by empirical and theoretical work in the muddy field by countless fly-on-the wall ethnographers watching the indigenous of the sentient world over the course of the last hundred and twenty years.
Or—like a bog ordinary undergraduate education in the study of history in tens of thousands of institutions globally—a conspiracy?
Hypocritical elitist liberalism at work?
Or just a f****** inconvenient dress rehearsal of ideas?
I think I’ve done the reading without being so ridiculous as to think such a local story is something grand with huge sociopolitical sweep.
A sexy, arousing lie with such explanatory power, saying everything and nothing.
Like saying everything is political – sounds like the E=mc² of political science, dunnit? If that’s your kink.
The sad vicar or mullah trying to pronounce things in heightened language at his or her arranged marriage of Libido and Social Commentary.
One or two Christmases after Trinny or Susannah—the over-earnest champion of my educational progress—died, a gift of “Why Cats Paint – A Theory of Feline Aesthetics” bombed at a tiny gathering of family and friends.
I’d found it by accident in a bookshop and wanted to share the joke with Jokeophine by making a present of my aleatory gifts.
Maybe the equation of felinity and artistry felt like a parody.
Or maybe he thought me a postmodern vandal.
Or a bastard ironist – killing all the fun, meaning and mystery in him, in company.
Weird – considering he also liked to treat me like a feral animal to be gutted and skinned.
Me too satanically smart and too stupid – all over again.
Maybe the problem was the hubris of submission to play and laughter.
The pretending to be someone else. The lack of strong identity.
As with Haystacks and Big Daddy, it wasn’t real humour or laughter.
Not if there was no one on the end of it giving him a warm feeling in his corselette-sheathed lower belly.
Bobot – Self-Portrait 1985
As the cat-literati like to say in Cat-Lit studies as regards the Bow Wow vs. the Bobo Novel, in order to ape the manners of the genre of humanity, and to reclaim a shameful phrase: “Me Ow”.
If kitsch is the denial of shit, then Fred Queenbie’s walking-talking, cartoon lash-ups of a woman or womanhood, behind the blinds and curtains—with a silly, made-up, squashed voice on top, an untutored falsetto without continuity—were of course a knowing, parodic affirmation.
A great firework or handbag to dance around in a group.
On his last day, in February 2014, the second wife drove up the lane for an infrequent visit.
By this time even she was having little to do with him, empty and sold out of ideas as she was, and was unable to weather the hydrochloric spatterings of spite.
On registering at a hundred yards the spectacle of her alcoholic, diabetic benefactor and message in a bottle being wheeled out of Orchard Cottage into the ambulance, the lady remembered, U-turned, and drove to a more pressing medical appointment.
The robust bigwig and coifed sisterhoodie, twenty years his junior—who had played and taught an instrument to play herself, and liked to make sly asides about the “Very Pathetics”, the peripatetic music teachers—died, of a split intestine, a few months after he did.
Or perhaps the quake-proof, weeping statue of the sisterhood fell and banged her head on a verdigrised, three finger-holed ellipsis in her right of way that didn’t give a leafy fig whether it was showing or telling.
Hardly a reversal of fortune – more like the same f****** story.
The dotty sign for archness got out of the wings too late to stop the misandrist smartly transforming that nuclear family home into a more mercurial medium.
Chink, chink, scrape, clunk, clunk, whisper, tap…tap…tappity….tappity….tap……………….
As a dedicated teacher, and humble mirror neuron, Joke-o-phine would’ve been satisfied that the Empathy Exam had not been cut from the Humanities curriculum.
I remember nostalgia.
He remembered us in his will while he was alive – elegiacally: “In your childhood…”
Tinkly uprights, surviving the graveness, pushing up hopes.
And we specially performed mourning for it, just for him.
Just for Mr Whyppy.
Dead, self-vivisecting jokes in his slips that we were – sadly not quite so lucky as to have found the knack for conjury in the face of pain, like Dina.
Explaining ourselves, from year dot, from the bottom of a freezing, mossy, limestone cistern cave.
To a pissed, fat-bottomed cuckoo of the third sex, posthuming.
Sat on a blond-wood perch, in the shivelight, singing a song.
As regular as a piece of Swiss clockwork every evening,
Now that the avant garde model of gender and language deconstruction has made that brave transition, now that s/he’s real dead-eyed and all-seeing—instead of no longer under the spell of a pro-wrestler’s little death—s/he can eternally contemplate those blow-up childhoods that s/he liked to sketch and colour in by numbers and then sodomise, in a parody of a childhood past, in a greater peace than when s/he was alive.
Fusting inside the deaf mute loam of the story.
In a funny way, you know – as Billy Connolly might say, blowing a Glasgow kiss to homily – Dragmannermous, pinned and snagged in a tentacular tattoo of pixels, is probably still punching upwards through half-lensed, tortoise-shell spectacles, at the babies, at the platitudes and petticoats.
Not really dead but in denial – going through the motions.
At the soft underbellies of ruminants out of place, lowing in the wilderness of the muddy cyber fields.
An undiscovered aleatory work.
Sometimes I just knew. But I could not face the fact that the vicar—of the chapter of the gimcrack Freudian Slip and Quackford Squeers Theory, of the mud and clay, of the liminal, of the honest effluent peppered with citrus pips beneath the twitteringly hypocritical voices of manners and euphemism—could have reformed, educated and made something out of a tiny, cruel, sanitised cell of a mind…
Could’ve pulled an honest drag act out of me, instead of a fake, dishonest one.
If only he’d been allowed to play, outside the box.
And like a fickle, ruthless ingrate I had turned away and rejected him.
The only pussy-busting petard in the village.
As Colonel Imp explained—in a letter to the solicitors acting on behalf of John Josephine’s shattered and increasingly horrified children, and investigating the probate, the fate of his (and our mother’s) estate, and the husband and second wife’s both mysterious and shambolic financial dealings in the last fifteen years of “married” life before he died—we children broke his heart.
Those last years were a life of resigned but louche, Weimarian languor for the feather-boa-ed Danton Abbesses?
Knowing, over-the-shoulder burly-esque?
That did its bit for to prevent the rise of authoritarian, latent homos, tykenesses and illiterate, macho and brutalist book-burners and yahoos like me?
Not an unseen, unsung hero then. Not guided by greater good. Not misguided either.
Just plain self-serving and devious and nasty. And then some. And then a magpie’s nest of conjunctions and brackets to lash and sew it all together.
All tucked up in the same deaf, blingalong sentence.
Professing no faith – and with little belief in renewal.
Do I feel better after all that prop and sign making and moving? That bolting and riveting and cutting and pasting and close up and zooming in and out?
The whistling and cranking in the lonely cab in the dark lorry park, off the motorway in the social margin?
The Creative Non-Fiction from School of Tool?
With end-of-an-ear, collar bone-snapping report and recoil?
The purity of anguish?
All those Anglo-Saxon—but neither secure nor particularly candid—four letter words?
Have I made any admirers?
For the totalled work of Art?
For bitter laughsmanship?
For low wit in the service of a clumsy claim?
Have I materialised as more sparky and human by strongly ignoring or sticking it to Strunky and Whitey?
Do the tracks make a safer bed for lying in without getting eaten or run over?
Will I bond over a piping, steaming hot written cup of disgust, grief and disabusal?
Look through the keyhole, the viewfinder – the private victor’s version.
Get an optic and cochlear nerve.
Look through the lens – the brackets.
So move along – nothing to see or hear here.
(In the event of a non-event, Idiot Savant Bardcom is apologising in advance to Very Important Readers or Writers or Viewcomers.)
Canned Man appropriated by Andy for a Happening