A Bit of T&F

I do, it has to be said, hold an irrational prejudice against actors. However, my dislike was entirely justified on Monday when I received an email from an actor I had met at a party several weeks earlier, inviting me to partake in "an afternoon of touching and fondling" with him. Touching. Fondling. Ugh

I declined this offer with more politeness than it merited.


I feel like an abused child.

Ffwsti

Playground, Ffwsti Comprehensive School, circa 1991.

- Your Dad a paki?
- No.
- He’s a fucking paki.
- No he’s not.
- Well if he’s not a fucking paki then he’s a fucking cloth-head.

Grandma thought the same when Mum bought him home.
Mum is 16, all legs and tits, dyed blonde beehive rising majestically above a smooth brow, a cute nose. Dad is 22, black greasy hair, dark brown skin and the nose, oh the nose! That ridiculous nose, hawked and hooked and sculpted into an undignified Roman slant that hovered on the absurd, on the cucumberous. You just didn’t get noses like that in 1950’s Liverpool. It was too foreign.

Grandma calls Mum into the kitchen, runs the tap to cover the crimes of conversation. The Yorkshire Terrier, sensing trauma, makes a swift departure for happier climes, in the living room with the paki.
- Is he a Paki?
- No.
- Arab?
- No.
Mum starts to get a bit irritated now, hops from one slim leg encased in boots to the other, wants to get out on her date with the fit young doctor from her ward who’s still waiting for her uncomfortably in the living room, a small and insolent Yorkshire Terrier eyeing him suspiciously from underneath the mahogany cabinet covered by an obscene yellow crocheted doily, and a statue of two men shagging.
- Not – not a Jew?
- NO! Mum, he can hear you! He’s only in the other room!

And then there was the Mary Fowler my sister had in for a tooth extraction (33 – a – lower dental).
- A fellow Fowler.
She nods gently as she says it, smiles with sad faded eyes, picks up the little plastic cup, swirls some blue rinse around her mouth, spits gently into the aluminium bowl, dabs genteely at her mouth.
- Are yours all black, greasy haired cunts from Liverpool as well?

We grew up as the mousey-brown, pale, insipid kids of the fucking paki (who was not a paki). We moved to Wales, a town called ‘Ffwsti’, so Dad could work in a local practice there. You would have thought the Welsh – those original raven-haired, dark skinned celts treated appallingly throughout history by their brazen, flaxen haired neighbours, would have had some sympathy for the fucking paki and perhaps extended the arm of friendship out, embraced him into their brotherly darky fold as Meibion Cymru, Sons of Wales or something. However, no one would register with the new doctor as he looked like a fucking paki, and if there’s one thing Ffwsti did not need, it was more fucking English people, and a fucking paki. I think we all breathed a sigh of relief when in the early 90’s, a real family from India (by way of Moss Side, Manchester) moved into the town centre to open a small clothing store. They were Muslims from the North of India, the Punjab, casualties of Partition, unwilling to go to Pakistan, instead came to the UK. They were, of course, instantly labelled ‘Pakis’ by the vast majority of the occupants of Ffwsti, despite not being from Pakistan. Rubina, the glossy haired mother of Tariq who worked behind the counter in the shop, became Ribena for clarity’s sake. Tariq, slightly plump with a squat nose and ringlets of curls, suffered less than his Mancunian cousin Ali, who was tall, doe eyed, long lashed like a camel with a crown of severely straight black hair. He had The Nose. He looked like my Dad.

- So Paki, you bin to India?
- Yeah, course.
- They wipe their arses with their hands in India
- Shut it gayboy.

Ali was in my Home Economics class in Year 9. I had a crush on him. We stood side by side as we stirred our Homemade Country Vegetable Soup on the same stove, the teacher trilling out the recipe in her annoying Welsh voice, which incorporated an amazing transition between iambs and spondees, so she always ended on a smugly triumphant high note.
- So NEXT we ADD a PINCH of CAYenne PEPPER…
Ali looked at me and added half a teaspoon.
- I eat so much curry at home I can take spicy
he says arrogantly.
- I can take more.
- Bet you can’t. I can eat raw green chillies.
I add a teaspoon. Ali adds another teaspoon. I add another. He adds one more. He tries the soup. He coughs and splutters. His eyes start to water. He runs to the tap. The teacher drones on. AlwAYS STIR the SOUP in a clockwise - I take a cautious sip, gulp it down before I can register its presence.
- Fuckin’ hell. You didn’t even blink.
Ali is crying into his tea towel, laughing and coughing and gazing at me in admiration.
- Respect
Ali leans over and takes my hand, a huge brown hand holding a soft white one, fingernails bright yellow with Turmeric.
- I got a lot of time for you whitey
So love me, take me now behind the gas stove underneath the deep-fat fryer, make me yours, give me brown babies.

Of course, he does not.

Crotch Ending

It's so cold. I've been lying in bed watching my breath frost hugging a hot water bottle in the shape of Mr Mole from Wind in the Willows. I love England in winter, but this year, my first November in the UK for years and years, I'm just sad, reminded of the fact I don't have a home yet, and I don't even have a family home to go back to which sucks sucks sucks. It's all very well being independent but I would like to be dependent for once.

An odd weekend. I had a great week, very productive, but then Friday hit and I got the writing glooms. I went out for a drink with friends in Soho and the tequila set in, and before I knew it - 4.30am, at home, drunk dialling / emailing /texting everyone. In the morning damage limitation seemed to be slight. I went for lunch in Mario's, migrated to a pub, and drank some more. But then as the evening wore on it became apparent my drunk dialing had, in fact, majorly offended a rather sensitive soul, a friend of mine who hovers between acquaintance and lover depending on what mood we're in and whether the person we really love has bothered to return our calls or not. But now sensitive soul thinks three missed calls and two texts is evidence of too much affection, or something, or something. Or maybe it was the arguing, the slurring, the fact I don't have enough to occupy my time so instead I get drunk on a Friday and sabotage my friendships. To make matters worse I keep getting asked out by the same three idiots I keep saying no to. But they keep calling. And emailing. The right ones never call do they?

I feel really lost right now. I'm not in my new flat yet so I'm still isolated in Crotch End, I veer between being incredibly excited about my writing and utterly dispirited, I constantly compare my career to other people's much better careers, and I'm running out of money and have to get a job or sell some more writing very soon, which is always a horrible situation. Things always seem better in the morning after yoga, but in the evening after the weekend life is really dark and really lonely. Oh I need luck, I need luck. I'm writing so much and so fast right now, but for what? It's sometimes feels like I'm having a 28 year relationship with someone who is autistic. Urgh and I'm too tired to finish this train of thought. Back to bed and breath frosting.

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it.

I need some LUCK!!

dooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuche

So some douchebag just emailed me to tell me what a sellout I am for working and buying a flat.

NEWSFLASH: I'm getting a real job because if I don't, I will be on the fucking streets within precisely six weeks. I would much prefer to sell my book in more territories, have someone buy my screenplay or commission me to write a six part-TV drama about yoga teachers who assassinate opinionated and talentless asswipes, but in the absence of this, I will do an honest day's work and make some cash - preferable, I feel, and perhaps more profitable, than flogging my Nan in King's X toilets for five bucks a pop.

And yes, I could perhaps be a full time writer for another year if I didn't buy a flat - but let's be practical here. Mommy and Daddy ain't buying Princess a fairy castle, so I'm doing it myself.

Really, I have to say, being a writer is the hardest, hardest thing on earth, if not because there are so many arrogants twunts out there who pack in their job as a financial consultant and jet off to pen their memoirs on a beach surrounded by bronzed, lithe goddesses, and before they hit chapter two they've decided to tell everyone else how goddamned easy this writing lark is. And then - worse! - there are the talentless fucks who make half a million with some indescribable piece of arse twittering on about themselves, or an ode to themselves dreadfully concealed underneath an unfunny plot-driven fanny-pack of writing which an old turtlenecked munter sitting in an office somewhere thinks will do really well if they release it with a pretty cover, large print and a cleverly photoshopped author pic.


Argh, why why why do I do this job? Not only that, but why do I do this job every damn day, after my ten thousand other fucking jobs of teaching, temping, schmoozing and smiling at people I despise? Especially when life would be so much easier if I just listened to the turtlenecked brigade and wrote a pile of insipid wankjuice easily digestible to the mystical public I am beginning to despise?

You can tell I spent all day writing today can't you. Roll on the office. Roll on the fucking pole. I think lapdancing had more sincerity than this publishing lark.

Fear

It was morning. People were smiling, brandishing take-out beverages and soggy English croissants. I found my way to the office without any drama. I was early. Later I regretted that early, but then I was just pleased I had navigated to this place south of the river. Rush hour was terrifying. I was sure I was pregnant with pin stripes.

At the office though, at the office. People kept smiling. They didn't drink tea. In my terror I consumed five cups and then had to go to the bathroom four times in a row. I wondered if they had noticed. Probably. It would be filed away for later evidence of my ineptitude. I worked industriously. I was in plain view of everyone. I wondered when people would congregate by the water cooler and swap office gossip or skive outside for cigarette breaks. Nothing happened. Midday came and went. I was starving. Someone eventually went for lunch. They returned after ten minutes and ate lunch in front of their desk. I did the same, though my eyes glowed their resentment. I wondered if we were being filmed or something. Did people keep tabs on us? I checked the time. Four hours had passed. Five to go. I started to itch to get back to writing the screenplay. Wondered if anyone would notice if I abandoned the mail. Thought they might. I tried to introduce some gossip. No one would gossip. They read 'Heat' magazine in 5 minutes flat, not even savouring the delights of celebrity cellulite. These people were sadists. I emailed my best friend. She emailed me back telling me this was my life now. Writers shouldn't write full time. Writers should suffer in minimum wage temporary ascetic office environments. I got home at 7pm. I felt like crying. I called a friend in New York. "What have you been up to?" he asked. "I worked in an office today," I said in wondrous tones. He snorted noodles out his nose and hung up to be sick he was laughing so much. I agreed to go back tomorrow.

One word.

FEAR.

Rambling

This week I:

Got asked out for lunch by three different man. Replied in affirmative. Suspect two at least are gay, suspect all don't fancy me, suspect I may have to pay for my own lunch.

Went to watch Eastern Promises with Mephistopheles. He paid. Score.

Wrote a bit of book, wrote a bit of screenplay.

Googled 'the best ways to commit suicide'.

Planned a phantom miscarriage to coincide with flight cancellation thus ensuring full refund from the travel company. Trust me, this works.

Ordered 2 grams of coke from Mephistopheles. Birthday, gift, etc.

Re-read 'Experience' by Martin Amis and laughed long and loud at Kingsley sitting in front of Terminator yelling at Linda Hamilton -

cut your hair cut your hair cut your hair

Begged a job from someone.

Reported my Retarded Estate Agent Tessa (pronounced Te-ssAR and accompanied by a slight tic common to the inbred of Commercial Real Estate) to the Estate Agent Ombudsman.

Severed relations with half my family. Well, they did with me, but as this hasn't occurred for at least two months, I was expecting it to happen any day now.

Managed to insult one of my best friends by calling her promiscuous and hysterical, both traits I secretly admire.

Did kapotasana.

Told a sixty five year old woman to shut the f**k up or leave my yoga class. She shut the f**k up.

Life trundles on..... where it goes, nobody knows.... but right now probably to the pub for a bit.