Simon Munnery column - SkinnyFest 2
| 14 Aug 2006
An impudent sprite with piercing insight in the middle of the night informed me I was a ghost. It cut me to the quick; I knew I was sick but I hadn't realised it had gone that far. Or perhaps I had: I was in one of my usual haunts, wandering aimlessly – looking for a portal to a party I left ten years ago or something.
"Why do you come here?" I was asked the other day. "Habit", I replied, as usual, quick as a slow flash. But it set me thinking, and I've come to the conclusion the answer is love. I come to fall in love – with something, someone, some moment; you can hope for it but not plan for it. Try and be open - no, don't try, trying is inherently doomed. Be lucky, say the cockneys; but they never tell you how. I met my wife in Melbourne. I said: "What are you doing here?" She told me she was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar so I knew there'd be trouble. She heckled me, that's how we met, so I married her, as a put-down. It hasn't worked; you'd think six years and two kids would have shut her up, but no; a couple of bloodless Marys and the roaring one returns.
I don't mind being ruled from Washington half as much as I mind being ruled from six yards away. Think of us as semi-American; we may not get to elect the president but we do get to obey his orders. Anyway, my wife heckled me again last night when I was doing a stint at The Bongo Club's Vaudeville cabaret. I offered to marry her again, which was big of me, but not bigamy. Let this be my epitaph: Born in Edgware, raised in Watford, died all over the place. Whooo. Whooo.
"Why do you come here?" I was asked the other day. "Habit", I replied, as usual, quick as a slow flash. But it set me thinking, and I've come to the conclusion the answer is love. I come to fall in love – with something, someone, some moment; you can hope for it but not plan for it. Try and be open - no, don't try, trying is inherently doomed. Be lucky, say the cockneys; but they never tell you how. I met my wife in Melbourne. I said: "What are you doing here?" She told me she was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar so I knew there'd be trouble. She heckled me, that's how we met, so I married her, as a put-down. It hasn't worked; you'd think six years and two kids would have shut her up, but no; a couple of bloodless Marys and the roaring one returns.
I don't mind being ruled from Washington half as much as I mind being ruled from six yards away. Think of us as semi-American; we may not get to elect the president but we do get to obey his orders. Anyway, my wife heckled me again last night when I was doing a stint at The Bongo Club's Vaudeville cabaret. I offered to marry her again, which was big of me, but not bigamy. Let this be my epitaph: Born in Edgware, raised in Watford, died all over the place. Whooo. Whooo.
This is fucking awful.