There are four patron saints of Britain: St David the Welsh guy, St Patrick the Irish guy, St Andrew the Scot, and good old St George, who wasn't even English but was some sorbet entrepreneur from Naples. They teach you this the first day of school, after you've re-created the battle of Hastings. Trust the goddamned English to have a way dodgy saint. Anyhow, St David wears yellow, like as in the cowardly Welsh, St Andrew of the Jocks wears his navy blue sporren, good old St George wears his red and white long johns and St Patrick wears his emerald green pixie hat. Our school used the four saints as 'houses'. Lots of British schools did, it was simpler and more patriotic than getting alcoholic teachers to think up other house names. Even though St George was an ice-cream maker by trade, because he slayed some dragon, everyone, naturally, wanted to be in St George. No one wanted to be in with St 'there's lovely now' David, St 'och aye the noo' Andrew or St 'to be sure to be sure' Patrick – apart from me. Why? Well, that's a long story, but, even now as I cast my pickled-mind back through the yawning chasm of Greenwich Mean Time, I can still see it all as sparkly clear as a champagne flute at a wake.
St George had won the annual house sports day for the previous one-hundred and twenty-six years, since St George himself breathed garlic on that tadpole actually. St David had never won sports day, and to be honest, attired as they were in canary yellow, that was no great surprise. St David was full of giggling girls and podgy boys all minus athletic prowness, oh, and me. I was choked-up the day they announced I was going to be in St David, mortified. Even more so when my mum forked out good family allowance money on that yellow shirt and socks. I got sort of resigned to the fact anyhow, up until the 29th May 1968. Prior to then, I'd been a claret and blue man. I had a West Ham United shirt and I thought Bobby Moore was the patron saint of English football, which undoubtedly, he was.
But not when I woke up with a Mancunian hangover on the 30th May 1968. Nope, from that day on I was a born again Manchester United fan, I was 'having it' as they say up beyond the great divide, red was my colour and Georgie Best was my man. Georgie was Irish, he played for Northern Ireland, the Irish wore emerald green. From the 30th May 1968 I was adamant I wanted to be in St Patrick's house of shamrock at school. My mum, however, had already bought me the shitty yellow kit, and, at school, they simply weren't interested in my pleas, resolute as they were. I had to stay in St David, with the girls, the dribblers, and the slow learners.
'What's all this temper for?' my mum cajoled me as sports day grew ever closer, 'your great uncle Gareth was Welsh, straight from the valleys of Cllankickinthegooleys'. So what? If I couldn't wear the green, I'd rather not participate . . . like Georgie Best himself in point of fact.
Sports day arrived all warm and spring-like and I was frog-marched to school with my yellow kit scrunched-up in my duffel bag. Mr Williams, the games arranger, well, he wasn't no Jules Rimet that's for sure. 'Stick in there boyo!' he told me, giving me a hearty cuff around my head, 'this is going to be St David's year, I can feel it in me juices laddy!'
St David lost every event up until lunch time; not just lost them, got hammered in them. We had a house full of girls who couldn't even skip rope. What kind of luck is that? I skulked around on the sidelines of play, watching those little St George-ians rise again to the greater glory. Shit like this wouldn't happen if my old man had sent me to a posh school.
After lunch, came the football tournament. Which was where my heart, and, my silky-skills, lay. There was the usual gathering of vocal parents, local minor dignitaries, assorted interested clergy and the regulatory flotsam and jetsam of third parties with little else to do on such a fine afternoon until the pubs and the bingo halls opened. The school sages programmed the semi-finals and final, just like that. No rub downs or ice-baths in-between. I was so desperate to play for St Patrick that I swapped kits with some greaser from St Patrick who couldn't, and didn't want to, play football, or any ball in fact, only moments before the off. It was odd that I'd found such a kid, but nonetheless, It was a sweet deal, done before the transfer window slammed shut. The kid I swapped kit with was two-years higher than me in school, and, about two-and-a-half foot taller as well. That big green shirt of his billowed about my ankles like an evening gown, but, I didn't care. When I took the field, the St David girls all booed and hissed me, and the referee, Mr Jones, got highly uppity about my kit, not to mention my about-turn in respect of allegiances. Some kid yelled out 'Hey, where's your handbag St Patricia!' which was all very humourous indeed.
'Hell boy, ' Mr Jones-of-the-bog said to me as the teams lined-up, 'you'll have to keep that shirt tucked in.' Mr Jones was a taffy and he was long-sighted, and, having a taffy ref for an inter-saint football match which featured his own beloved St David, didn't exactly squeak of impartiality.
I tucked the shirt in best I could, but, before Mr Jones had even blown ceremoniously on his whistle, like he was starting the World cup final at the Aztec stadium, that shirt of mine was rolling out like a welcome mat for the king of the Leprechauns. The game was a dour struggle; full of big meaty punts and bad passes and by halftime we had struggled to a coma-inducing 0-0 score. Don't tell me I'd end up in the first house to lose a game to St David since leeks were discovered?
Matters became more serious when Mr Jones blatantly awarded a penalty to St David for tripping – some yellow fool had fallen over the tail of my green shirt; like a skittish bridesmaid at a wedding. The rest of the St Patrick boys were pretty irate with me; Mr O'Callaghan, the St Patrick coach even stopped sipping from his hip flask to berate me angrily from the sidelines. Those unruly St David girls were still booing and hissing and striking up an out-of-tune chorus of Bread of Heaven. The St David kid, not having been allowed to wear his NHS bifocals, missed the penalty anyhow, missed the whole field actually, and, straight from the re-start we little green men forced a corner up the other end. That ball came skidding into the goalmouth like my uncle John into a public bar just before last orders were called, and, in the ensuing melee, it somehow got caught up in the spare reams of my emerald-green cloth. St Patrick himself must have been shining on me that fateful day, looking down with an impish grin and admiring my own cheek because as all and sundry slithered around playing spot the ball, it suddenly tumbled out of my shirt right onto the goal line as if we'd been involved in some kind of Irish hocus-pocus. All I had to do was stab it home – which wasn't the easiest of feats when you've got two hands holding the end of your frock up like you were about to hit the floor for a resounding jig. What madness it was, how long did it take to get that ball all the way over the line? Was it over the line before St David's inept goalkeeper fell on it and squashed the thing as flat as a Welsh notion for independence? Mr Jones fussed about here and there attempting to bribe spectators around to his 'no goal' viewpoint, but, the deed was done. So much for St David's shot at redemption. There would be no singing in the valleys that night, or any night actually. Yours truly became somewhat of a hero to the men of the green. St Patrick were then to face the might of St George right after oranges were served. But not to me, I still had to listen to Mr O'Callaghan fulminating about my 'dress' and go on and on about the grand old days at Croke Park.
Hero status is nothing but a fleeting fad however, apart from for St George, who squeezed a lifetime's praise out of one minor act. Not ten minutes into the final itself I got whacked in the nose so hard by some bitter English boy, that my eyes swelled-up and looked like those on that dragon after it had just been flayed in the nuts by that ice-cream maker. For the record, St George won 9-0, and that was about the end of my forrays into faux Irish allegiances. Why was St George playing kiss-chasey with a dragon anyhow? And, was the dragon Welsh, and, if it was, why were Wales still allowed to wave a flag with a dragon on it as if it were invincible?
Those were all good questions that were never answered. Another being – why the hell did England have three limp-dick lions fucking about as its emblem? Insofar as I knew, there were never any fucking lions native to England . . .
In my resentment at having been on a side flogged to the very last, I continued, as is my way, to bombard anyone who would listen with my dragon and lion questions. No one was in the least bit interested however. They were all far to engrossed in watching the head boy, with his tight little buns, again collect the annual sports day trophy from the leery-eyed Lord Mayor. I learned that you cannot keep a good saint down. Which was why, before the goalposts had been dismantled and the nets rolled away, I was already inside pestering the eye-patched St George coach Mr Nelson to take me on board for the greater good of England and all who sail in her, to in fact, give me my own golden age. My allegiance since that day has always been stout for the three lions (stupid as they look). Like all English boys of a certain wavering disposition, I took my medicine believing that one day in the not-to-distant future, I too would rise to the heroic levels of our manly patron saint St George, renowned King of the gelato and school sports days.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Lost In Acacia Avenue (And Twice At That)
Natalie Robinson suddenly became extremely popular, which must have felt odd to her. She wasn't by any definition a sensual beauty – but, she came apparently, from a family big on naturism.
Once that news spread around the playground, everyone wanted to go visit Natalie. Well, everyone, like me, who happened to be a boy. She asked me if I'd like to come to the Robinson family sports day the following Sunday, by an odd coincidence, and, given my penchant for competition - I was happy to accept. Acacia Avenue and the Robinson homestead were on my paper round, and with the revelation of rampant nudism in the leafy suburbs all of those funny-looking magazines I had delivered there made sense.
On the Sunday morning I found my cricket bat, the one I'd last used to notch up two hundred and sixty-eight not out in one of the all-time classic backyard knocks. In England we never adopted the six-and-out philosophy. I loved that bat, the way it felt, smelled even, and despite the grip being repaired with tape and the split at the bottom, I still felt reasonably confident about setting a new record at the Robinson's Sunday sports. With the bat wedged across the bike's handlebars I set off to Acacia Avenue, with little thought of nudism on my stupid mind. I mean, any sensible kid cycling to a nudist's house with a cricket bat might have paused to ponder the wisdom of being bowled a googly by a butt-naked middle-aged man. But not me. I hadn't even dwelled on the prospect of a naked Natalie at first slip, or a wobbling Mrs Robinson in all her Sunday glory fielding in deep mid-on. Hell no, all that was lobbing around my head was the thought of yet another glorious century, maybe more. I was never one to walk on dubious appeals or because the fielders were dog-whipped.
Everything looked reasonably ordinary upon my arrival. I mean, no one was down to the bare essentials. Mr Robinson, in his Panama hat and shorts, was carefully mowing the front lawn, an impressive sweep of well-kept grass. A kid like me could do a lot of damage on a lawn like this one. Mr Robinson waved happily to me; the poor fool, within an hour or so that guy would be close to cardiac arrest lumbering to and fro in pursuit of my big hits. I waved back, cheerily.
I had the bat slung over one shoulder as I stood in the cool of the porch – the porch I knew well, you recall, due to my early morning exertions. Mrs Robinson appeared. She was pretty fit for a housewife with more time on her hands than God. She told me to go around the side, through 'gnome-alley' to the back garden where I’d find Natalie and her sister and brother. Uhm, two more fielders more than I'd envisaged, best to stick to the sweep early on in the innings.
Natalie smiled at me as I emerged into the hazy, liquid sunshine of a late spring Sunday afternoon in England. It was one hell of a spread, one of those Country Life gardens; all well-clipped and lovingly raked. But not the ideal ground to play cricket on, not with all those immaculate borders, rose bushes, ornaments, ponds, hedges and god knows what else lurking beyond. As soon as I sat down at the table I could tell that the Robinsons weren't intimately acquainted with visitation protocols. For a start, the boy, who I didn't recognise, was still in his jimmies. The sister, who I guessed was older than Natalie, was shovelling jam into her mouth with her podgy fingers, straight from the jar. The sister was hauling a lot of unnecessary weight and not only that, she dribbled. Maybe Natalie had been the only sibling judged sane enough to attend school?
The boy, whose name turned out to be Crispen, had never seen a cricket bat before. I was both surprised and delighted, this would be like taking rusks from a teething babba. The sister, Ruth, just carried on shovelling in the preserve. Mrs Robinson came out carrying a tray of glasses and a stack of cookies. I smiled politely while she scolded Ruth over the jam-gorging and told Crispen to hurry up and get himself washed and brushed. I had heard about washing, but brushing was a new one, god forbid that Crispen was some kind of wolf-child. Mrs Robinson asked me a few test questions, digging around to see, I suppose, if my true motive for attendance lay in manhandling her only normal offspring. Satisfied with my answers she made haste to the cook pot. I had no idea what to say to Natalie and thankfully she asked if I wanted to see the gardens – she pluralised the offer. Sure. I said, and off we set.
Natalie knew a lot about plants. Too much probably for my liking, but I humoured her, feigning interest in variegated leaves, climbers, ramblers, annuals, perennials and every other kind of green thing backyard horticulturalists swoon over. At the bottom of the garden was the orchard and strange little huts buzzing with activity that Natalie explained were beehives. How very English, I thought, cricket, bees, apples, cut grass, eccentric parents and fruit-loopy kids sheltered from the real world beyond the long and winding gravel driveway. By the time we got back to the small patio, Crispen had washed, and, I suppose, someone had groomed his body fur. Ruth had been taken around to the side hose to have her sticky fingers cleaned. Mr Robinson was now sitting at the garden setting eagerly reading some magazine with butterflies on the cover, oohing and ahhing over the centre-spread. Mrs Robinson arrived wearing one of those English country-wife aprons that English country wives wear in magazines; even though this wasn't technically the country it was far enough out to be considered semi-rural. England is a small place.
Mrs Robinson had nothing on under her apron, other than her skin. Hello, I thought, this isn't so bad after all, and who really cares whether Natalie feels in the mood for nakedness or not? Given that Mummsie obviously does. As Mrs Robinson bent to re-fill my glass with homemade lemonade, one of her mammary glands slipped loose its mooring and stared me straight in the face, nipple first.
Is it time for honey, mother? Mr Lepidopterist enquired breezily. Ruth, the sweet-toothed junkie, slobbered at the mention of fresh nectar, like my granddad's boxer. Dog-boy bared his teeth. Natalie just smiled at me, a tad unevenly I noticed. The nipple was, by now, almost upon my lips, like an invading wart.
Do you like honey? Mummsie asked me.
Yes, I replied, trance-like.
Me too! cried Ruth, as slobber splattered everywhere.
Oh, I see you brought your stick! Mother said, but before I could answer, she had added – And oh my, isn't it far too warm to be bothered with an itchy apron? And off it came, her thin modesty. She carried on as if nothing untoward had occurred, telling me that my stick was the queerest looking croquet mallet she'd ever seen.
A few moments later Mr Robinson appeared attired in sandals, big red gloves, and a hat with netting on it that dropped below his chin. Apart from that he was swinging low. Off he marched in the direction of the bees. It seemed strange to me that a man would go to the bother of hand and face protection when his goods were free and easy . . . but I had no time to dwell on the horror. Mrs Robinson was back with rock cakes; I felt something odd in my gut, and something odder in my loins – perhaps I had brought a croquet stick after all. We four kids ate in silence, waiting for screams of agony from somewhere near the beehives. Mrs Robinson fussed about us as I tried to keep focused on Natalie, not her over-proud mother. Though, by god, it was a fraught task.
The only people who wanted to partake of naked croquet were Mr and Mrs Robinson. They set about banging little hoops into the ground here and there, then giddily got out the mallets and ball and began playing with each other. I had decided to slip away between rubbers, or chukkas, or humps, or whatever it is croquet players play . . . Natalie walked me around to the front garden, in silence.
Do your folks get up to this kind of thing all the time? I asked her, as I mounted my bike. Which, given the circumstances, was the only thing I was ikely to mount today.
Uh huh, she replied, glumly.
Do you? I asked, slipping my bat between the handlebars.
With my mother always in attendance? she answered. I saw her point.
I liked our back garden. It was rustic in places, well-worn in others. My dad mowed the lawn with his clothes on and my mother never served homemade lemonade, either dressed or naked. We didn't have beehives, gnomes, ornamental water pumps, cart-wheels, or a croquet set. I live a normal life, I realised. I don't need to know, right now, what birds, bees or the Robinsons on Acacia Avenue do for kicks; all I need to know right now is who is playing wicketkeeper.
It was several months later, some ways into the frosty throes of an ever-lingering English winter, when I again found myself on Acacia Avenue through no other reason but boredom. Summer, with its cricket, insect life and naturists had vamoosed, and, all we had left were bare trees and frozen sods. I'd thought about Natalie a lot, over the preceding months, of how awful it must be being burdened with parental units mad to shed their kit at the drop of a serviette. Perhaps in my own practical way, I could bring Natalie back into the pulsating world of normal childhood and, into the bargain, be rewarded for my efforts with something more substantial than a peck on the cheek. I rode up the crunchy driveway on my trusty bike, dismounted and rang the doorbell, the one that played Greensleeves. How odd I hadn't noticed it before?
Mrs Robinson answered, attired in her flimsy Sunday finery. Oh my! She exclaimed excitedly, as she all but yanked me into the warm confines of her glorious mansion. I began to sweat immediately, given that I was, after all, dressed for the season at hand. The family immediately gathered around me, like ghouls. Things had obviously slid a tad further since the last days of summer and the last pot of honey. Under any circumstance my tolerance for groping hosts is mild at best – but, I had after all, come of my own accord and thus, within a matter of minutes several sets of nimble fingers had successfully removed my coat, mittens, hat, scarf and extra pullover. It was when one of those sets of fingers reached for the belt buckle that I immediately drew a line in the sand, or, on the shag if you will. In all of the ceremonial welcoming rituals and de-clothing customs I had all but overlooked the fact that Mr Robinson was wearing slippers. And, nothing else. The wolf-child Crispen wasn't so far behind in coming forward either, though at least he had had the common decency to keep his Wombles underpants on. As my eyes adjusted to the strange, fallow light, that barely-radiated at all within the Robinson house of wax, I began to realize that even Ruth, and, dear god, Natalie herself, were in the various-states-of-undress situation themselves. I had mistakenly presumed that with the onset of an English winter, the Robinsons might refrain from nudity for the sake of frostbite at least. But no, the whole lot of them were still going at it hard behind the tightly-drawn velvet curtains. Harder in fact.
That was about when I saw the Twister mat layed out on the Axminster. Oh dear Lord, what on earth had I stumbled into this time? Do you know Twister? Mrs R asked gaily.
I had no heart to tell her I had three American cousins who always brought me great American inventions like the Frisbee, the Hoola Hoop and the Pitch and Mitt. That indeed, along with Parcheesi, I was somewhat renowned for my Twister cunning and elasticity. No. I told her.
Obviously they'd bent the rules of what was, by design, a wholesome family game, into something far more underhand and slippery. Oh come on! It's such great fun, isn't it mumsie! Natalia chivvied me. I was sure it was, strip-Twister, in a certain time, place, and with the whole healthy Garden-of-Eden thing forefront in the two player's minds. But not, when it was being played out by an extended family of clothes-discarders. I bade my leave, as was, and still is in fact, my way.
Naturally, or, should I say nature-ally, they were sorry to see me go so soon. That was the second time I rode home from the shennanigans of Acacia Avenue stumped for thoughts, let alone words. In my house we never played Twister, and that, was a definite bonus. Twister, unlike backyard cricket I might add, involves close physical contact with your nearest and dearest and that kind of gig was never something we English had taken to. But, like I've said, I had played Twister on the odd occasion – in the backyard tepee of my aunt June's with her three, supple daughters and their varying stages of development. To play games of any nature, whether sensibly attired or down to the gizzards as it were, there has to be some kind of positive spin-off.
I asked Mr Lampfrey, the newsagent of long-standing, to take me off the Acacia Avenue paper-delivery route, even though they tipped generously up around those parts at yuletide. He must have known something too; as he merely sighed and re-assigned me to another patch.
Once that news spread around the playground, everyone wanted to go visit Natalie. Well, everyone, like me, who happened to be a boy. She asked me if I'd like to come to the Robinson family sports day the following Sunday, by an odd coincidence, and, given my penchant for competition - I was happy to accept. Acacia Avenue and the Robinson homestead were on my paper round, and with the revelation of rampant nudism in the leafy suburbs all of those funny-looking magazines I had delivered there made sense.
On the Sunday morning I found my cricket bat, the one I'd last used to notch up two hundred and sixty-eight not out in one of the all-time classic backyard knocks. In England we never adopted the six-and-out philosophy. I loved that bat, the way it felt, smelled even, and despite the grip being repaired with tape and the split at the bottom, I still felt reasonably confident about setting a new record at the Robinson's Sunday sports. With the bat wedged across the bike's handlebars I set off to Acacia Avenue, with little thought of nudism on my stupid mind. I mean, any sensible kid cycling to a nudist's house with a cricket bat might have paused to ponder the wisdom of being bowled a googly by a butt-naked middle-aged man. But not me. I hadn't even dwelled on the prospect of a naked Natalie at first slip, or a wobbling Mrs Robinson in all her Sunday glory fielding in deep mid-on. Hell no, all that was lobbing around my head was the thought of yet another glorious century, maybe more. I was never one to walk on dubious appeals or because the fielders were dog-whipped.
Everything looked reasonably ordinary upon my arrival. I mean, no one was down to the bare essentials. Mr Robinson, in his Panama hat and shorts, was carefully mowing the front lawn, an impressive sweep of well-kept grass. A kid like me could do a lot of damage on a lawn like this one. Mr Robinson waved happily to me; the poor fool, within an hour or so that guy would be close to cardiac arrest lumbering to and fro in pursuit of my big hits. I waved back, cheerily.
I had the bat slung over one shoulder as I stood in the cool of the porch – the porch I knew well, you recall, due to my early morning exertions. Mrs Robinson appeared. She was pretty fit for a housewife with more time on her hands than God. She told me to go around the side, through 'gnome-alley' to the back garden where I’d find Natalie and her sister and brother. Uhm, two more fielders more than I'd envisaged, best to stick to the sweep early on in the innings.
Natalie smiled at me as I emerged into the hazy, liquid sunshine of a late spring Sunday afternoon in England. It was one hell of a spread, one of those Country Life gardens; all well-clipped and lovingly raked. But not the ideal ground to play cricket on, not with all those immaculate borders, rose bushes, ornaments, ponds, hedges and god knows what else lurking beyond. As soon as I sat down at the table I could tell that the Robinsons weren't intimately acquainted with visitation protocols. For a start, the boy, who I didn't recognise, was still in his jimmies. The sister, who I guessed was older than Natalie, was shovelling jam into her mouth with her podgy fingers, straight from the jar. The sister was hauling a lot of unnecessary weight and not only that, she dribbled. Maybe Natalie had been the only sibling judged sane enough to attend school?
The boy, whose name turned out to be Crispen, had never seen a cricket bat before. I was both surprised and delighted, this would be like taking rusks from a teething babba. The sister, Ruth, just carried on shovelling in the preserve. Mrs Robinson came out carrying a tray of glasses and a stack of cookies. I smiled politely while she scolded Ruth over the jam-gorging and told Crispen to hurry up and get himself washed and brushed. I had heard about washing, but brushing was a new one, god forbid that Crispen was some kind of wolf-child. Mrs Robinson asked me a few test questions, digging around to see, I suppose, if my true motive for attendance lay in manhandling her only normal offspring. Satisfied with my answers she made haste to the cook pot. I had no idea what to say to Natalie and thankfully she asked if I wanted to see the gardens – she pluralised the offer. Sure. I said, and off we set.
Natalie knew a lot about plants. Too much probably for my liking, but I humoured her, feigning interest in variegated leaves, climbers, ramblers, annuals, perennials and every other kind of green thing backyard horticulturalists swoon over. At the bottom of the garden was the orchard and strange little huts buzzing with activity that Natalie explained were beehives. How very English, I thought, cricket, bees, apples, cut grass, eccentric parents and fruit-loopy kids sheltered from the real world beyond the long and winding gravel driveway. By the time we got back to the small patio, Crispen had washed, and, I suppose, someone had groomed his body fur. Ruth had been taken around to the side hose to have her sticky fingers cleaned. Mr Robinson was now sitting at the garden setting eagerly reading some magazine with butterflies on the cover, oohing and ahhing over the centre-spread. Mrs Robinson arrived wearing one of those English country-wife aprons that English country wives wear in magazines; even though this wasn't technically the country it was far enough out to be considered semi-rural. England is a small place.
Mrs Robinson had nothing on under her apron, other than her skin. Hello, I thought, this isn't so bad after all, and who really cares whether Natalie feels in the mood for nakedness or not? Given that Mummsie obviously does. As Mrs Robinson bent to re-fill my glass with homemade lemonade, one of her mammary glands slipped loose its mooring and stared me straight in the face, nipple first.
Is it time for honey, mother? Mr Lepidopterist enquired breezily. Ruth, the sweet-toothed junkie, slobbered at the mention of fresh nectar, like my granddad's boxer. Dog-boy bared his teeth. Natalie just smiled at me, a tad unevenly I noticed. The nipple was, by now, almost upon my lips, like an invading wart.
Do you like honey? Mummsie asked me.
Yes, I replied, trance-like.
Me too! cried Ruth, as slobber splattered everywhere.
Oh, I see you brought your stick! Mother said, but before I could answer, she had added – And oh my, isn't it far too warm to be bothered with an itchy apron? And off it came, her thin modesty. She carried on as if nothing untoward had occurred, telling me that my stick was the queerest looking croquet mallet she'd ever seen.
A few moments later Mr Robinson appeared attired in sandals, big red gloves, and a hat with netting on it that dropped below his chin. Apart from that he was swinging low. Off he marched in the direction of the bees. It seemed strange to me that a man would go to the bother of hand and face protection when his goods were free and easy . . . but I had no time to dwell on the horror. Mrs Robinson was back with rock cakes; I felt something odd in my gut, and something odder in my loins – perhaps I had brought a croquet stick after all. We four kids ate in silence, waiting for screams of agony from somewhere near the beehives. Mrs Robinson fussed about us as I tried to keep focused on Natalie, not her over-proud mother. Though, by god, it was a fraught task.
The only people who wanted to partake of naked croquet were Mr and Mrs Robinson. They set about banging little hoops into the ground here and there, then giddily got out the mallets and ball and began playing with each other. I had decided to slip away between rubbers, or chukkas, or humps, or whatever it is croquet players play . . . Natalie walked me around to the front garden, in silence.
Do your folks get up to this kind of thing all the time? I asked her, as I mounted my bike. Which, given the circumstances, was the only thing I was ikely to mount today.
Uh huh, she replied, glumly.
Do you? I asked, slipping my bat between the handlebars.
With my mother always in attendance? she answered. I saw her point.
I liked our back garden. It was rustic in places, well-worn in others. My dad mowed the lawn with his clothes on and my mother never served homemade lemonade, either dressed or naked. We didn't have beehives, gnomes, ornamental water pumps, cart-wheels, or a croquet set. I live a normal life, I realised. I don't need to know, right now, what birds, bees or the Robinsons on Acacia Avenue do for kicks; all I need to know right now is who is playing wicketkeeper.
It was several months later, some ways into the frosty throes of an ever-lingering English winter, when I again found myself on Acacia Avenue through no other reason but boredom. Summer, with its cricket, insect life and naturists had vamoosed, and, all we had left were bare trees and frozen sods. I'd thought about Natalie a lot, over the preceding months, of how awful it must be being burdened with parental units mad to shed their kit at the drop of a serviette. Perhaps in my own practical way, I could bring Natalie back into the pulsating world of normal childhood and, into the bargain, be rewarded for my efforts with something more substantial than a peck on the cheek. I rode up the crunchy driveway on my trusty bike, dismounted and rang the doorbell, the one that played Greensleeves. How odd I hadn't noticed it before?
Mrs Robinson answered, attired in her flimsy Sunday finery. Oh my! She exclaimed excitedly, as she all but yanked me into the warm confines of her glorious mansion. I began to sweat immediately, given that I was, after all, dressed for the season at hand. The family immediately gathered around me, like ghouls. Things had obviously slid a tad further since the last days of summer and the last pot of honey. Under any circumstance my tolerance for groping hosts is mild at best – but, I had after all, come of my own accord and thus, within a matter of minutes several sets of nimble fingers had successfully removed my coat, mittens, hat, scarf and extra pullover. It was when one of those sets of fingers reached for the belt buckle that I immediately drew a line in the sand, or, on the shag if you will. In all of the ceremonial welcoming rituals and de-clothing customs I had all but overlooked the fact that Mr Robinson was wearing slippers. And, nothing else. The wolf-child Crispen wasn't so far behind in coming forward either, though at least he had had the common decency to keep his Wombles underpants on. As my eyes adjusted to the strange, fallow light, that barely-radiated at all within the Robinson house of wax, I began to realize that even Ruth, and, dear god, Natalie herself, were in the various-states-of-undress situation themselves. I had mistakenly presumed that with the onset of an English winter, the Robinsons might refrain from nudity for the sake of frostbite at least. But no, the whole lot of them were still going at it hard behind the tightly-drawn velvet curtains. Harder in fact.
That was about when I saw the Twister mat layed out on the Axminster. Oh dear Lord, what on earth had I stumbled into this time? Do you know Twister? Mrs R asked gaily.
I had no heart to tell her I had three American cousins who always brought me great American inventions like the Frisbee, the Hoola Hoop and the Pitch and Mitt. That indeed, along with Parcheesi, I was somewhat renowned for my Twister cunning and elasticity. No. I told her.
Obviously they'd bent the rules of what was, by design, a wholesome family game, into something far more underhand and slippery. Oh come on! It's such great fun, isn't it mumsie! Natalia chivvied me. I was sure it was, strip-Twister, in a certain time, place, and with the whole healthy Garden-of-Eden thing forefront in the two player's minds. But not, when it was being played out by an extended family of clothes-discarders. I bade my leave, as was, and still is in fact, my way.
Naturally, or, should I say nature-ally, they were sorry to see me go so soon. That was the second time I rode home from the shennanigans of Acacia Avenue stumped for thoughts, let alone words. In my house we never played Twister, and that, was a definite bonus. Twister, unlike backyard cricket I might add, involves close physical contact with your nearest and dearest and that kind of gig was never something we English had taken to. But, like I've said, I had played Twister on the odd occasion – in the backyard tepee of my aunt June's with her three, supple daughters and their varying stages of development. To play games of any nature, whether sensibly attired or down to the gizzards as it were, there has to be some kind of positive spin-off.
I asked Mr Lampfrey, the newsagent of long-standing, to take me off the Acacia Avenue paper-delivery route, even though they tipped generously up around those parts at yuletide. He must have known something too; as he merely sighed and re-assigned me to another patch.
The Liquid Life Of Artists
Art, she said, is above & beyond all else.
I considered the statement while she flung dirty underwear into a suitcase. Maybe she was right, anyhow.
When she took to hard drugs, lavish promiscuity & Miller's lost weekends with libertines, she put it down to art.
I kept that thought in a bell jar. Along with all the other scrappits of random nonsense I had collected like used postage stamps.
Then she left no forwarding address. Sent me a postcard sometime later with Lautrec in Toulouse on it. I remembered that his name was Henri too.
She went way way down, subterranean, & far far out: Enterprising. Wrote later that she had hit a Homer, escaped the Iliad; she reminded me of Joyce, only with bigger tits and a better ass.
In the end, I stayed resilient. Made art. Thought that maybe one day I would Mailer a postcard back, poste resante. It would be a portrait of the artist as a dumb fool – swimming buck naked in Pollock's aquarium.
Nevermind.
I considered the statement while she flung dirty underwear into a suitcase. Maybe she was right, anyhow.
When she took to hard drugs, lavish promiscuity & Miller's lost weekends with libertines, she put it down to art.
I kept that thought in a bell jar. Along with all the other scrappits of random nonsense I had collected like used postage stamps.
Then she left no forwarding address. Sent me a postcard sometime later with Lautrec in Toulouse on it. I remembered that his name was Henri too.
She went way way down, subterranean, & far far out: Enterprising. Wrote later that she had hit a Homer, escaped the Iliad; she reminded me of Joyce, only with bigger tits and a better ass.
In the end, I stayed resilient. Made art. Thought that maybe one day I would Mailer a postcard back, poste resante. It would be a portrait of the artist as a dumb fool – swimming buck naked in Pollock's aquarium.
Nevermind.
GRIDIRON LIKE LOVE
the whole nine yards is one completely different ballgame
now i find myself inexplicably the quarterback on team love
staring at a hundred yards of field with a fistful of spleen
captaining the shittiest offense in the league
staring down the hardest defense & even though we're all padded & helmeted & protected,
i know it's still gonna fucking hurt when i get smashed each play
& for each yard i move my team i'll earn a merit bruise
so i call it & we huddle for 1st & 10 & i'm contemplating using my
wide receivers or just going straight up the center as the umpire blows,
& i cry yellow 41! yellow 41! yellow 41!
UP! UP! UP! & i take the snatch clean & then i see your defense coming . . .
a wall of truth
onrushing
& i know i've gotta palm off this atom ball or take the sack
so instead i fall to one knee looking for sanctuary & now
we're fucking 2nd & 14 & at this rate i'm gonna have to
punt or take the risk play option
& everyone sucks in big ones while i deliberate
mentally & all i've got left are 3 plays & the truth.
green 28! green 28! green 28!
up! up! up!
now i find myself inexplicably the quarterback on team love
staring at a hundred yards of field with a fistful of spleen
captaining the shittiest offense in the league
staring down the hardest defense & even though we're all padded & helmeted & protected,
i know it's still gonna fucking hurt when i get smashed each play
& for each yard i move my team i'll earn a merit bruise
so i call it & we huddle for 1st & 10 & i'm contemplating using my
wide receivers or just going straight up the center as the umpire blows,
& i cry yellow 41! yellow 41! yellow 41!
UP! UP! UP! & i take the snatch clean & then i see your defense coming . . .
a wall of truth
onrushing
& i know i've gotta palm off this atom ball or take the sack
so instead i fall to one knee looking for sanctuary & now
we're fucking 2nd & 14 & at this rate i'm gonna have to
punt or take the risk play option
& everyone sucks in big ones while i deliberate
mentally & all i've got left are 3 plays & the truth.
green 28! green 28! green 28!
up! up! up!
Love Me, Love My Ex's Cats.
7 a.m. on a lazy sunday morning after a pretty 'hard at it' Saturday night and we're going at the job of girl-on-girl pretty damned well. We are in the zone. Getting wet. When, the phones rings and as you'd expect, we leave it. Concentration broken, the moment all but over, we try to recapture what we had only minutes before then the phone rings again, then again . . . when a phone goes that many times at that ungodly hour of that godly day, you'd best know where your black dress is.
But no, nothing so sombre as that, what this is all about, this very early Sunday morning ding-a-ling, is a cat. I lay there wondering how it would have panned out, the sex, not the cat shit, while I listen to a one-sided panic-laden conversation taking place between exes who still share feline feelings for animals . . . an interloper from another planet might well misconstrue this kind of animated detailia of animalia as a human person receiving news of a death . . . and it is, in a strange way.
It is the death of innocence for the intentional wayfarer slash tourist laying naked waiting for the conversation to end and the sex to reconvene but then realizing that the sex isn't going to get jump started anyhow because a cat on a hot tin roof in some suburban backyard is obviously going to rule this furball of a theological morning. They are discussing rock throwing, absailing, mace, hose pipes, water shortages, the fire brigade, litter trays, pet food, in the way that night-weary gamblers discuss the pros and cons of a roll of the die. At least one of them, my one, is handling her end with some kind of level-headed decency, as all I can hear from the other end is shrieking and I believe for a second or two that the cat pinned down on the ex's neighbour's roof by a posse of bigger uglier neighbourhood hellcats is actually on the phone itself.
I'm thinking I'm laying in a lesbian cliché. How can this be? Why I am here? This is not my beautiful house, that is not my beautiful wife, yet, and, that cat is certainly no concern of mine. I mean, let's face it, if the dog was up on the roof then fair enough, but what's the big head-shrinking deal about a cat being up on a roof? Insofar as I know, cat's have been up on roofs since roofs were first invented. In the Serengeti it's quite common to wake up and find a lion sunbathing on your, or, your neighbour's roof. Get over it. But obviously not in suburbia. They are still trying to talk it through anyhow, in that irrational, completely paranoid, way dykes discuss animals in. I pull on my knickers, go get a cup of coffee, sit outside and watch some other cat stalking a colourful looking bird. Nature in all of its beauty three-floors below me. If I had a BB gun I could pop a cap in that pussy's ass from up here no problems . . . oh, my part of the dynamic duo of Batwoman and Catwoman is back looking exhausted. Runs a hand through her bedraggled hair, tries to make not-so-light of the whole insanity now – I finish my coffee, tip the slops over the balcony and it just misses that stalking cat which then shoots up a tree. You see, a cat in a tree, no big deal. I go back to the bedroom and make bedroom eyes but the cat people and their furry business have already stolen my lover's mind away for today . . . what next I wonder, Andrew Lloyd Webber calling reverse charges to discuss a lesbian version of Cats? Dr. Do-little is my name on this holy day.
But no, nothing so sombre as that, what this is all about, this very early Sunday morning ding-a-ling, is a cat. I lay there wondering how it would have panned out, the sex, not the cat shit, while I listen to a one-sided panic-laden conversation taking place between exes who still share feline feelings for animals . . . an interloper from another planet might well misconstrue this kind of animated detailia of animalia as a human person receiving news of a death . . . and it is, in a strange way.
It is the death of innocence for the intentional wayfarer slash tourist laying naked waiting for the conversation to end and the sex to reconvene but then realizing that the sex isn't going to get jump started anyhow because a cat on a hot tin roof in some suburban backyard is obviously going to rule this furball of a theological morning. They are discussing rock throwing, absailing, mace, hose pipes, water shortages, the fire brigade, litter trays, pet food, in the way that night-weary gamblers discuss the pros and cons of a roll of the die. At least one of them, my one, is handling her end with some kind of level-headed decency, as all I can hear from the other end is shrieking and I believe for a second or two that the cat pinned down on the ex's neighbour's roof by a posse of bigger uglier neighbourhood hellcats is actually on the phone itself.
I'm thinking I'm laying in a lesbian cliché. How can this be? Why I am here? This is not my beautiful house, that is not my beautiful wife, yet, and, that cat is certainly no concern of mine. I mean, let's face it, if the dog was up on the roof then fair enough, but what's the big head-shrinking deal about a cat being up on a roof? Insofar as I know, cat's have been up on roofs since roofs were first invented. In the Serengeti it's quite common to wake up and find a lion sunbathing on your, or, your neighbour's roof. Get over it. But obviously not in suburbia. They are still trying to talk it through anyhow, in that irrational, completely paranoid, way dykes discuss animals in. I pull on my knickers, go get a cup of coffee, sit outside and watch some other cat stalking a colourful looking bird. Nature in all of its beauty three-floors below me. If I had a BB gun I could pop a cap in that pussy's ass from up here no problems . . . oh, my part of the dynamic duo of Batwoman and Catwoman is back looking exhausted. Runs a hand through her bedraggled hair, tries to make not-so-light of the whole insanity now – I finish my coffee, tip the slops over the balcony and it just misses that stalking cat which then shoots up a tree. You see, a cat in a tree, no big deal. I go back to the bedroom and make bedroom eyes but the cat people and their furry business have already stolen my lover's mind away for today . . . what next I wonder, Andrew Lloyd Webber calling reverse charges to discuss a lesbian version of Cats? Dr. Do-little is my name on this holy day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
