by Derren Brown
Such tiny, private revelations are among the most touchingly human aspects of ourselves, and to enquire of others as to the nature of their own coming-aware tales, and then to share such stories, is to enjoy a conversation and insight far less guarded and more fascinating than those which follow the usual enquiries. How many people dread being asked, for example, what they do for a living? Accountants must groan inside every time that dull and inevitable request is insincerely put forward at a gathering. As must the man who works on composing a symphony at weekends, takes time off from work to snowboard at thrilling speeds down mountain-tops, or devotes his evenings to answering letters from the children at the orphanage that he helped build as a travelling student and now generously funds, but who happens to enjoy a nine-to-five profession as a loss adjuster, or any other profession which he imagines people are likely to find of no interest.
If we imagine a spectrum of professions, with these hopelessly conversation-closing examples at one end, there exists at the other extreme any number of perfectly fascinating jobs which the individual in question might equally dread to mention. Not because of embarrassment, but because to answer the party-guest or friend-of-a-friend making the polite enquiry as to what he ‘does’ would be to commence, yet again, a conversation identical to that which he has endured so many times before. Here, it is not that the fascinating aspects of his character are being missed, but rather that they seem all too predictably appealing, and to admit to them is to engage in a too-familiar conversation about himself in which he has long since lost all interest. An actor friend has come to dread the following compulsory exchange whenever he meets new people:
PERSON: So what do you do?
ACTOR FRIEND: I’m an actor.
PERSON: Oh! You’re an act-orr [second syllable inexplicably emphasised and drawn out as if both persons were eighteenth-century powdered wags exchanging bon-mots while waving perfumed handkerchiefs at the poor].
Perhaps this is best viewed as a small tax to pay for having an interesting profession. Yet I, for one, have no idea how to answer the question of what I do if it is asked of me (thankfully, one of the positive aspects of being little known is that the question is posed less and less). A magician? No: my mind fills with images that are not right. A psychological illusionist? This term, once invented out of necessity following journalistic desire for a label, sounds preposterous and I’d only have to explain what I meant, which would then beg the same question. To say that I read minds and/or do so regularly on television casts me as a particular animal I don’t wish to be for the purposes of an evening out, and feels a little unfair on the other person too. So, of course, does avoiding the question completely with an evasive answer. Either way, like our fictional loss adjuster, I dread being asked.
And between what might seem like these two extremes, how often does knowing what sort of office people go to every day really help us to get to know them? We may feign interest in what they do, and they may feign enthusiasm in responding to our feigned interest, but would we rather not know that someone loves the thrill of weekend paragliding than that they work in IT? And would they not rather tell us?
Despite my feelings about the limitations of their use, I do have a love of hoary old self-help books, and there’s a pile of them next to my lavatory. I am happy to offer advice here gleaned during my toilet-making from one such volume: Leil Lowndes’ How to Talk to Anyone. Ms Lowndes is good enough to tackle this very problem. Her answer is to change the question: she suggests ridding one’s mind of the useless ‘What do you do?’ and replacing it with ‘How do you spend your time?’ Thus, the person can interpret the question, and offer an answer according to whichever way they feel best presents themselves: as a hang-glider, a thrill-seeker, or, if they prefer, a mind-reader or accountant. I have adopted this suggestion, and enjoy the flicker of interior dialogue that stammers across people’s faces for a second before they smile, repeat the question, then offer an answer they can enjoy giving. Most of us largely bypass talk of their employment, unless we clearly feel a passion for it. I can confidently assure the reader that making this small change in interpersonal chatter, albeit one garnered from my unsavoury reading habits, can hugely improve the pleasure of meeting new people.
Now, there are many who pooh-pooh the idea of reading while toileting, finding the juxtaposition of literature and bottom-tidying an affront to the dignities of both author and reader. For some, the act of expulsion is to be carried out as quickly as is hygienically possible; it’s a functional process no more to be dwelt upon than cleaning out drains or removing socks from the tumble drier. I am, however, of the alternative type that quite enjoys the comfy privacy of a loo well stocked with cleansing-papers (scented-moist and quilted-dry) as well as several shelves of books and pleasant things to look at. My small library in that room comprises self-help, humour and essays, all within easy reach, and I find a pleasure in the piecemeal act of reading a book a few pages at a time during trips. Books are placed in this private, frivolous wing of my collection when they can be easily read in small bursts. Particularly well-thumbed favourites include:
Bernard Shaw’s Music, Vols I–III,
by George Bernard Shaw. Shaw’s reviews of local concerts and scathing opinions of unfortunate talent make for very happy and suitably bite-sized reading. This is a mammoth collection, and one perfect for dipping in and out of when time is brief. Having bought it at a time when I was regularly attending the lunchtime concerts at St George’s, Brandon Hill, in Bristol, reading these volumes immersed me into a private aesthetic that infused my afternoons’ attendance at the chamber venue (i.e. St George’s, not my toilet), and occasionally evenings at the cathedral, with an inflated sense of status that I’m sure did me no good at all. These are also very thick books, which can be useful for ensuring stability at one end of a row if arranging books upon a cistern.
Roger’s Profanisaurus,
by Viz magazine. The magazine which for me seemed to miss in so many places made at least two undeniable hits when I occasionally read it as a student: the Top Tips and Profanisaurus features surely stand out as its highlights. For those of you unaware of the latter, this is a separately published collection of brilliantly foul terms helpfully offered for free-floating sexual, cloacal or alcohol-related phenomena in need of a pithy moniker. Many have entered common use, and when I first found my own name included in its lists I felt a surge of pride and excitement which quite turned my mind from the private activities so tersely described elsewhere within those pages.
Boswell’s London Diaries,
by James Boswell. One of my very favourite books. I have several editions, the most humidity-friendly of which sits in my bathroom. The man-about-town’s brilliantly recorded experiences of the city, its high- and low-life, prostitutes and celebrities, make for an astonishing and hugely funny slice of autobiography, and is required reading for any self-respecting modern dandy. It is difficult to fully immerse oneself into Boswell’s world through spasmic reading-bursts, so it is recommended that the reader have a second copy, or the discipline to keep the book to hand whether in or out of the lavatory, in order to be able to continue reading without the tingling discomfort of numbed legs caused by sitting too long upon a toilet seat.
The Complete Prose,
by Woody Allen. His earlier writings – Without Feathers, Side Effects and Getting Even – are the best. This collection, which brings them together, constitutes the finest comedy prose ever suited in length to the production of a healthy stool. Essays, scripts and stories are of a comfortable extent to avoid needlessly extending an evacuation, and as there is no requirement to read them in order, one does not need to dog-ear page corners or improvise bookmarks with toilet paper.
While Benedict displayed his lack of interest, Charlotte and Joel, both leaning forward, turned and looked at each other again with wide eyes. My palm was still upturned following the vanish of the card; as I extended it a little towards them, both he and she touched it, as if
to be sure there was nothing there. Connected, I looked from Joel to Charlotte. She looked up at me, as did the American.
They removed their fingers, and Benedict swung himself back round to face us.
‘Watch,’ I said, and stood, pushing the chair back and taking the deck into my right hand (with the three chosen cards now on top, unbeknown to the group). I showed my left palm empty, and dipped it into my left trouser pocket. I removed it a moment later, as if I had made a mistake. I passed the deck to my left hand, palming Benedict’s card from the top in my right as I did so, reached my right hand straight into the right side pocket, and emerged with this card. A second later, my left hand, with the deck held deep, dropped into the jacket pocket on its side and manoeuvred the second chosen card in order to be displayed at fingertips a moment later as I brought it and the deck back out. I took the deck (with the third card remaining on top) in my right hand again, opened the right side of my jacket with the same hand, swivelling this final chosen card away from the top of the deck and behind the lapel, so that my left hand could enter the inside of my jacket, steal the card away en route, and pretend to remove it from my inside pocket.
Card Palm
The reveal of this invisible flight of the cards to three separate pockets brought a small burst of applause from Joel and Charlotte, and peripherally I saw Benedict glance at his partner, across to Joel, and back to her again.
Two other thoughts crossed my mind during the sequence. First, as I palmed the card in my right hand (an action which involves bringing the tip of the little finger down and over the corner of the deck to lift the card into the palm), I could feel that my fingernail needed a cut. I remembered that I had meant to see to it that morning but had not been able to find the scissors. Nail-clippers had been available, but these had never appealed in the same way as a pair of dedicated nail scissors still do, the sickle-shape of their slim silver blades achieving a curvature not unlike the bill of the beautiful but extinct female Huia bird I remembered from a documentary and which once graced the southern part of New Zealand’s North Island. However, I concede there are several satisfying aspects to using a clipper on the tough, overgrown nail of the thumb: firstly, swivelling the arm of the handle around, over its knuckle and back upon itself, so that it kicks up, inverted, a model of efficiently produced leverage; secondly, inserting the whitish crescent of the nail firmly into its blades and enjoying the neatness of its fit (while deciding from which side of the nail to slice, as well as anticipating the disappointing fact that the blade will not remove the entire free edge, but rather cut into it halfway, leaving it protruding, necessitating a re-manoeuvring of the tool to the opposite edge to line up and clip once or twice again to complete the job); and thirdly, the clipping itself, feeling the tension and release of pressure as the edge of the nail drops free into the steel mandibles of the clippers, ready to be attentively removed before being discarded, the hard keratin smile examined for a moment with a mixture of curiosity and faint revulsion – this is a dead piece of me – then flexed and bent between the trimmed thumb and forefinger before it is dropped into the waste bin and forgotten.
This morbid delight is something I extend to all satisfyingly substantial units of myself that fall dead from my body. As a perpetually self-injuring child, I soon found that after the pain of a grazed knee, a scab would form and eventually be discarded as a by-product of the healing process, and if the temptation of picking at the scab was resisted there came a point when it could be painlessly levered from the kneecap to reveal pink new skin beneath, removed as a single piece and held, turned over, even smelt and placed against the lips in order to appreciate its delicious range of sensory qualities.
As I grew, and grazed my knees less and less, this pleasure was replaced with the joy of quite unexpected appearances of bodily scraps and chaff. The removal of excess thumbnail is anticipated and can be savoured, but it lacks the sudden burst of immense pride that comes, for example, from a finger making an absent-minded excavation into the nostril, and then inadvertently dislodging, and emerging with, a perfect dried mucoid cast of the entire nasal chamber clinging around the fingertip.* A similar period of respect is observed before an item like this is tossed away. After this reverential inspection it can be wrapped carefully in tissue before being placed in the bin, or in particularly noteworthy cases it may be photographed from different angles in order for those images then to be electronically shared with partners and close friends.
While the private awe engendered by these superfluous curvatures of fibrous protein falls into the same category as that created by well-formed snot, eyebrow and auxiliary hair of particularly admirable length, imposing stools and other significant effluvia, there is also the microcosmic surge of relief brought about by the belated trimming of a finger- or toenail, which is for me reminiscent of the quiet sense of liberation triggered by a certain class of undervalued activities. These are the minor actions I regularly postpone and forget about for a while before postponing again; until eventually I take the trouble to carry out the niggling task and find myself enjoying a silent ‘That’s better’ before continuing on my noticeably more perky way.
I had made a mental note of the importance of seeing to these activities when finally getting round to changing my shoelaces one day. The breaking of shoelaces leaves me irritated and disappointed both with myself and my footwear. I am forced to carry out the rigmarole of tugging out the lace on the affected shoe in order for a reasonable emergency fastening to be carried out, which involves hooking my finger under any crossing cords that appear slack and pulling upwards to gather enough purchase to even out the ends without inadvertently drawing the frayed, broken end backwards through its eyelet. Once the lengths of exposed lace are roughly even, I must head off with a silly miniature bow atop one shoe, which then, due to the fact that it is now more tightly tied than the other, forces the secondary action of re-tying the other so that each lace applies roughly the same amount of pressure through the leather and across the brow of its corresponding foot. Rarely do I purchase a new lace as intended; indeed the breakage is only remembered when I remove the shoe upon arriving home and change into a slipper.* I may admonish myself at this point and again decide to buy a new set of laces, but then I forget once more to do so, and remember only when I next come to remove the shoe, forgetting quickly again, and so on. It is some while before I buy the much-needed accessory (for aside from the scarcity of places to buy such a thing, I also need to have the shoes with me at the time to count the eyelets and decide whether I need a 60cm or 75cm packet), and by the time I do eventually pride myself in making the effort and replacing the set, I have become so used to the fiddly process of tying that shoe (and each time scolding myself for having forgotten to fix it) that the new-found ease of fastening gives me a warm glow of proud pleasure. This occurs first at the tying, and then later when I notice the new lace again: delighted at my organisational skills, I find that it quite lifts my day.
The relief and pride derived from the trimming of a thickly extended fingernail and the insertion of new shoelaces only serve to identify the low-level background irritation that not attending to such minor worries must constantly, residually stimulate. For several years I have taken great delight in the process of seeing to these little things, and enjoying the small surges of relief that are felt somewhere inside me as I realise on each occasion that my life just got a tiny bit easier or tidier. For example, I have many times thrown out all my socks and bought twenty identical pairs. Rather than having to laboriously match them after washing, I can simply bundle them as one into the sock drawer, with a view to later extracting two at random and being assured that both feet will be sheathed in matching cotton.
I had once replaced all my socks with several from the black Marks & Spencers Fresh Feet range, these particular sock-variants being easily identifiable by a patented pocked area on either side of the foot which, as the folded cardboard slip that formed the minimal packaging for the five-pair se
t assured me, allowed my feet to breathe. For a second I considered the unwittingly self-inflicted horror of the many years I had spent torturing my feet with ordinary suffocating socks, before buying as many of the multi-packs as I estimated would fill my drawer. Then, some months later, I was filming for an American series of Mindcontrol and managed to step into a swampy area of wetness underneath Brooklyn Bridge across from Manhattan. My foot, ankle and most of my lower leg became suffused with slop and grot. I pulled my leg free, now dripping and foul, whereupon my kind producer, Simon, offered me a pair of his own black socks to wear. If memory serves, he may even have removed them from his own feet; either way, his generosity combined with the necessity of clean socks for further filming spurred this selfless act. Imagine my surprise and delight when I took the (clean or otherwise) new pair and saw that they were none other than a set from the same Fresh Feet range! Here we were, under a bridge in New York, realising in a moment of minor sartorial crisis that we had both, some time previously, picked out the same socks for ourselves while shopping in Marks. Not only that, but it also transpired that Simon had had the same idea of buying them in bulk and throwing his old ones out: he, like me, had a drawer full exclusively of this precise brand at home. Delighted at our new bond, we speculated excitedly about the need for the patented Fresh Feet system; spoke with mock solemnity of the dangers of socks without such built-in breathing apparatus; lightly alarmed each other with descriptions of the painful toe-fungus and arch-dew that might form in the sealed, moist bacteria-haven of a regular unpocked sock; then cheerily continued with our filming. From time to time one of us might still catch sight of the other’s socks and remember to enquire with faux concern as to the ventilatory wellness of the other’s feet, whereupon both of us would chuckle a little in respectful acknowledgement of the memory of the joke before getting back to business.
