Yeah. So where the hell am I supposed to stash my sandwich wrapper?
I have an agenda. You really need to know that. I mean all this isn’t just arbitrary.
Uh-uh.
I have an agenda.
So my dad’s name–for the record (and this is pertinent; it’s the core of the thing, the nub)–is Douglas Sinclair MacKenny, and all things being equal, he’s a pretty run-of-the mill kind of guy. He enjoys gardening, Inspector Morse, steam trains and Rugby League. He’s into trad-jazz, Michael Crichton, elasticated waists, Joanna Lumley and lychees. When he was nineteen years old he swam the English Channel. But he doesn’t swim much any more.
He runs a sub-post office in north Herefordshire (where I was born, 28 long, hard years ago–not on the counter, obviously, let’s not be that literal, eh?–his lone progeny: Adair Graham MacKenny). He’s happily (well, within reason) married to my mum (Miriam), and he’s fundamentally a very genial, affable, easy-going creature.
(Fundamentally–so he doesn’t like black people or queers, but which underachieving 55-year-old, small-minded, Caucasian, Tory-voting cunt does? Huh? Name me one.)
Nothing bugs him (not even the long and inexorable queue of pensioners at closing). Nothing winds him up.
Well…okay, then. So there’s this one thing…it’s a really tiny thing…and it bugs him just a little.
Is that a fair representation?
No.
Fine. Fine. So this particular thing bugs him quite a lot.
He doesn’t like it, see? It pees him off. It rings his bell. It pulls his chain. It sits–it really sits, and it presses, hard–on his buzzer.
This thing is (has always been/will always be) a source of unbelievable distress to him. It’s a thing which he loathes / fears / distrusts more than any other. This thing (if you refer to it, idly) makes him clam-up, then blanch, then shake uncontrollably. He’s virtually lethally-fucking-allergic to this thing.
Any guesses?
Wheat? Pigeons? Lichen? Jasper Carrott? Dahlias? Lambswool? Beer?
Nope.
Douglas Sinclair MacKenny hates–I said he hates–illusionists. And with a passion.
Let me tell you why.
Great Yarmouth. Nineteen fifty-nine. The height of the Summer Season. My dad, still then but a boy, is down on the beach with a large crowd of deliriously rambunctious, candy-floss-speeding, bucket-swinging, spade-waving, snotty-nosed comrades. He’s clutching sixpence which his mother has just given him. He is planning to spend this money on- deep breath now, Dad, deeeep breath- a Magic Show!
The magician or ‘illusionist’ in question is no less (and no more) a man than ‘The Great Carrazimo’. Carrazimo is (by all accounts) fairly competent at the magicianing thing. He does some nifty stuff with doves. He can pretend–very effectively–to chop off his thumb. He can throw his voice. He even (and Dad still doesn’t know how) stole some little girl’s laugh. Seriously. He nicked it (she was temporarily hoarse) and then found it again inside her sticky bag of Liquorice Allsorts.
This is all good stuff (I know you’re thinking) so why the angst?
Here’s why: at the end of his show, Carrazimo pulls a stunt which leaves everyone agog. He gets the kids to dig a hole–a deep hole–in the sand. He climbs into the hole. He then tells the kids to fill it up.
That’s right. The Great Carrazimo is intending to get himself Buried 100 Per Cent Alive.
The kids–they aren’t a bad bunch–are slightly nervous at the prospect. I mean it’s been a good show. The little girl’s laugh is back. The thumb’s on. The doves are cooing. It’s very nearly lunchtime.
But Carrazimo insists. It’s the climax of his act.
The kids still aren’t entirely convinced. ‘And here’s the thing,’ one especially ‘responsible’ (read as: ‘opportunistic’) young ‘un pipes up, ‘if you don’t come back, what’s gonna happen to the rabbit and the doves and all the rest of your stuff?’
Carrazimo grins. ‘If I don’t come back,’ he says, ‘then you can divide it among you.’
Two seconds later, Carrazimo disappears under a hail of sand.
It takes about ten minutes to bury the illusionist completely. Douglas Sinclair MacKenny has played his part–has even taken the precaution of patting the sand neat and flat on top. He’s concerned for the illusionist (yes he is), but he has one (very constant, very careful) eye already firmly affixed on the illusionist’s grand collection of magic wands. There’s a fat one (the very one he used to fix his thumb back on), and if the worst happens, Douglas Sinclair MacKenny is determined to have it.
When all the work is done, the kids sit down, en masse, and they wait.
And they wait.
Eventually (it’s now half an hour past lunch), one of the mums happens along.
‘What on earth are you all up to?’ she asks.
‘We’re waiting for Carrazimo,’ they respond.
‘Well where is he?’ she asks.
‘In the sand,’ the kids boom back.
Pause.
‘So how long’s he been under there?’ she enquires.
‘Thirty-seven bloody minutes,’ Douglas Sinclair MacKenny yells furiously.
Another five minutes pass. By now quite a crowd has formed. One of the fathers has asked the kids to indicate precisely where the illusionist is buried. The kids are still quite cheerful at this stage (if getting a little hungry), and they happily mark out the spot.
The parents start to dig (the poignancy quotient of this scene is presumably dramatically heightened by the fact that all these men and women have borrowed their kids’ tiny shovels). The atmosphere is grave (on the surface, at least), but then- 32 seconds into the rescue operation- an unholy scrap breaks out.
It has finally dawned on the children that Carrazimo might not actually be returning to collect his stuff, and everybody wants first dibs on the things he’s left behind. Douglas Sinclair MacKenny is–in his own mind at least–now first in line to get himself that fancy fat magician’s wand. But two other boys–at least–have their greedy eyes glued on this exact-same prize.
There is a brief halt to the digging as the tragic magician’s possessions are firmly removed from a host of small, grasping hands, and when the digging resumes, the children are duly frogmarched up the beach, on to the prom, and into the warm, distracting embrace of the funfair for ‘a couple of rides’.
It isn’t a long while after that Carrazimo’s body is pulled from the sand. Yes. He’d performed this feat a hundred times before. But it’d rained at breakfast and the sand–for some reason–was just slightly wetter than it usually was in summer.
He’d drowned.
Douglas Sinclair MacKenny was scarred for ever. Not just by the death (although that took its toll–he was, after all, an accessory to the illusion), but by the fact that he was cruelly denied that most tantalising, powerful and coveted of items: the magician’s fat wand. Carrazimo had promised, hadn’t he? The perfidious, two-faced, double-crossing liar.
Hmmn. Think there might’ve been any phallic significance in all of that?
I know what you’re thinking: it was all a very long time ago now (this illusionist stuff). And he’s just my old dad, after all–I mean if he happens to see me more than twice in your average year–Christmas / birthday–he starts to think the worst.
Suspicious?
Suspicious?!
‘Got dumped by your lady friend, did you, Adie?’
‘Running a little short of money, eh?’
‘Thrown in the towel at your job again, then?’
‘Still living with that immigrant?’
‘Got yourself the effing clap?’
‘Finally planning to tell your poor mum and me that you take it up the arse, for pleasure? That you’re a dirty (tick one or all of the below:) transexual/bisexual/pansexual/disgusting bloody fag?!’
(Look, for the thousandth time, Dad, I’m not a homosexual. It’s just the way I wear my hair- I mean if TV’s Vernon Kay can do it and m
arry a beautiful woman and sustain a successful career…)
Jesus, that illusionist has got a lot to answer for.
And the fact is…(to get down to the facts again)…Hmmn, how to put this into actual words?
The fact is (to reiterate) that blood is marginally thinner than an iced vodka slammer (and not half so digestible) and I’ve been using…
No.
I’ve been employing…
No.
I’ve been deriving…
Score!
…a certain amount of…
Uh…
…real…
Scratch
…serious…
Scratch
…active…well, pleasure, in getting my own back. On magicians. Per se. And on Blaine, specifically.
And it isn’t (no it isn’t) just opportunism. It’s so much more than that. It’s a moral crusade. It’s righting the wrong. It’s fighting the good fight–sniff!–for my trusty old dad.
Ahhhh.
(NB. Please don’t hate me, sensitive Girl Readers. Just try and understand–if you possibly can–that vengeance is never a pretty thing. But it still has to be done. I mean where would your girl-philosophy of ‘kiss ’n make up’ have left Shakespeare? Or Scorsese? Or Bridget fucking Jones. Eh?)
So I’ve been (uh…let’s put it this way) purposefully (and cheerfully) avenging Douglas Sinclair MacKenny (and myself, I guess, on him, in some strange, messed-up angry-only-son kind of way) in the most uninhibitedly primal manner, by cunningly employing the boxed-up Illusionist as my…
Now what’s the word I’m searching for here…?
‘Pimp.’
Pardon me?
‘Pimp.’
A woman–average height, average build, average looks–is suddenly standing before me, grimacing, clutching her forehead, and pushing a plastic bag brimming with Tupperware on to my lap.
Eh?
I refuse to take the bag, rapidly yanking my headphones from my ears. What is this?
‘Pimp,’ she repeats. ‘You’ve been using that poor, starving bastard to pimp all the women around here.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say.
‘You’re ridiculous,’ she says. Then she drops her Tupperware, groans, slithers down to the tiles, and lies slumped against the wall.
I jump down myself, alarmed. But before I can ask, she waves her hand dismissively, and murmurs, ‘Migraine. Mild autumn. The dust.’
She’s clutching her forehead with her other hand and rocking slightly. I give her the once-over. Hmmn. Strangely familiar. I’ve definitely seen her around. I gather up her Tupperware (about twenty small boxes, like the kind you can get at good Thai restaurants to take home your leftovers. Neat. Reusable. Microwave friendly) while I try to remember where, exactly…
Nope.
‘Can I get you a glass of water, maybe?’ I ask. ‘I actually work in this building.’ I point. She has her eyes shut. She is deathly pale.
‘Did you ever get migraines?’ she asks vengefully.
‘No.’
‘I thought as much.’
‘I often get headaches, though,’ I squeak, defensively, ‘from the glare off my computer.’
She snorts.
I inspect my watch. Lunch is almost over.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I ask.
She waves her hand again, ‘I’m fine.’
I lean forward, preparing to put her bag down next to her (and then scarper).
‘Open me a box!’ she suddenly yells.
‘Pardon?’
‘A box.’
She lunges for the plastic bag. She grabs a box. She rips off the lid. Then she leans over (quite gracefully) and vomits straight into it. The vomit is thick and glutinous. Instead of detaching itself from her mouth and filling the box neatly, it stretches, in a silvery spider web, from her mouth to the Tupperware.
My God.
She spits and detaches it.
We both stare, blinking, into the container. She sniffs, matter of factly, then reaffixes the lid.
She hands the box back over.
‘In the bag,’ she orders, feeling around inside her pocket for a tissue. The puke still hangs in fangs down her chin.
A middle-aged man stops, proffering a handkerchief. The be-fanged one takes it.
‘Thanks,’ she mutters.
‘Migraine,’ I explain to the Samaritan.
‘I know.’ The man smiles and squats down in front of her.
‘Is it a bad one, Aphra?’ he asks.
Aphra?
‘Pretty bad,’ Aphra murmurs.
‘I thought when I saw you leaving,’ he says, ‘that something was up.’
‘The dust,’ she says, and waves her hand regally towards the magician.
He nods.
I find myself taking a slow step back. I am thinking, ‘This is great. They know each other. I’m off the hook. I’m out of here.’
The Samaritan turns and peers up at me, ‘I work at the hospital,’ he says (as if this might prove meaningful), ‘Guys. I’m a porter there.’
‘Ah.’ I nod my head. I’m still holding the bag of Tupperware.
‘You’ll need to take her home,’ he says. He turns to the woman. ‘It’s not too far, is it?’ he asks.
She shakes her head, then winces.
‘Shad,’ she says, ‘just straight down…’
She indicates beyond Blaine, beyond the bridge, to one of the best parts of town.
‘Let’s get her up,’ the porter says.
We slowly manoeuvre her into a standing position (strike what I said before about ‘average build’. This girl ain’t exactly thistledown).
Once she’s up, the porter moves her arm around my neck, and my free arm around her waist.
He steps back, appraising his work.
‘Good,’ he says, smiling. ‘Now just take it nice and slow, yeah?’
Then he turns and addresses me, exclusively, ‘When you get her in, close all the curtains, don’t try and give her anything to eat or drink (well, maybe just pour her a glass of water), then gently lay her down and place a moist, cold flannel across her forehead…’
I scowl. I open my mouth. I close my mouth. I swallow. I adjust the Tupperware…
Aw, bollocks, man!
I fucking nod.
Pimp?
Pimp?!
Okay. Okay. So just hold your fire. I’m throwing down my weapon, see? And I’m coming out–very slowly–with my hands in the air.
I’m co-operating.
Now can we please, please just try to get this whole thing back into proportion? I mean come on. Don’t take it all so seriously. This is fun. Just fun.
And another thing (while we’re at it) let’s bin Above the Below already (cheesy, cheesy, cheesy). I’ve got my own little carry-on a much better moniker. I’m calling it ‘Above the Pillow’, and my current strike rate is five (five!) and counting (Yup. It’s an Adair Graham MacKenny International Shag-a-thon down here, baby).
Maybe I exaggerate, slightly. Four. Well, three and a half (in one instance I didn’t quite get to come. There’s been a couple of ‘hitches’, in other words. But heck, who’s complaining?). It’s early doors (Day Nine for Christ-sake), and I’m still–ahem–‘feeling my way’–insert Frankie Howerd-style exclamation of your choice–around here.
There are several approaches (if you must know. And if you mustn’t, then I’m still determined to tell you), but the important thing to bear in mind (morally–urgh, yawn–speaking) is that I’m happy–more than happy–to take each and every one of them:
Approach (A) The Girls who Love Blaine
There’s nothing more attractive to a sensitive, beautiful, highly-strung girl (who still attends college, believes in Karma and dresses like Nelly Furtado) than an attractive (well, quite attractive–if I’ve cleaned my nails and applied my hair gel), sensitive, highly-strung boy who’s ready, willing and able to empathise with them over the many complexities of Blaine’s tragic pre
dicament.
Girl steps back (temporarily overwhelmed) from the dramatic spectacle of the ‘angelic’ Blaine. She is shaking her head, bemusedly.
‘I mean why would people want to throw eggs at him?’ she asks poignantly. ‘Haven’t they got anything better to do? He’s not hurting anyone, is he?’
Adair Graham MacKenny (doctor on call) shrugs his shoulders, resignedly, ‘Nope. Only himself. And that’s absolutely his prerogative, if you ask me.’
Girl turns to look at A. G. MacKenny, immediately digesting the fact that A. G. MacK. is (like her hero) dressed principally in black.
‘Exactly.’ She smiles, shyly. ‘I mean I think people are threatened by him. By the statement he’s making.’
A. G. MacK. nods, ‘Yeah. And I definitely think people are confused by him, and that’s half the trouble.’
Girl considers this for a moment, ‘You’re right,’ she says, ‘I think they are.’
‘And sometimes,’ A. G. MacK. continues (as if he’d only just thought of it), ‘when people are confused, they lash out. They do stupid things.’
Girl turns, impressed, the dark pupils in her blue eyes dilating. ‘That’s sad, but it’s so true.’
Insert invisible brackets here: I think I might want to make love with you–so long as I’m
(a) not on the rag;
(b) don’t have a last-minute history essay to write on the Mau Mau for a bastard tutorial this afternoon and;
(c) my Halls of Residence/your London pad isn’t/aren’t too far from here.
Oh yeah.
Approach (B) The Girls who Hate Blaine
‘What a twat. What a stupid, self-indulgent, idiotic fucking twat.’
A. G. MacK. (on hearing this seductive mating call), rips off his neat, black pullover to reveal his lairy Gunners colours underneath. He commences a conversation with a remarkably pretty–if slightly loopy–girl about the possibility that David Blaine’s transparent box might actually be made of glucose (when he thinks nobody’s looking, can’t you see the bastard licking?), and puts forward the additional hypothesis that when the autumn weather really kicks in–when it rains–the box will gradually dissolve, and that attention-craving American fraud will take the mother of all tumbles.
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