www.paulcoia.com
I don’t like to boast, in fact I’m the best in the whole world at not boasting, but I doubt your weekend was as interesting as mine. I spent it in the desert with a pole dancer, a clown and a Vietnam veteran.
Sadly they weren’t all one person as I could have earned fortunes hiring him or her out to reality shows. The three of us were joined by a relative of one of the members of Abba, the great nephew of the man who created Disney’s Dumbo, and a man who once wore tights to a reception at the British Embassy in Kuwait. Oh, and around one thousand other people were there too.
I was in Dubai presenting at a conference and I asked the audience to share something about themselves that no one else in the room could know, hence revealing the pole dancer, clown, et al. My reasoning was that we get so caught up in seeing colleagues as just office furniture that we forget they have lives, and I wanted to show the diversity of hidden talents the company had to draw on.
The feedback was provided semi anonymously but I could work out the identities of the two people who had provided the usual nutcase answers like “I have had gender reassignment” – though, on reflection, one of them could have been telling the truth. The person who told us he likes walking on water obviously has a power complex but I took his business card anyway as he might be handy for changing water in to wine next time I’m hosting a dinner party.
The company holding the conference was wonderfully diverse but, until I asked on stage, did not realise its workforce included a concert standard violinist, an old rock star, a former children’s TV presenter from Pakistan and a qualified medical doctor who had changed careers, as well as a girl who can recite the alphabet backwards, someone who has had fifty blind dates in the past two years, a worried man who is juggling twelve girlfriends, and a guy who has had a credit in the last two Star Wars movies.
It’s a pity so many of us are forced because of work practices, traditions and our view of professionalism, to leave our real selves at home as the diversity of our experiences is what makes us unique, but how much of that do we bring to work? This lot were special but probably didn’t realise.
I next asked for their nicknames at school. I was never popular enough to have a nickname, unless you count Wallflower, so I’ve always been jealous of people who have, although having seen some of the answers given I may rethink this one. Amongst the thousand or so people in the room were a former Sooty, Poops, Big Bum, Camel and Wimpy along with a sprinkling of Not So Smart, Chipmunk, Potty and, for some reason, several Boobys. I so wanted to meet the person who owned up to the nickname Armpit. I imagine he started shaving well before his classmates.
Finally, I asked for the worst job anyone in the room had ever had. My own experience of this was as a student at university when I spent a summer break working for a brewery. You may think three months surrounded by beer is a dream come true for an unwashed, unshaven, unsociable teenage oik but I spent the whole twelve weeks throwing empty bottles at a wall so that they smashed and the collected glass could be recycled. If I was very good, occasionally I was allowed to do an hour here and there watching labels being attached to product and making sure the loader was fully charged with Brown Ale stickers. Even for a person of limited brain such as myself, this was mind numbing.
However, I cheered up when I read the feedback from the room in Dubai. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one to suffer in the past. Amongst the former waitresses, burger flippers and dish washers, we had a pig farmer and a sheep dagger. As I had no idea what dagging sheep entails I made the mistake of asking and, when the guy told me, my days of bottle smashing seemed life affirming. This poor man had spent all his time cutting the dirty wool from around sheep’s bottoms. I reflected later that this was perhaps a metaphor for many in business life.
There were some wise crackers who reckoned the worst job they’d ever had was getting married, but many really went for it and shared that they had been garden gnome makers or toilet cleaners, and there was one who admitted to having been an assistant in an abbatoir. I’m not sure who it was that shared with us that his worst job was being a bully, but perhaps he should seek counselling.
One poor soul had obviously had a tougher life than most and wrote that his worst job was selling mangoes from the family farm in order to survive.
So, a random bundle of individuals who all have one aim, which is to make their company as successful as possible, but all bringing so many different experiences and skills to the job and managing, amongst the serious task of carrying this out, to have a laugh and open up a bit. I can promise you that the party that night was special and, despite sore heads the following day, they would all get stuck right back in to earning success for their business, knowing just that little bit more about each other.
My only regret is that I didn’t manage to track down the pole dancer, but perhaps it was just as well. I fear it may have been the very butch Senior Vice President I interviewed on stage.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
When I'm 64
www.paulcoia.com
My wife very nearly became a widow this week and I was not happy! Although I narrowly escaped death, she seemed disappointed and I think it’s the thought of my life assurance pay out. She could have bought a new pair of trainers and, if friends threw in another ninety pence, a pair of laces too.
When I say I nearly died, I’m not prone to exaggeration; in fact I was telling my millionaire neighbour this over his lambswool and cashmere hedge whilst workmen paved his driveway with gold bars the other day, so trust me when I say I was almost killed, ceased to be, shuffled off and was gone for good.
On Tuesday morning a speeding vehicle shot out from nowhere and raced past me missing me by the width of a hair on Billy Zane’s head. This, almost tragic, accident happened in Tesco’s supermarket - not in the road outside or in the car park, but inside the actual supermarket itself - as I jumped out of the way of a grey haired driver who carried on up aisle 3 in his motorised shopping scooter, oblivious to the potential carnage left behind. The floor looked like a murder scene, stained blood red as my cranberry juice crashed to the floor, and I was given mouth to mouth by a passing gay burlesque dancer.
Okay, I exaggerated the gay dancer thing, but everything else was true and I really did get the fright of my life. The driver was tiny, white haired and frail so could have been Bernie Ecclestone testing a new Formula 1 engine for all I know but, even though I was cursing, I secretly admired this ancient criminal who was obviously having a great, fun time as he disappeared at speed in to the fresh veg section. I think perhaps he goes around knocking people over so that he has plenty of funeral breakfasts to go to. The elderly just love a day out.
My grandmother and her sisters used to do that – not killing people you understand but putting on their serious faces and going to funerals on an almost daily basis. I think their reasoning was that you get to wear black which is slimming, there’s a bit of a singsong in church, some good food afterwards, and a great day out reminiscing about the old days. It’s cheaper than going to the Bingo.
I find the whole idea of funerals to be pretty everyday in that I seem to have been made to attend them since I was filling nappies, a habit I’ve now given up - that’s the nappies not the funerals. It’s probably the Scottish/Italian thing where not turning up for a funeral is seen as disrespectful, even if you don’t know the deceased. I’ve been to many funerals where I’ve had to bluff like mad when they’re closing the casket and saying “he looks just like himself, doesn’t he?.”
My mum is so inured to these occasions that she once, memorably, sniffed the air during a crematorium service and said out loud for everyone to hear, “there’s definitely something burning in here”. And I myself, to my shame, sat with a grieving family two years ago having prayed over the casket, banging a wobbly leg of a chair back in to place. I was not being disrespectful but had merely forgotten that for some, these occasions are rare and to be observed in silence. I hope the deceased understood. He certainly didn’t complain.
See, all this talk of dying and funerals is probably making you feel depressed but, to me, it’s, well, not quite a social outing, but definitely not something to be scared about. I’d hate you to misunderstand and think I enjoy these bereavements because I don’t, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ll enjoy my own a lot less.
I have been reading a book about how to become a more focused, motivated and better person and one tip they give is to imagine the eulogy at your own funeral. What would people say about you today and what would you like them to say about you when the time comes? The idea is that if the two don’t marry up then you now start to change your life so that the testimonials you get in the church are exactly the kind you would want. Well, my great fear is not about what they’ll say but that I’ll be throwing the party and no one will come. How sad is that?
I will be dressed in my best suit which will fit at last, and I’ll be lying there with my hair combed and the tombstone inscribed with “I told you my feet were cold”, but no one will come. I’ll have thrown out the usual “All Things Bright And Beautiful” and “Wind Beneath My Wings” songs and brought in some cheery ones like “Another One Bites The Dust” or “Highway To Hell” but there will be no one there to sing. The traditional finger buffet of sausage rolls and prawns will have been binned in favour of a hog roast and a chocolate fountain, but there will be no one there to eat.
Of course, I suspect that everyone fears this and that’s why, when the time gets nearer, people begin to think “what the hell” and start to behave badly, say exactly what’s on their minds despite other people’s feelings, and take up rally racing in Tesco’s supermarket. Hang the consequences and let’s have some fun while we can.
I curse them, while sitting back and admiring them. But, not being quite ready to get my best suit on and join them just yet, may I suggest we get them some driving lessons?
My wife very nearly became a widow this week and I was not happy! Although I narrowly escaped death, she seemed disappointed and I think it’s the thought of my life assurance pay out. She could have bought a new pair of trainers and, if friends threw in another ninety pence, a pair of laces too.
When I say I nearly died, I’m not prone to exaggeration; in fact I was telling my millionaire neighbour this over his lambswool and cashmere hedge whilst workmen paved his driveway with gold bars the other day, so trust me when I say I was almost killed, ceased to be, shuffled off and was gone for good.
On Tuesday morning a speeding vehicle shot out from nowhere and raced past me missing me by the width of a hair on Billy Zane’s head. This, almost tragic, accident happened in Tesco’s supermarket - not in the road outside or in the car park, but inside the actual supermarket itself - as I jumped out of the way of a grey haired driver who carried on up aisle 3 in his motorised shopping scooter, oblivious to the potential carnage left behind. The floor looked like a murder scene, stained blood red as my cranberry juice crashed to the floor, and I was given mouth to mouth by a passing gay burlesque dancer.
Okay, I exaggerated the gay dancer thing, but everything else was true and I really did get the fright of my life. The driver was tiny, white haired and frail so could have been Bernie Ecclestone testing a new Formula 1 engine for all I know but, even though I was cursing, I secretly admired this ancient criminal who was obviously having a great, fun time as he disappeared at speed in to the fresh veg section. I think perhaps he goes around knocking people over so that he has plenty of funeral breakfasts to go to. The elderly just love a day out.
My grandmother and her sisters used to do that – not killing people you understand but putting on their serious faces and going to funerals on an almost daily basis. I think their reasoning was that you get to wear black which is slimming, there’s a bit of a singsong in church, some good food afterwards, and a great day out reminiscing about the old days. It’s cheaper than going to the Bingo.
I find the whole idea of funerals to be pretty everyday in that I seem to have been made to attend them since I was filling nappies, a habit I’ve now given up - that’s the nappies not the funerals. It’s probably the Scottish/Italian thing where not turning up for a funeral is seen as disrespectful, even if you don’t know the deceased. I’ve been to many funerals where I’ve had to bluff like mad when they’re closing the casket and saying “he looks just like himself, doesn’t he?.”
My mum is so inured to these occasions that she once, memorably, sniffed the air during a crematorium service and said out loud for everyone to hear, “there’s definitely something burning in here”. And I myself, to my shame, sat with a grieving family two years ago having prayed over the casket, banging a wobbly leg of a chair back in to place. I was not being disrespectful but had merely forgotten that for some, these occasions are rare and to be observed in silence. I hope the deceased understood. He certainly didn’t complain.
See, all this talk of dying and funerals is probably making you feel depressed but, to me, it’s, well, not quite a social outing, but definitely not something to be scared about. I’d hate you to misunderstand and think I enjoy these bereavements because I don’t, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ll enjoy my own a lot less.
I have been reading a book about how to become a more focused, motivated and better person and one tip they give is to imagine the eulogy at your own funeral. What would people say about you today and what would you like them to say about you when the time comes? The idea is that if the two don’t marry up then you now start to change your life so that the testimonials you get in the church are exactly the kind you would want. Well, my great fear is not about what they’ll say but that I’ll be throwing the party and no one will come. How sad is that?
I will be dressed in my best suit which will fit at last, and I’ll be lying there with my hair combed and the tombstone inscribed with “I told you my feet were cold”, but no one will come. I’ll have thrown out the usual “All Things Bright And Beautiful” and “Wind Beneath My Wings” songs and brought in some cheery ones like “Another One Bites The Dust” or “Highway To Hell” but there will be no one there to sing. The traditional finger buffet of sausage rolls and prawns will have been binned in favour of a hog roast and a chocolate fountain, but there will be no one there to eat.
Of course, I suspect that everyone fears this and that’s why, when the time gets nearer, people begin to think “what the hell” and start to behave badly, say exactly what’s on their minds despite other people’s feelings, and take up rally racing in Tesco’s supermarket. Hang the consequences and let’s have some fun while we can.
I curse them, while sitting back and admiring them. But, not being quite ready to get my best suit on and join them just yet, may I suggest we get them some driving lessons?
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Summer Breeze
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I’ve kept myself amused during these blisteringly sunny few days by looking at people’s bodies on the train. Not, I grant you, a normal way to pass a few hours, so perhaps I’d better explain.
I’ve had a blast over this past, hot and sunny, week commuting to Smooth Radio and sweltering on my journey. Normally I hate London transport and would rather be superglued to a bed of nails with someone pouring nail varnish remover in my eyes whilst Gordon Brown ransacks my home, but this week the journeys have never been so interesting or gone by so quickly.
My reading matter would usually consist of one of those freebie newspapers or, if I’m really lucky, a discarded McDonalds promotion wrapper, but this week I’ve kept things much simpler and just read everyone’s tattoos. Lots of sun equals fewer clothing and more body art work on display, and so I pass my time making up stories to go with the little butterflies or large Harley Davidson tramp stamps that decorate pink sizzling flesh as it hangs over shorts that fitted five years ago but will never fit again.
I noticed one girl who had the word VICTORIAN tatooed on her upper arm, which to you probably means she studies history, or longs for a more innocent and easier period when women had more free time – no need for leg waxes or moustache tinting. But that’s why you might not be cut out for this imagination lark. Closer inspection showed slightly different inks on some of the letters so I spent the journey imagining how it came about. I reckon she’d once gone out with a guy called Vic who dumped her so she changed the tattoo to Victoria before someone suggested that might look a bit on the lesbian side and she added the N at the end. By the time I’d sorted her story in my head, we’d arrived at Waterloo.
On the journey home, another guy had a heart with SALT written in it. Now, unless he’s a foodie who’s tired of the health police, I reckon he dated someone called Sal who broke his heart and so he added the other letter to show what she’d rubbed in his wounds. See, once you get started, you can’t stop.
The only problem with turning the train in to a reading room on a hot day is the rising stench of BO. The temperature in London seems inversely proportional to the number of baths people take, and as for getting on the Tube with fat people giving their armpits an airing, you may as well bury your head in a bag full of dead rats marinated in vinegar. I’m all for people not being self consumed and spending the day pampering themselves but a bit of cleanliness and deodorant wouldn’t be too much to ask would it? And, maybe, the occasional shaving of underarm hair? Here, I’m talking about men as well as women as the burst mattress look just acts as a breeding programme for smelly bacteria which jump out with a gleeful “Wheeeeee” every time I’m standing under some sweaty strap hanger.
Those guys who aren’t wearing sleeveless vests are turning out in force in that old staple the football shirt and seeing them, in all the colours of the rainbow, shows up the stupidity of marketing people as the sponsors' logos on the shirts mean nothing to me. Presumably the advertisers have paid a fortune for the exposure but do you know what Manchester United’s AIG is, or Birmingham’s F&C, or even Everton’s Chang? I wouldn’t know whether to drink an AIG, eat it, or ask it to look after my pension.
Of course, as a guy, the sun does give us the perk of watching women walking down the street wearing fewer clothes than Madonna and, so long as they don’t look like her, that’s fine. Don’t get me wrong, if Madge wants to walk around in corsets and stockings then good for her. Old folk should have porn too. But I just don’t think the High Street is the place for it and if you’re going to carry it off you need a bit of suntan. As we’re emerging from the rainy dark days of Spring, Londoners all look a bit Scottish with pasty faces and corn beef legs – and I say this as a proud Scotsman myself. The few times we get to see the sun north of the border, we assume it’s a disco ball and throw a party.
As bras go back in the drawer for summer, the older girls seem to delight in getting their pendulous boobies out with every sun ray and even the younger girlies are getting their flip flops out too. I mean, of course, those shoes for the beach which look fine in the sand but are an impossible look to carry off elsewhere. The sound of the rubber scuffing on the pavement reminds me of my dad’s great aunt who worked in her son’s café till she was a hundred and eighty six. It is the sound of the careworn and tired who have no energy to pick up their feet. Guys are even worse as they usually wear them with brown socks, a look best described as “Guy who buys Thai bride on the internet”.
Unfortunately the end of this seasonal frivolity is drawing to a close as the weather forecast here in London is for rain returning by the end of the week. Then, fashion will improve, rolls of fat will go back to being hidden, and the sleeveless vests will be packed away alongside the cheery smiles for strangers.
The air will be sweeter but, my God, the train journey to work won’t be half as interesting.
I’ve kept myself amused during these blisteringly sunny few days by looking at people’s bodies on the train. Not, I grant you, a normal way to pass a few hours, so perhaps I’d better explain.
I’ve had a blast over this past, hot and sunny, week commuting to Smooth Radio and sweltering on my journey. Normally I hate London transport and would rather be superglued to a bed of nails with someone pouring nail varnish remover in my eyes whilst Gordon Brown ransacks my home, but this week the journeys have never been so interesting or gone by so quickly.
My reading matter would usually consist of one of those freebie newspapers or, if I’m really lucky, a discarded McDonalds promotion wrapper, but this week I’ve kept things much simpler and just read everyone’s tattoos. Lots of sun equals fewer clothing and more body art work on display, and so I pass my time making up stories to go with the little butterflies or large Harley Davidson tramp stamps that decorate pink sizzling flesh as it hangs over shorts that fitted five years ago but will never fit again.
I noticed one girl who had the word VICTORIAN tatooed on her upper arm, which to you probably means she studies history, or longs for a more innocent and easier period when women had more free time – no need for leg waxes or moustache tinting. But that’s why you might not be cut out for this imagination lark. Closer inspection showed slightly different inks on some of the letters so I spent the journey imagining how it came about. I reckon she’d once gone out with a guy called Vic who dumped her so she changed the tattoo to Victoria before someone suggested that might look a bit on the lesbian side and she added the N at the end. By the time I’d sorted her story in my head, we’d arrived at Waterloo.
On the journey home, another guy had a heart with SALT written in it. Now, unless he’s a foodie who’s tired of the health police, I reckon he dated someone called Sal who broke his heart and so he added the other letter to show what she’d rubbed in his wounds. See, once you get started, you can’t stop.
The only problem with turning the train in to a reading room on a hot day is the rising stench of BO. The temperature in London seems inversely proportional to the number of baths people take, and as for getting on the Tube with fat people giving their armpits an airing, you may as well bury your head in a bag full of dead rats marinated in vinegar. I’m all for people not being self consumed and spending the day pampering themselves but a bit of cleanliness and deodorant wouldn’t be too much to ask would it? And, maybe, the occasional shaving of underarm hair? Here, I’m talking about men as well as women as the burst mattress look just acts as a breeding programme for smelly bacteria which jump out with a gleeful “Wheeeeee” every time I’m standing under some sweaty strap hanger.
Those guys who aren’t wearing sleeveless vests are turning out in force in that old staple the football shirt and seeing them, in all the colours of the rainbow, shows up the stupidity of marketing people as the sponsors' logos on the shirts mean nothing to me. Presumably the advertisers have paid a fortune for the exposure but do you know what Manchester United’s AIG is, or Birmingham’s F&C, or even Everton’s Chang? I wouldn’t know whether to drink an AIG, eat it, or ask it to look after my pension.
Of course, as a guy, the sun does give us the perk of watching women walking down the street wearing fewer clothes than Madonna and, so long as they don’t look like her, that’s fine. Don’t get me wrong, if Madge wants to walk around in corsets and stockings then good for her. Old folk should have porn too. But I just don’t think the High Street is the place for it and if you’re going to carry it off you need a bit of suntan. As we’re emerging from the rainy dark days of Spring, Londoners all look a bit Scottish with pasty faces and corn beef legs – and I say this as a proud Scotsman myself. The few times we get to see the sun north of the border, we assume it’s a disco ball and throw a party.
As bras go back in the drawer for summer, the older girls seem to delight in getting their pendulous boobies out with every sun ray and even the younger girlies are getting their flip flops out too. I mean, of course, those shoes for the beach which look fine in the sand but are an impossible look to carry off elsewhere. The sound of the rubber scuffing on the pavement reminds me of my dad’s great aunt who worked in her son’s café till she was a hundred and eighty six. It is the sound of the careworn and tired who have no energy to pick up their feet. Guys are even worse as they usually wear them with brown socks, a look best described as “Guy who buys Thai bride on the internet”.
Unfortunately the end of this seasonal frivolity is drawing to a close as the weather forecast here in London is for rain returning by the end of the week. Then, fashion will improve, rolls of fat will go back to being hidden, and the sleeveless vests will be packed away alongside the cheery smiles for strangers.
The air will be sweeter but, my God, the train journey to work won’t be half as interesting.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Just Like Starting Over
www.paulcoia.com
I’ve reluctantly come to realise that I am a disappointment. I’m not thinking of how others perceive me but rather of the many things I thought I might turn out to be, and simply being plain old me wasn’t one of them. Is it too late to think of starting over?
I know I’ll never be a pop star or male model of course, but there are more aspirational things I wish I had achieved; a jeweller creating art from bars of gold, an astronaut collecting moon rocks, or a doctor working as brain surgeon to the Royal Family. However, my fear of dense objects means none of these ambitions will ever be realised so I have settled for just being boring old me.
I think I would have loved, above all, to have turned out to be a “flawed genius” as I just love the term with its promise of prodigious talent and other worldliness, the perfect excuse when people don’t understand you, or you have made a complete pig’s ear out of something. “Don’t worry, he’s a flawed genius” they’d say and we’d carry on as normal with everyone forgiving my flies being undone or drool rolling down my chin. Look at footballer Paul Gascoine, wandering around hotels like an extra from Shaun of the Dead but forgiven because of the talent he had on the soccer pitch.
This week I had the pleasure of interviewing Peter Bart, editor of Variety magazine and producer of The Godfather, Rosemary’s Baby and many other Oscar winning movies, and we spoke about some of the mad people he’s worked with; Marlon Brando, Jack Nicholson, Cat Stevens, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert de Niro, all geniuses with huge flaws. Peter tells me that the great actor Rex Harrison for example, the perfect English gentleman, loved performing with the assistance of illegal substances. Imagine his Doctor Dolittle raiding the medicine cupboard and swigging horse tranquiliser, or his Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady teaching Hepburn to say “The rain, in Spain, stays mainly in your vein”.
If I picked Peter up correctly, director Roman Polanski is borderline Martian too, but all this doesn’t matter when compared to the pleasure these people have given to millions - although in Polanski’s case we’ll try hard to forget about the pleasure he’s given to the young of the parish. Allegedly.
I guess it’s important to draw a distinction between a flawed genius and a genius at having flaws. The former blaze a trail and leave a legacy while the latter, like Rex Harrison’s medicine, just get up your nose. There are any number of flawed people in the movies, in fact one former Bond actress and serial rock star wife showed me this week why she’s no longer making movies and is, instead, currently earning a crust publicising hair loss treatment. In a diva moment she pulled out of our interview on a whim, despite many people working for weeks to fix it up. People like her will, perhaps, leave a trail but only in the way flatulence does.
If History tells us something it’s that the artists we remember as brilliant were all madder than the Hatter that missed Alice’s Anne Summers party. Michaelangelo decorated the Sistine Chapel ceiling beautifully but frequently peed in the paint to leave his mark, Gaugin attempted suicide, Picasso collected mistresses and wives like a kid collects nits, and Van Gogh cut his ear off. He later saw a cute pair of earrings to die for on QVC and committed suicide.
Writers are just as mad. Sylvia Plath admitted to being crazy, Ernest Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, Tennessee Williams and Virginia Woolf all spent time in psychiatric care, and I think Joanna Trollope has real problems as she doesn’t even realise that she writes the same book every year. But, again, they’ve enriched many people’s lives over the years. Will anyone say the same about sane old us?
To many John Lennon was a genius, and I love his songs, yet you don’t get much more flawed than thinking you’ll gain world peace by staying under the duvet and inviting The Press in to watch you snooze, belch, and make love to the wife. Some of Lennon’s witterings about giving peace a chance had people asking to be given the chance of peace, and quiet.
One inspiration to me was my former university lecturer, a recognised genius at poetry and making the English language come alive, who used to explain his relentlessly positive outlook by telling us that he woke up in the mornings saying “Every day, in every way, I get better and better”. His genius was later taken from us for a while as he was hospitalised for overdosing on anti depressants. So, perhaps a hint of a flaw there.
But what of my realisation that no one is going to say I’m a flawed genius? Well, it disappoints me greatly to finally realise I’m normal, part of the pack and in no way great, so I’m going to rectify the situation. I have no idea what I could become a genius at – though I’m pretty hot on killing off bindweed – but I’ve already decided on my flaw. Without explanation, I’m going to carry around a chair with a plate of peas on it.
But that’s as mad as I’m prepared to go. There will be no inviting the Press in to watch me sleep with the wife, no rehab, no psychiatric care. I could throw in a cheap gag about giving peas a chance but, instead, I’ll turn to another Lennon song - It’ll Be Just Like Starting Over.
I’ve reluctantly come to realise that I am a disappointment. I’m not thinking of how others perceive me but rather of the many things I thought I might turn out to be, and simply being plain old me wasn’t one of them. Is it too late to think of starting over?
I know I’ll never be a pop star or male model of course, but there are more aspirational things I wish I had achieved; a jeweller creating art from bars of gold, an astronaut collecting moon rocks, or a doctor working as brain surgeon to the Royal Family. However, my fear of dense objects means none of these ambitions will ever be realised so I have settled for just being boring old me.
I think I would have loved, above all, to have turned out to be a “flawed genius” as I just love the term with its promise of prodigious talent and other worldliness, the perfect excuse when people don’t understand you, or you have made a complete pig’s ear out of something. “Don’t worry, he’s a flawed genius” they’d say and we’d carry on as normal with everyone forgiving my flies being undone or drool rolling down my chin. Look at footballer Paul Gascoine, wandering around hotels like an extra from Shaun of the Dead but forgiven because of the talent he had on the soccer pitch.
This week I had the pleasure of interviewing Peter Bart, editor of Variety magazine and producer of The Godfather, Rosemary’s Baby and many other Oscar winning movies, and we spoke about some of the mad people he’s worked with; Marlon Brando, Jack Nicholson, Cat Stevens, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert de Niro, all geniuses with huge flaws. Peter tells me that the great actor Rex Harrison for example, the perfect English gentleman, loved performing with the assistance of illegal substances. Imagine his Doctor Dolittle raiding the medicine cupboard and swigging horse tranquiliser, or his Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady teaching Hepburn to say “The rain, in Spain, stays mainly in your vein”.
If I picked Peter up correctly, director Roman Polanski is borderline Martian too, but all this doesn’t matter when compared to the pleasure these people have given to millions - although in Polanski’s case we’ll try hard to forget about the pleasure he’s given to the young of the parish. Allegedly.
I guess it’s important to draw a distinction between a flawed genius and a genius at having flaws. The former blaze a trail and leave a legacy while the latter, like Rex Harrison’s medicine, just get up your nose. There are any number of flawed people in the movies, in fact one former Bond actress and serial rock star wife showed me this week why she’s no longer making movies and is, instead, currently earning a crust publicising hair loss treatment. In a diva moment she pulled out of our interview on a whim, despite many people working for weeks to fix it up. People like her will, perhaps, leave a trail but only in the way flatulence does.
If History tells us something it’s that the artists we remember as brilliant were all madder than the Hatter that missed Alice’s Anne Summers party. Michaelangelo decorated the Sistine Chapel ceiling beautifully but frequently peed in the paint to leave his mark, Gaugin attempted suicide, Picasso collected mistresses and wives like a kid collects nits, and Van Gogh cut his ear off. He later saw a cute pair of earrings to die for on QVC and committed suicide.
Writers are just as mad. Sylvia Plath admitted to being crazy, Ernest Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, Tennessee Williams and Virginia Woolf all spent time in psychiatric care, and I think Joanna Trollope has real problems as she doesn’t even realise that she writes the same book every year. But, again, they’ve enriched many people’s lives over the years. Will anyone say the same about sane old us?
To many John Lennon was a genius, and I love his songs, yet you don’t get much more flawed than thinking you’ll gain world peace by staying under the duvet and inviting The Press in to watch you snooze, belch, and make love to the wife. Some of Lennon’s witterings about giving peace a chance had people asking to be given the chance of peace, and quiet.
One inspiration to me was my former university lecturer, a recognised genius at poetry and making the English language come alive, who used to explain his relentlessly positive outlook by telling us that he woke up in the mornings saying “Every day, in every way, I get better and better”. His genius was later taken from us for a while as he was hospitalised for overdosing on anti depressants. So, perhaps a hint of a flaw there.
But what of my realisation that no one is going to say I’m a flawed genius? Well, it disappoints me greatly to finally realise I’m normal, part of the pack and in no way great, so I’m going to rectify the situation. I have no idea what I could become a genius at – though I’m pretty hot on killing off bindweed – but I’ve already decided on my flaw. Without explanation, I’m going to carry around a chair with a plate of peas on it.
But that’s as mad as I’m prepared to go. There will be no inviting the Press in to watch me sleep with the wife, no rehab, no psychiatric care. I could throw in a cheap gag about giving peas a chance but, instead, I’ll turn to another Lennon song - It’ll Be Just Like Starting Over.
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