Invisible Stranger |
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Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond
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Thursday, February 10, 2005
Make My Bed And Light The Light
I'm invisible, all right? You may have noticed. But shed not a tear, my little darlings, I'll never be a stranger. For I'll be around. It's just you won't see me much for a little while. That's what invisibility is all about, after all. Yet keep your wits about you, and your thieving hands off my Stellas, and you might just spot me. That faux-naïf in your comments box, reminding people not to be grubby, while needlessly-hyphenating words and letting loose with a legion of laughably-louche alliterations. That'll be me. The ex-pat brooding in a Berlin bar, pretending he's in an Otto Dix painting, and whistling some verses from Weimar, while wishing he could swim, like dolphins, like dolphins can swim. Ja, mein lieber Herr, so bin ich. The fortysomething gym queen, in the ridiculous top, grunting his way through hard iron while unsuccessfully trying not to tap his feet and sing along to the happy house they're pumping through the PA system. Yep. That's me as well. That one-time member of the fageratti, older than he looks, but much younger than he feels, cruising his constant identity-crises down Compton Street, a Dorothy Parker wannabe taking Oscar's panthers out for a stroll. Well, need you ask? In my head, if nowhere else, I'm just the wise-cracking love-child of Vampirella and Mister Tumnus himself. Returned, revamped and regular when the snowdrops come out and the pansies are in bloom once more, my dears. Then we'll meet up by the lamp-post. And the Turkish Delight's on me. Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Things I Learnt Over The Holiday Season
Showbiz-wannabe and actor manqué that I am, I'm a sucker for party games, and none more so than charades, as long as you remember just whose opportunity it is to seriously show off. (Song. Twenty-one words. Come on, my twinkle-toed dear, you really don't think you can catch me out on that one, do you? This theatrical Stranger can get it in one.) But please, don't give me that goodwill-to-all-men guff about it's the taking part that really counts. Bollocks. It's win, win, win every time, and don't you dare forget it, bitch. And wipe that blood off the parquet right now. And at this saintly and hopeful time of year I do so want to be a kind, caring and considerate Stranger, really I do. But sometimes the temptation of sending out cards synchronised to arrive with the last post on December 24th, and thereby guilt-tripping the recipients over the fact they didn't reciprocate, is simply too good to resist. (Of course I don't mind, my neglectful dear, it probably got lost in the post. Oh, how very kind, mine's a round of Stellas, and what have I done to deserve this?) And when you give up the chance of wishing Happy New Years to coked-up champagne castaways in some crowded Islington bar, in favour of watching the extended version of Lord of the Rings with just Mr Absolut and a plate of smoked salmon for company, then it's time to realise, my precious dear, that if you don't get your act together soon you shouldn't be at all surprised if you and Smeagol aren't voted Compton Street's celebrity couple for the next twelve months. Oh, very well, 2005, sneak on in, if you insist. Let’s check out what cuddly toys you have for me on your conveyer belt this time round. But remember: whatever happens, just make sure that glitter is involved. Tons of it. |
