Does it define me to say that I am a person who appreciates the finer things in life? Does it define me to say that I don’t share the same crass interests and vile obsessions as the ‘toxically unconscious masses’? ‘Well,’ says I, ‘if that is so then I shall most gladly accept that definition, the accolade, because it is nobler in the spiritual realm to be noble than it is to be a dirty good-for-nothing scumbag. Because it is nobler in the eye of the beholder and all that kind of craic. You get what I’m saying, I’m sure. Everyone always gets what I’m saying. It’s a gift of mine, I guess you could say. They always get me. People, that is. As soon as I walk through the door they get me. Yes my friends – if having a taste for the finer things in life defines me, then so be it! That’s all I can say. It’s not ‘all’ I can say, obviously I can say other things too, if I wanted to. It’s just that I don’t. I was spotted early on in life as being somewhat unusual, somewhat atypical. I was spotted as being atypical and then beaten soundly for it. Properly beaten, that is, not just given a few slaps on the wrist. Or whatever. Or however it is you might like to put it. A poke in the eye with a rancid gherkin. Soured chicken livers served with the very finest camomile custard. That’s the ticket isn’t it? We’re all famous here you know, every last one of us. Towering figures you could say. Mighty Avatars of the Age that is Yet to Come, the Age which is only just Dawning. You know the age I mean, I am sure. Of course you do. I was spotted for not being the same as the others and beaten. Beaten soundly, and with gusto. Great gusto. That’s how it was for me, you see. That was the type of life that I had back then and I never once complained. I never once complained because I never knew any better! Being beaten every day for being different was the only life I knew and I accepted it without question. Until this one fateful day, that is. This one fateful day that changed everything forever. You know the sort of day I mean, I’m sure. Days of longing and horror, my friends – first comes the longing (for the wonderful terrible thing) and then comes the horror that unfolds with grim inevitability when we finally win the prize for ourselves. The horror persists like an evil smell. It lingers like a fart you do not wish to be associated with. It has the most uncanny ability to stick around, an absolutely astonishing ability. Definitely, nothing good would ever stick around that long! It would be gone before you could say Jack Robinson. It would be gone before you could say ‘How’s your father?’ It would be gone before you even got a chance to introduce yourself. You’d be left standing there gormlessly like a big fool with your mouth wide open. You’d be left standing there like the big Gorm that you are. Rehearsing the lines that you will never get to speak. Because life has moved on and you haven’t…
