Seven Random Things About Me

To quote the cripplingly funny Enidd, ‘that dratted Mr. X’ has tagged me for seven random things about me. I can only apologise in advance for this despicable offering.

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I am terrified of snakes. Had I been born in England, where snakes are pretty scarce, and if you do come across one it is likely to be convivial enough for you to be able to invite it home for a cup of tea and a biscuit, I suspect I wouldn’t give them a second thought. But I grew up in Brazil, where snakes are either as sadistic as a Komodo dragon, sinking their teeth in then sitting around yawning and checking their watch while you slowly lose consciousness, or tend to swallow you whole as a mid-morning snack.

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As a direct result of good old-fashioned nepotism (my late ex-father-in-law was a well known British actor), I once appeared in a movie that featured at the Oscars. It soon became clear to me, however, that this was to be a short-lived career move after I was pulled to one side by the director’s assistant. According to him, I was shouting my lines, and could I say them a little more quietly please, mime them in fact, as it was interfering with the dialogue taking place between the story’s two main characters.

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I could, given the inclination, competently haggle in a convincing accent and with adequate syntax with brothel owners in at least four modern western European languages. Phrases such as ‘but she’s seventy five and has a five o’clock shadow!’ could easily be articulated by me, should the need ever arise, with the inflexion and intonation of a local.

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Standing outside Amsterdam’s central station while waiting for my girlfriend to return from a visit to the loo, I was once accosted by a charming and professional-looking young lady who asked if she could borrow my lighter. My habit of opening my Zippo and striking it alight in one swooping movement must have caused a strange chemical reaction in her as she then fixed me with a searing stare, blew out the smoke like she had a bit of fluff on her shoulder and asked with disarming directness: “you wanna fuck?” I thanked her profusely for this random act of kindness, suggesting as I did so that my girlfriend, who I could see approaching out of the corner of my eye, might take a rather dim view of things were I to accept her offer.

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I was a promising footballer in my early teens and played for my local club until I was fourteen, when, prodded by my parents, I gave it up to study accountancy, on account of football ‘providing a rather meagre living’ in those days. I lasted a year before informing my parents that if I was forced to attend another class on bookkeeping, I would commit cold-blooded murder, reasoning that inmates serving life sentences make even less money than footballers.

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I was sacked from my previous job for gross misconduct after a frank exchange of views with a representative of the lowest common denominator of Yorkshire – someone I strongly suspect of being incapable of brushing his own teeth unaided – ended with me punching him squarely in his big fat pie-eating face for the following final racist straw that broke this camel’s back: ‘the only thing Brazilians are good for is playing football, apart from being bone-idle lazy fucks’. The company agreed and, given the previous random fact, I do too.

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Once upon a time, it seems like an eternity ago now, I fell in love with a girl I met over the internet. She lived on Long Island, New York, and her family’s – including her husband’s – entire social network consisted of people for whom sentences like ‘Vince got whacked last week’ were as commonplace as ‘a cup of tea?’ is for your average English host. Even so, I went over to see her four times in one year before seeing sense. I am not proud of it, but in my defence all I will say is that love has no morality.

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Like the lovely Cream, I shan’t tag anyone. If you would like to be tagged instead, leave a comment expressing an interest and the first five to do so can consider themselves suitably tagged.