Old shorts
Selections from the archive
It’s been a busy old week here, and I’m feeling a bit beleaguered by world events and all the complications and loneliness of having moved to a new city.
To give myself a wee break I’m reupping a selection from the archives from my old blog, ‘The Shoe Leather Express’, which I’m pretty confident none of you ever read because nobody ever did.
And if you’re really hankering for some new material this week, check out my new piece about war commemoration at The Critic here.
‘When Daddy Punched the Bear’
I remember the day like it were yesterday; myself, my sister, and my brother Engelbert or as we knew him, Angel Bert. There we sat on the picnic cloth in the grounds of our stately home, which Daddy had recently purchased on eBay. The only sounds were Englbert peeling a pork pie – it was a weird habit of his, to denude a pie then suck apart the residual pork filling – and my sister quietly turning the pages of her book. Mummy and Daddy, still deeply in love in this, their eighth year of marriage, looked at each other adoringly above the eggs and the coffee.
Suddenly, the bear emerged from the woods, roaring and growling and being generally ursine. For some reason its neck had been bound with a red handkerchief, tied almost like a cowboy’s, and perhaps that had contributed to its generally agitated air. The bear was going fucking nuts and quite soon it was right next to our family, stomping and rasping and coming perilously close to knocking over a pot of gherkins.
As you can imagine, we children reacted with terror, leaping into each other’s arms in a small cluster of fear and, in Bert’s case, masticated pork. We shot troubled, frightened eyes to our Mummy and Daddy, imploring them to rescue us from the savage beast which had so rudely interrupted our lunch.
But we had reckoned without Daddy. There he rose, drawing himself up to his full height of five-foot ten, courageous and comfortable-looking in chinos and an M&S checked shirt, to punch that bear right in its fucking face. ‘Take that, you cunt!’ he yelled. It was the first time I had heard the word.
Stunned, the bear bellowed and cantered back to the woods, its head and back bowed as it leapt into the thicket. Gradually the weeping and sobbing faded and we children made our way apart from each other once again. Mummy moved to Daddy with a devotion bordering on erotic mania, and Daddy spoke.
‘Now,’ he said, regaining his composure and raising the mustard knife, ‘We are all going to enjoy our picnic.’
‘I Am a Flemish Nationalist’
I am a Flemish nationalist. I believe in the independence of Flanders, the need of the Flems to liberate themselves from the Wallonian yoke, and the supremacy of Flemish business and cultural practice. If the world were more like Flanders, it would be a measurably better place – but as it is, the part of the world which is most Flanderian, Flanders, should be allowed to exult in its own sheer Flemishness, and so doing prove a beacon amongst the nations.
The walls of my house are coloured gold and black, and decorated with hand-carved lions. I begin each morning with a chorus of De Vlaamse Leeuw, our national hymn, before a breakfast heap of the finest Ghent chocolates. I read exclusively Flemish nationalist authors of the early 20th century, and my daily diet consists entirely of pure beer and frites, for which latter I am careful to consume only potatoes sourced from Flemish soil, though I do like Dijon mustard.
Over my buttocks extends a tattoo of Eddy Merckx, five times Tour de France winner, and on my wall a framed photograph of myself with Jan Jambon, the Minister-President of Flanders. His name in English is Jan Ham – but such trivialities do not amuse me.
My children, Jan and Agnes, have also been reared as ardent Flemish nationalists. It was on only his fifth birthday that Jan brought an entire room of assembled friends and relatives to tears with his recital of the 19th-century nationalist poet K. L. Ledeganck’s ‘Zegepraal van’s Lands onafhankelijkheid’ (‘Our country’s triumphant independence’: Translation, the author’s), all 150 lines learnt by heart.
How we wept!
Then my beloved Agnes sang us a medley of dEUS songs, accompanying herself demurely on the electric viola; really, how could we fail to cry further? Sadly I was forced to leave my wife as, during the recent World Cup, she began supporting the country of Belgium, a nation I do not recognize. I had no choice but to remove both her and a six-metre Belgian flag from my apartment, and I have no idea as to the current whereabouts of either.
I must mention, of course, I have never lived in, been to or even intend to visit Flanders. In fact I live quite happily in Ann Arbor, Michigan. My neighbours by now know to leave me well alone, and I am able to stay fully in touch with Flemish culture via a variety of online streaming services. Not that, of course, I pay for them: I may be a diehard Flemish nationalist, but I’m not a fool.
Memories of an Assignment
At times like this I comfort myself with the time I played a tiger in a Lana Del Rey video.
Oh, I remember it alright – the way we filmed the long takes, the heaviness of the tiger suit, Lana’s preternatural calm. I remember most of all though the breaks, when they’d winch the head off me, and I’d have a brief few minutes to prowl about. One day my walks took me to the back of the studios where I met, all alone, Lana. She was standing there smoking in that beautifully-sculpted, slightly-taller-than-you-might think hipster way. And I remember approaching her, stooped, my paws raised, and going ‘Ra!’ And Lana saying ‘God – you scared me!’ And me saying, ‘Sorry.’ And then her, ‘Are you a real tiger?’ And me replying ‘No, I’m a translator from Nottingham.’ ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Lower your paws.’ And so I did and stood before my idol; she was so radiant I had to look at my feet. And Lana said, ‘It’s so stressful all this, don’t you think?’ ‘And the lights are hot – especially for me.’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have to search really hard to find a moment for myself. You won’t tell anyone I’m here will you?’ ‘Us Nottingham men,’ I said, ‘are famously taciturn.’ And she laughed at that, and I really felt that it was going well – who knows where the conversation could have gone from there. Maybe she liked men dressed as big cats. Maybe romance, or at least an EP, could have bloomed. But next moment one of her people had found her and could be seen approaching Lana with a coffee and an ashtray for her cigarette and also an arm outstretched to lead her back to the set. She was gone.
That was ten years ago. I’m still a translator from Nottingham, and she’s more famous and respected than ever. But I’ll always have the time I played a tiger in her video. Often, especially as the nights draw in, I find myself looking at photos of the assignment; look, that’s me on the left. The other guy’s a tiger.
