So I thought to cough up a little more of this fascinating life story [of mine.] Already I have narrated chapter one and placed it securely in a private place on Youtube. This section, in the final analysis, shall become chapter two. I need to narrate to bits, then rewrite it all, then I shall be perfect. Let’s see how she flies:
[Mainly old crap – I’ll do some new stuff tomorrow/ draft this up, x]
Chapter 2 Memoir in Draft
A skinny lad in 1977. By the autumn of 1978 I was very fat. Comprehend this mystery of transformation by casting your minds to the sweltering heat of July 1978 and a family holiday enjoyed by us all in the family, away from refineries of Abadan [chapter 1] to North Devon, in England.
Here, high season, and beach side, as any young boy, I relished the consumption of three to four pasties [like a burger inside pastry] at my lunch-time, followed by the cream-coated ice cream that served as pudding.
However I was curious to taste the selection of pistachio and rum and raisin cornets advertised from the window next door to my favourite beach bakery. I visited the lady in the shop with my pennies [tinkle of a rustic doorway] and licked my second cone clean outside her facility – like an advertisement for her wares, serviced my appetite in tight beach shorts, until the afternoon’s plate of scones, perhaps a sausage roll?
Apple doughnuts, a bag of chips [potatoes] and a bottle of corona pop [coke] occupied a shared car journey home from Saunton beach [aside my brother].
Slowly, despite a back-stroke swum far out to sea, castles built on wet sand, and an amusement arcade’s neon entertainments during
my down time, I grew the round tummy and boy-boobs familiar to modern folk. Saddle-bags of flesh emerged as hand-rails to my former waist-line’s location. Incredible that nobody told me, certainly today you might call this child abuse a growth spurt [in progress].
Critically, [now remember] I departed the company of my chums at the International school in Iran, slim at the end of that summer term in ‘78, yet I returned – upon a jumbo to Abadan, absolutely four times the size of boy. Silhouette resembled you American people’s space hopper in her flight orbit, with dimples in my cheeks and sandals strapped on fat feet. I was like a pig wearing Ladybird [a clothes retailer].
American lads, once my friends down at the refinery academy, enjoyed this transformation of the ‘Brit kid,’ very much so; and ‘hollered’ as they say, with ‘laughter.’ Subsequently I was cruelly addressed as ‘Fat Matt’ during the American principal’s roll call, and your anthem recital. [Yet] Unfortunate indeed for my tormentors that I escaped their evil Yank ways when the wonderful Ayatollah Khomeini declared an Islamic revolution. We fled Iran by helicopter to a new life in Daddy’s dream cottage up on Exmoor, back in that same Devon, England in the UK. Dad remained in Iran a few months longer where he shared adventures, opium, and whatever else with Texan nurses: combat veteran types, squashed into a safe house, terrifying and hot.
And left to Mummy to bring the kids home, find us a prep school to attend. I was convinced we were posh people at this point in history, and special members of society: a prep school upon the moors appeared suitable before I continued my trajectory to Harrow,
like a Winston Churchill boy.
I should tell you what jolly good sorts all the masters were, what an excellent time was had by me at the Ravenswood Prep school. AN innocent, a young chap, and today visualise that former me, blond boy at waistline height – to Master Mackey, Major Mudd, Colonel Bloodvessel, among whom most definitely my feelings were violated. They were heroes once to somebody. I must reflect sincerely that great men suffered brain damage from killing Germans in our Great War. They took it out on me…
Even so I am glad to have experienced the ways of a generation that are lost to us all. Those teachers made me the man I am today: HMP 4010 6734. Isolation Unit. Camp Hill, IOW, Fat Wooly the nonce if you are a day visitor, ha ha, ha ha, ha ha ha.
Good times at Ravens Prep, I wish you especially, my alumni all the best, my e-mail, twitter and facebook is attached to the foot, of the page. I became a novelist in gaol.
BELOW IS SECTION OF THE NOVEL:
MILLION DOLLAR [a novel draft in sic.]
The whole mystery began in the fall of 2012 amidst the deep tragedy of father’s death. Naturally we laughed, and as sons were keen to survey financial arrangements provided for me. Then it struck us all like lightning bolts. After two years of research I have emotionally, for the first time; revealing the true story. This is my story, and never studied ceramics, but know if I did, I would be very good, at it. I thought as much on departure from the Westfield development in Shepherd’s Bush in LONDON, where the building’s chrome exterior gleamed like wax. My fists strained [with] the weight of plastic handles, and my biceps flexed aside the hoop wings of a basketball vest. I had spent
over two hours in Model Zone, departed with the Iowa Jima diorama anniversary kit and a steam engine traction mini-pump.
‘My hands are magnificent.’ I said to my attractive, my Korean wife. She heralds from Korea, a legacy of years backpacking the jungles of South East Asia; small woman, Asiatic features and a chopstick turn of phrase; Hue-Wi abhors racism.
‘Your hand big,’ she said.
I chuckled, gunned the engine of the Daewoo. We zipped down the highway for a quick bite of food to eat, something quick from kerbside vendors. Street food stalls stretched along the shoulder of the M25 motorway, a thing unique and refreshing about our multi-culture going forward. Our house lay an hour’s drive away in West Yorkshire, and I was keen to get back to my writing research.
The thing was – this Pop of mine managed six months of his life away from my mother. Six months during heady days of the Iranian revolution when he shared a house in a compound with a flotilla of American nurses; medics located in country to supervise treatment of native medical procedure. What if, and I never cast aspersions upon the dead, what if during those long hot nights in Abadan he found company, some solace against the large soapy breasts of an American nurse? And practically, what if this encounter resulted in a child? An American child today living in America, conducting American activities, and that in point of fact I possessed an American half-brother, or a sister? If I really had an American brother, I could leave all this rain behind me, and join him, and be an American, man.
I hated Britain. Self-hate twisted from (the) socks in my sandals to the scarf at my throat, street food aside, I maintained a schizotopic identity, coughed and groaned, saw television headlines of ‘Another Royal Baby,’ or ‘Paralympics’ or ‘Women’s Football,’ and each breakfast Donald Cameron’s sweaty face gurned at me from the centre-spread of my copy of the Daily Express: a lobster face, political lobster, leader worse than fish; our country, a country that did not have bears. Everywhere I looked, citizens, like me were having their rights abused at the hands of big brother, made a man want to take up arms and shoot people in gymnasiums.
But, I could not, not yet. Regulation put paid to that project. If I was American I might wear a god-damned outfit in nine yards; chaps, Stetson, buy Gatorade, coil lasso by the trunk of my Nissan truck. Fantasy consumed me. But a green card? That would be the green ticket to sweet home Arizona.
I watched on my sofa, and in fascination, a documentary about the role of English volunteers in the SS Frei Korps, and took a stroll out to the balcony. Here, the wife pruned a potato plant wedged in its bucket, leaves flowered in heat.
‘Put ‘em up.’
‘Honey,’ she said.
‘We go inside? We make love,’ she said.
We made love, and she rode me Western style, left arm spread for balance, the fingers of her right hand coiled upon my shirt collar.
‘Say it! Say it,’ I said.
‘Hi ho sliver,’ she replied.
‘Silver. It is silver, you fool witch,’ I said, she was not the palomino for me.
I flew American. American Airlines; it says as much on the tail, chewed my filet burger in the first class seat, the hostess wiped mustard from my chest.
‘Is there anything else I may assist you with, sir?’ her eyes sparkled as dimes on a sidewalk.
‘No, I’m quite the swell, thank you.’ I replied, finding myself mid-air, baptized by the superior turn of phrase.
I raised my hand. ‘Mam, mam, mammy. Can I get another one of these sodas, and some chips to go, with it?’ I said.
‘You got it,’ she said, although I had not gotten, anything as yet.