I want to start this post by talking about a subject I know is so dear to everyone’s heart. Piles!
Like most itches that get scratched, scratching piles is personal, only it’s more personal than any other itch. I mean, I can talk about scratching my piles but I can’t talk about scratching yours. Likewise you can talk about scratching your piles but won’t go talking about scratching mine even less contemplate such a thing. I mean, it’s not something we’d do for each other, unless we’re really strange people that is. You know the kind. Scratch anyone’s dirt for a good tabloid story, who cares if it’s true. No, we can talk about scratching piles as a general thing. Even philosophise about it or consider it as a medical problem. We can even talk about our own problem but we never talk about anyone else’s. It’s a very private part of your body. The dirty bit, and you don’t want to know about anyone else’s dirty bits. Yours is quite enough thank you very much.
You can do scratching your own arse but scratching anyone else’s? Please leave it out! Someone else’s arse is somewhere you don’t want to be. When you scratch this particular, it’s got to be personal. Till you get a prescription from your doctor that is. Now you need to have an iron discipline not to scratch your piles when they’re pulsating. If you do, it you only make things worse, like taking another drink, but there are some itches you just fancy scratching when there’s no reason you have to. You do it because you want to do it, not because you’re compelled to. But then how true is that? How do you know who’s in control? Is it the itch or is it you? Or are you really the itch and all you are really doing is scratching yourself? I mean scratching your mind. Like giving the thought of doing something outrageous a tickly scratch and seeing where it takes you!
It’s like a little devil’s got into your head. The imp of the perverse has found a way in, if he’s not there already, and he’s all up and running. Challenging you not to scratch him knowing he’s got you so badly riled up that you’re going to teach him a lesson and scratch. Say or do something outrageous. There…You see I’ve done it so f... you. And the little imp smiles back and says Gotcha! Easy… Easy… Easy!
Scratching a personal itch may be something you’ve wanted to do for some time. I mean like having some kind of longing. Telling your boss he’s an arsehole because he actually is and you’ve always wanted to say it but just been too scared. It’s not worth losing your job. Bringing poverty into your life? Yes it is you tell yourself later. I’ve been true to myself. I’ll always know I had the courage to say it, even when you’re eating soup made of grass and water and your wife’s divorced you and taken the kids to her mother. “What happened to me is terrible!” you think. “Why should someone like me have to suffer?”
Why? Well I’ll tell you. It’s because it’s you who’s the real arsehole. You should have found a new job, handed in your resignation and just before leaving, when everyone in the department was lined up to give you a present, for which the arsehole has contributed 99% into the kitty and you’re finishing your farewell speech you turn to your former boss and say Mister Sphincter I think you’re a real arsehole, then walk out triumphant to the sound of thunderous applause in your ears.
That’s what you should have done, but no, you had to go scratch that itch without working out the full consequences!
The scratching of a personal itch often means doing something unpleasant to someone. It’s fun because it often involves someone you really don’t like. But then I suppose there are always those nice little itches. Okay mister nicety-nice. I know you’ve always wanted to climb Everest or swim in a tank with a Great
White Shark, or surf a tsunami or jump out of an aeroplane. There are loads of nice little itches wanting a scratch. Like you always wanted to tell teacher she’s got a moustache. Let’s call them itches for nimbies. Harmless little dares you’ve always wanted to do. Even tinsy-winsy things that may involve punning, you devil you! So you see, there are itches and there are itches!
Now please don’t all write to me at once telling me about all those secret little itches you’ve always wanted to scratch. Or worse, start doing them just because you’ve read this Blog. Why, if everyone began scratching their itch all at once the whole planet would fall into chaos. Our world, society, social class, you name it, is built on order. Everyone doing what they’re expected to do. Can you imagine what would happen if it all broke down just because everyone gave life the finger? Say what they thought. Play the little trick that they’d always wanted to play.
And that, as everyone knows, is how aliens took over the planet. Their ship landed and they got out with a little box called an un-inhibitor that made a humming noise and when everyone heard it they began ignoring orders, telling their bosses to get stuffed and refusing to stand up and put their hand on their heart when the band played God Bless America.
Now wouldn’t it be interesting if such a thing happened. Just consider the consequences!
The consequences of what happened when I scratched an itch of my own recently are integral to this Blog. It occurred at my market stall when two Americans stopped to look at our gear. “Are you guys from America?” I asked in my friendliest voice. “Yes sir,” they responded. My reply was immediate. “Well fuck off.”
They were stunned and I was delighted. I’d achieved my immediate objective.
Now you’d naturally think I was abominably rude and a scoundrel, but just wait a minute before rushing to judgement. It was said deliberately, and for a very real purpose. An experiment in the black arts of selling. In other words it was a ploy. A highly unorthodox sales technique I’d always wanted to try. A kind of itch I wanted to scratch. If it failed the consequences could be dire. Even so I felt confident about it. If it succeeded and I wound up selling them things it would prove a hunch I had about using shock to engage their curiosity before winning them round. You might call it manipulation. I’d call it a tactic. First capture their attention then capture their hearts. It was an idea I’d worked out after reading the work of American social psychologist Irving Goffman who’d developed a perspective called The Dramaturgical Approach. Let me tell you what happened.
American tourists visiting London street markets are known to be notorious talkers. They talk to every trader about the ins and outs of a cats arse till the cows come home without buying a thing. Moving along a row of stalls and going over the same old shit. Yak, yak, yak, yak, yak… And do they buy anything from anyone for all the time spent? No! They tell you how lovely your stuff is but that they’ll never get it home in one piece, even if it’s a metal ashtray. Either that or they’ll definitely call back tomorrow, yak, yak, yak. Traders are there to take money so that said I was determined to try something new.
Right, here was my chance. Americans off the starboard bow! A couple in their mid-thirties had been at the stall next to mine for twenty minutes driving a fellow trader mad with questions. Not about the stuff he was selling but about British politics and the scummy Liberal Democrats. I felt sick. Soon they’d be heading my way. I could either run off or try something drastic. I was overcome by a strange feeling. The little imp was getting busy inside my head. Suddenly I had a full blooded itch, like piles at their best.
They were now in front of my stall, looking at the trees then at me. I could see a question forming on the man’s lips. Would it be about those toss pot Liberal Democrats? I just couldn’t wait. “Are you Americans?” I asked, smiling sweetly. They smiled back. It was a perfect invitation to chat only I had something different in mind! A view to a kill. Getting them ready to happily hand over their cash!
The remark was made and they were stunned. “Don’t take it so seriously,” I purred. “I’m only kidding. I’ve got many friends who are Americans. In fact my wife grew up there. In Dearborn, Michigan, to be precise.”
The mood eased a fraction. Time to put on the show. First shock and awe! They’d understand! I’d reached for a large Willow, one of my araldite specials, which I swung off the table by one of its leaves then held it under the light. “Now watch,” I said quietly, crushing the branches and trunk of the tree flat! “Unbreakable!” They couldn’t take their eyes off what I was doing. “See!” And with that I straightened everything up. Carefully, bit by bit so they could take in every move. Making it look perfect again like the professional I was. All of it right in front of their eyes.
“We don’t make our precious stones gem trees to break,” I said to the lady. I could sense their interest but time to ease up on the sales pitch or they might feel they were being sold to and we couldn’t have that! Soon, after a breather, I’d start to enthral under the lights, casually allowing the amethyst to sparkle. I began by asking them where they were from in America. I got the whole story bit by bit. Chicago, middle class, good jobs. The man was a corporate lawyer, his wife a teacher at an elite school. I sensed a touch of the liberals. Right on! We loved Obama too! He was doing so much for ordinary Americans, joke, joke, only I didn’t say the last bit!
Okay, a bit of togetherness established, now for the family jewels! My wife’s great-grandfather, I said casually, was the Court artist to Queen Victoria and her husband Prince Albert in the l850’s and sixties. He’d visited the southern states of America as a young man and made some wonderful illustrations while in the slave districts. In fact he’d been the original illustrator for Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The famous drawing of Topsy, the little black girl was his. They were all attention. We were clearly cultured people! Furthermore, I went on, he’d been drawing in Italy and happened to be at the barricades in Rome in l849 during the Revolt when in rode a man on a white horse at the head of an army. The man asked who he was and what he was doing. He turned out to be Garibaldi and the great man asked Louise’s great grandfather to do a painting of him on his horse which he did. “It’s somewhere in Italy,” I said. “It’s very famous. Berlusconi’s probably got hold of it now!”
Berlusconi! The very name was a joke and we all had a chuckle. The artist’s brother, I added, was the founder and owner of the famous Graphic newspaper which many great illustrators were given the chance to work for. “Now Louise’s grandfather,” I casually threw in, “was the private doctor of Queen Mary, George the Fifth’s wife, and attended her at Hampton Court Palace!”
The ghastly insult of twenty minutes ago was completely forgotten. I’d taken hold of them and done most of the talking but it wasn’t really wasn’t about our gem trees at all. It was more about art, fame and royalty. I wasn’t just any old market trader on the make. I was somebody. Selling exclusive art products. “You see, I said knowingly, “art runs in the family. It’s my wife who makes these beautiful jewelled trees. They looked at each other and nodded. Yes, art clearly ran in the family!
By now I was holding a superb green quartz willow under a spotlight. “So naturalistic,” I murmured. “And this willow here is made of the finest Brazilian almandine garnets. Look how rich it is under the light.” And indeed it was, but was it enough to make them get out their cash? I could see them looking at each other and knew exactly what they were going to ask. Like all Americans they wanted a discount. They’d want it even if they were stinking rich. It didn’t matter that we had arty and royal connections. Part of them still saw us as natives selling them bracelets! Them on deck of their cruise ship and us alongside in our canoes.
I explained my reluctance but I’d consider it. It was something I didn’t normally do and anyway, only if they bought a few pieces. One for each of their parents, perhaps another for her sister and one for his grandmother. They could buy them in New York if they liked, but the shops we supplied in Manhattan made a serious mark up. Price however was one thing. Above all they made wonderful gifts. Something artistically original from London. And I’d give them 20% off!
That did it! They bought six altogether and were thrilled as much as anything else by the discount. Naturally I’d raised my price at the beginning but I wasn’t telling them that! We exchanged email addresses, which they do with just about everyone, but in our case so they could keep up the distinguished connection!
So, between scratching an itch, my wife’s illustrious family and its royal connections I sold my American friends half a dozen large willows. Message such as it is? Scratch the itch then take the money. Piles of it if you can!
Alternatively, what comes around goes around. I’d scratched and after the discount they’d itched!
Now if you’ve enjoyed reading this post and others in this series so far may I make a humble suggestion. Why not try reading a novel I’ve written? It’s a highly enjoyable black satire about the English Literary Racket and what unknown writers have to do to try and get their work published. It exposes the whole dirty world of literary agents, celebrity writers, journalists and publishers and it tells you the truth. I know, I’ve been through it all. My novel, A CONSPIRACY OF TRASH is one that Rupert Murdoch’s book publishing company Harper Collins, the largest in the UK refused to publish. You can download it on Amazon and it will cost you $1.99 or around £1.30.
On Amazon, you can read the Foreword for free if you like. Above all I hope you enjoy it and that it makes you laugh because I enjoyed writing it. The rest of the novel has many different characters and one or two heroes. It also has a serious message, about the people who really control publishing and the kind of books they allow you to read. All the publishers refused to give this deadly black comedy a public hearing. They pose as liberals, believers of free speech, but they’re nothing of the kind and the thing they fear most is satire. If you read A CONSPIRACY OF TRASH you’ll understand why.
