Alright, perverts? I used to know a guy for whom this was his trademark greeting in a Cornish accent so thick it was voting for the BNP and watching Top Gear in its yellowing pants.
Alright perverts? He would blunder, regardless of the occasion. I was at a wake once – a wake for fucks sake – for a friend of ours who had died heart-breakingly young. In he came, voice lowered as if to mark the solemnity and gravitas of the sombre occasion.
“Alright perverts?” he whispered, sitting at our table and helping himself to a bread roll, “Fucking sad day though, ay?”
To this day I still don’t know if he actually knew what ‘perverts’ meant.

I loved this guy. His name was Randolph and he had the bone white Nordic colouring which bordered on Albinism. He had an acute sense for the absurd and would often answer the door in a t-shirt displaying an all over print of the Horsehead Nebula in his pants, scratching his nuts. I used to think he was socially inept, incapable of calculating the emotional barometers of people’s moods but I realised only recently that he simply did not give a fuck. Not one tiny sausage shaped nugget of fuckity foo.
There is a very fine line – hair fine, like the faintest crack in the worlds most delicate fine bone china – between not giving a shit and simply being an irritating clangle.The type of idiot whose presence in the room makes you wish to disappear into your own navel, perhaps turning yourself inside out in the process like some exotic deep sea octopus. Imagine how that would look for a minute. You, secreting yourself into your own navel, diving into it hands first in a hot pink fleshstream.
Yikes, right? Here, have some peyote and lets try that shit.


Take me for instance. Annoying clangle. I could have been the warm-up person on Pat Sharpes Fun House, jostling a room full of children into full-blown, lung splitting hysteria. Noise just falls from my mouth and I am desperate for you to enjoy yourself in my company. Desperate. Prat falls, custard pie throwing, juggling, tap dancing…if it makes you laugh, I’ll do it.

Like I said. Desperate.

Imagine not caring. How nice, that would be. It’s exhausting clamouring for approval. Randolph didn’t, and I envied him that. Not for him the mediocrity of your attention. The message he gave out was loud and clear; ‘Your opinion of me is your responsibility, not mine’. Brilliant isn’t it? Adopt it, use it, get it tattooed in an intriguing place or sewn into your underwear.

That was his message.

Well, that and ‘Alright, perverts?’