TOM JACKSONOne thing I’ve noticed getting older is an
increased level of disinhibition creeping
into my behaviour. Which is to say, I don’t care
as much as I used to about what other people
think of me. This development is a source of
tension with Nicola, my wife. I tend to see it
as liberating. She takes the view it can often
tip over from charming eccentricity to
embarrassing, delusional self-indulgence. As
well as being very silly. She’s probably right.
But I’m a bit right as well.
This new incontinence manifests in different
ways: wearing manky sports kit almost the
whole time I’m not at work; going out into the
park to feed Gresaola the fox in my pyjama
trousers, and not even after dark any more, now
the evenings are lighter; singing, “Gresaola!
Gresaola! I love ya, Gresaola!” to the tune
of Tomorrow from Annie; pretending I’m
presenting a cookery programme when making
the tea (“just a little something I’ve rustled up”,
I smugly inform an imaginary camera, holding
up a baking tray full of soggy fish fingers);
adopting different accents and personae while
holding conversations with non-existent
interlocutors; spinning Walter Mitty-ish
fantasies about my former life in the special
forces/professional sport/polar exploration.
In short, slowly parting company with
social etiquette, not to mention reality. Yep,
I’ve gone well beyond telling the kids Tiger
the cat is a part-time DJ and his pal Lucky
is a contract killer.
My son and I perform this ritual exchange
in which you respond to an ultra-innocuous
statement or request with an overly aggressive,
mis-emphasised reply. For example, “Can you
pass the salt, please?” brings forth, “I’ll pass
YOU the salt.” He started it – probably got it
off The Simpsons – years ago. We never tire of
it. “I’m going to put the dishwasher on.” “I’ll
put YOUR dishwasher on!” etc.
The advanced form of the game, if game
it is, is to rearrange the other person’s sentence
entirely. As in, “I’m off to Mustafa’s in my
pyjamas,” might result in a reply of, “I’ll
pyjama YOUR Mustafa’s!”
The elite level is where it gets embarrassing,
because you play it on your own, in public, out
loud, using the scrambled version of whatever
was said before you left the house. So, a few
months ago, I went to get my Covid booster
round at the vaccination centre on Bocking
Street. I walked there stating audibly, clearly
and repeatedly, “I’ll booster YOUR Bocking
Street.” Understandably, I got a few funnylooks. And to get funny looks in Hackney,
a borough that prides itself on the full
complement of oddballs and drunks, not to
mention drunken oddballs, you have to be
doing something extra bonkers.
The other day I got that old hip-hop tune
I Wish by Skee-Lo stuck in my head: “I wish
I was a little bit taller/ I wish I was a baller...”
etc. I couldn’t stop singing it. I was in the loos
at work, thinking I was alone because none of
the six cubicles appeared occupied. So I was
singing the couplet into the mirror, only not in
a Californian accent like Mr Lo, but in absurdly
exaggerated Danny Dyer-esque Cockney. A
young, techy, digitally hipster guy came out of
one of the traps and scuttled away, too young
and nervous to comment on my rendition.
Talking of Danny Dyer, I like to have
arguments with my reflection in the lift. “Oi!
You muppet! That’s a facking liberty!” (Jab
finger and so on.) And talking of the gents’
loos at work, they pipe in the same few songs
all the time. They’re big on Walk of Life, Bad
Medicine, Every Breath You Take and Heaven
by Bryan Adams. “Blimey,” I think, “if you’re
going to play dad rock, at least make it Bruce.”
Mind you I like doing the big over-the-head
hand claps to Radio Ga Ga. Although it does
play havoc with your aim. Incidentally, I
always thought that Bryan Adams’s attempts
at emoting made him look constipated.
“(Everything I do) I do it for poo!” (Grimace.)
Meanwhile, over at the gym, my trainer
Sapan and I can spend entire half-hour
sessions spouting sporting clichés based on
my former career as an international (but not,
sadly, paid, my heyday coming just before
professionalisation) rugby player. “Watching
the game later, Bob? You must miss the old
days, eh?” “Not likely, mate. They’re all serious
athletes now. In my time it was more about
the beers!” Chortle, chortle.
Talking of rugby, during the Six Nations
I became obsessed with the Ireland centre
Bundee Aki. Or rather, his name. I often find
myself inserting “Bundee Aki” into song lyrics,
be they the theme tune from The Banana Splits
(“Tra-la-la, tra-la-la-la/ One Bundee Aki, two
Bundee Aki, three Bundee Aki, four!” or
Prince’s Raspberry Beret (“Bunnn-dee Aki/
The kind you find in a second-hand store”)
or some old music hall number (“My old man
said follow Bundee Aki...” etc).
On reflection, my wife’s right, isn’t she? n[email protected]‘My wife says I’ve
parted company
with social etiquette.
OK, I admit what
I do in the men’s
loos is a bit silly’
Beta male
Robert Crampton
© Times Newspapers Ltd, 2022. Published and licensed by Times Newspapers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF (020 7782 5000). Printed by Prinovis UK Ltd, Liverpool. Not to be sold separately.*