"Blue Eyes are Inherently Evil"

When I lived in Essex, I had the luxury of having my hair cut by Martyn Holmes. These days, wayward genius in the luscious glory department is not found at the end of the road. Now I just take what is available.

The first time I went into Salon Babylon, the place experienced a Slaughtered Lamb moment. As I stepped through the threshold, the typical buzz you expect of a Near Eastern barbershop stopped. Banter halted before expected putdowns could come. The whirr of clippers ceased. A barber, mid-shave, turned to stare at me, cutthroat open in one hand as all other eyes in the shop followed him.

For 15 minutes no one spoke. When my turn in the chair came I struggled to explain what I wanted. The barber had attitude and little English, while I had less than a dozen words of Arabic. It has to be said: “Chicken” and “Don’t shoot” are not much use when you want to convey: “Same basic style mate, just a couple of inches shorter.”

As I was having my haircut, one customer came up to me and said: “In my country, blue eyes are evil. Blue eyes are inherently evil. You are inherently evil.” There is not a lot you can say to that except: “Thanks, I will bear that in mind.”

I was meant to be intimidated. Uncomfortable. Go and do not return. However, the haircut was cheap and good. Salon Babylon is on my extended patch and I do not tolerate no-go zones. You cannot expect a hoodoo city if you are not prepared to keep coming back until someone gets that burning esfand is not the response to all blue eyes. There may be an angel in every leaf and seed, but I am not the devil you need to keep seventy houses distant.

Six months on and progress is being made. Today when I enter, no one stops talking. Today, I even get my first barber banter. We manage a few jokes about why I have never been in for a shave and when I am told: “Your beard is too long for a real man” there is no knife edge in the words. Ol’ blue eyes will be back in a fortnight for a shave and I am confident no one will be burning esfand.

A Halo of Butterflies

Many years ago I learnt a trick which has scored me many free meals. Whenever I see a film shoot and I am hungry, I just wait in line at the catering truck. As long as I can feign the standard boredom of an extra, there is never usually a problem walking away with some hot food. Today at Paddington, the ploy resulted in a breakfast of sausage-filled croissant.

It was a good start to a good day. Early sun warmed the shadows. Blossom exploded from trees. The gentle hiss of sprinklers accompanied Melvyn Bragg as he led me through the Battle of Thermopylae.

Crossing Sussex Gardens, I began walking with Muse and gained company. A halo of butterflies circled my head. Two iridescent orange satellites in elliptical orbit. I expected them to decay, but they maintained their dancing formation. I pushed on for a full half mile reborn in the image of Quetzalcoatl. Maybe, just maybe, my mojo is returning.

A Tribal Affair

The new book is written and has been delivered to my commissioning editor. According to him: “It looks great.” My sigh of relief on hearing this was so deep I think the subsonic hum caused damage to the Westway’s concrete.

The good news keeps rolling with the discovery that the project is going to be copy-edited by Tim Dedopulos. This is a lovely bonus. Tim’s name was in the acknowledgements as one of my ‘brothers by other mothers’ long before I knew he would be working on the book.

Writing it with Matt Adams – whose name would have been in the acknowledgements of any project – then being edited by Tim makes it feel like a tribal affair. Sharing the spoils of a kill, turning one gig into work that helps keep three of us in the black. The running tribe model, the 21st century way,

The project is my first humour book in a decade. Unlike the crime against trees I put my name to help clear Anne-Marie Forker’s student debts, this one is almost readable. I am happy to admit it is a hack gig. When you need to pay for a funeral, there is no better way than to write a book about death. As Andy Warhol would say: “I’ve got to bring home the bacon, someone’s got to bring home the roast.”

However, doing this book has also meant being commissioned by someone I really rate and like, writing with one of the people I am closest to and being edited by a man who I consider a brother despite him having once stolen my name. It really does feel like the way forward. Working with my friends, dividing the score.

Now the book is over, there is only one more thing to do before I can get back to life. After I get back from the hospital I can concentrate on the important things. There are ducks to feed and brioche bread and butter puddings to make. A 99-year-old Nanna to spoil and lazing in bed with the Sunday morning papers to catch up on.