We are staying with my parents in Cheddar during this last West Country phase of my tour and I think my wife might have realised too late what she's let herself in for. Because she is getting to spend with me (and I am annoying enough) but also my dad, who is like a living preview of how things will be for her in 30 years time. If you think that I could do with a bit of a filter between my brain and my mouth then you really should meet my father. He is a wonderful man, though he's a bit balmy (not barmy obviously - he's just stuffed full of lip balm), but he takes no prisoners and tells it like it is. Not like Richard Littlejohn or DickI begyourpardonNick Griffin. He's a very moral and decent and Christian man, he's just someone you probably don't want to tell a secret to. Because of the lack of brain mouth filter. Something that I can identify with because although my filter is still in situ, there is a fucking big hole in the middle of it already. I probably shouldn't be writing this about my dad, but I can't help it. It's the Herring genes. Honesty and openness above all else. It's not always the right thing.
I once told my dad that I could have done his job, but he could never do mine - he brings this up quite regularly because he thinks he has funny and says I owe him royalties for all the stuff of his that I've used. But whilst he is undoubtedly an hilarious man it is rarely on purpose. Again, maybe the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree..
But perhaps I was wrong about him not being able to be a comedian. Because he has no fear about saying what he thinks. He could give Brendon Burns a run for his money. Maybe there's room for a 75 year old comic who says the unsayable and then if that doesn't work, just eats non-edible unguents. And absolute open honesty is something that is sadly lacking in most comedians, who want to project a false image of themselves. My dad has none of that. He could be the best comedian ever. As long as he never attempts any jokes.
And by the way I am not sure I could have done his job either. Being a teacher and a headmaster is tough enough as it is, without all those sixth formers walking around in school uniform... I think the 22 year old me would have been quickly sacked.
My wife didn't seem too perturbed about this vision of her future, but perhaps I saw fear in her eyes as she wondered, "What have I done?" But maybe she was thinking, "Damn, I married the wrong one." Who knows?
All of this was going on in my head and my head alone. Perhaps spooked by yesterday's vision of me a quarter of a century ago I was worried about this vision of my life 25 years into the future.
But I would be lucky to be half the man my father is, however much I try to deflect my love for him through humour and embarrassment.
I am quite different to my dad in certain aspects of my moral outlook, but somewhere underneath it all I have inherited his decency and a little bit of his community spirit. My wife could do a lot worse than me, even if, let's be honest, she could also have done a lot better.
Marriage still doesn't seem real. It feels odd referring to "my wife" and I am either surprised or freaked out by my ring. Though it's given no sign of being loose and has stayed on my finger so far I am unduly terrified of it falling off my finger when I am going to the toilet. The symbolism is almost embarrassing in its obviousness. But if it literally happened it would be awfully embarrassing to tell my wife what had happened. Either if I had managed to scoop it out or if it had fallen as the flush was operating - I don't think she'd be very pleased.
Maybe the fear comes from my mum losing her wedding ring in a French swimming pool in the late 1970s - is that why I wanted to throw mine into the Seine? Does that awful afternoon of searching the water for her tiny wedding band account for my adult desire to throw things of value into water? I doubt it. But even though the ring is just a symbol it is an awful thought that it might be lost. Presumably the flushing toilet wedding ring disaster has happened to someone somewhere in the world, it's unlikely to happen to me. Especially as I have started deliberately bending my ring finger upwards into a hook when I am urinating so that the ring would have to defeat gravity, though giving me a new air of affectation, like a posh person drinking a cup of tea, sticking out their little finger. There he is Richard Herring, the man who wees with a crooked ring finger. And then tells people about it, because he has congenital disintegration of brain/mouth filter.
The other thing he does is run a stream of consciousness from one subject to another with little to no connection.... oh dear. Might not be too late to get this annulled Mrs Herring.... either of you.
