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I have quite a knack of writing fictional things that then come true. In my as yet unpublished (and almost completely unwritten) novel, “I’ve Wasted My Life” the protagonist dies in the opening chapter by tripping over in the kitchen and landing on a large kitchen knife that is in the cutlery section of the dishwasher, sticking point upwards. He slowly bleeds to death, listening to Dancing Queen which is inappropriately playing on the radio. It’s doubly annoying for him because his mum always warned him not to do that with his knives and not to leave his dishwasher open. Unlike my unlucky fictional hero I am very careful to not put knives that way up. Partly for fear of death and partly because it seems to me that if you put cutlery in pointy side up then you get your mucky paw prints all over them as you remove them. Others of course argue that the cutlery doesn’t get as clean with the action part downwards (though I would dispute that). Whole books could be written about dishwasher stacking and I expect Ben Elton has written them.
I actually prefer to wash my good knives by hand, as the dishwasher can dull and crack the handles (though others might argue that you are in more danger of blunting your knives in the sink). It’s weird to me that people fight wars over whether Jesus is literally in some bread or because they think a man in the sky has given them the right to live in a particular place, but no one fights wars about dishwasher etiquette. It’s much more contentious and it’s definitely real.
So obviously I didn’t trip and fall on to a knife and die today…. or did I? Woooo! Woooo!. No I didn’t. But as I reached to put something in the dishwasher today I felt a sharp pain in my hand. I had speared the top part of my palm on a steak knife that was pointing out of the cutlery compartment. How? Why? Why God Why?
I was initially unsure about how bad the damage was. There was a bit of blood and it really hurt, but it was more the surprise than anything. I am in charge of the dishwasher. I don’t put knives in there. And even if I did I would put them point down.
My mother-in-law (I wouldn’t say she’s fat, because she is thin) had kindly done some tidying in the kitchen last night and she was a point-up kind of woman (what have I married into? And how did the family keep such things from me for so long). She was there to witness the spearing and amongst my many polite, “Don’t worry”s and “I’m fine”s, I did manage to indignantly point out, “We don’t put those knives in there!"
I told her about the story idea and how I put knives point down (if they end up in the dishwasher at all, which some of the older ones do), but she argued that she puts them point up because otherwise there’s a danger that they will damage the cutlery holder. How has stuff like this not led to the pointless wiping out of millions of people?
Luckily the damage to my hand was minimal and the pain subsided (I didn’t even cry) and I survived. It would have been ironic if I had died as we had just literally finished a meeting with a solicitor who is going to draw up our wills. If I had caught my wrist (and I am pretty sure that was my mother-in-law’s plan) I might have bled to death. And died intestate. And I don’t want to die without my testates.
Tonight I was in Fareham, a venue that I have turned up late to on two occasions (and it’s not like me to be late at all), but today traffic was fine and we got there with two and a half hours to spare. I was delighted to see a large poster in the foyer advertising “CLIFF RICHARD - the ultimate Cliff Richard tribute experience.” And my mind boggled wondering about what that might be. I also think Simon Goodall who “does” Cliff might be wise to get in as many gigs as he can as soon as possible. Just a hunch. Why do none of these celebrities think about their lookalikes? Or do they behave the way they do to deliberately scupper their parasitic careers. I know I resent Charley Boorman for stealing my Herring Shoes work. Revenge is a dish best served with Yew.
I had a Metro column to file so I went into town in search of a cafe with internet. It was 5.15 when I went into a nice looking independent coffeehouse, though the woman and girl working there seemed to be busy tidying up, “Are you still open?” I said. “Sort of,” said the girl quite reluctantly. “Do you have the internet?” She didn’t seem clear and asked the older lady (perhaps her mum) who said they did. “Can I have a cappuccino then?” I asked.
“Oh sorry, I’ve just done the coffee machine,” said the older lady. And I thought it was probably best to go elsewhere. I mean coffee is only the main thing that they sell so you can understand why they shut everything down 15 minutes before closing. I’m not complaining. I like this attitude. Well, your hastiness lost you £2.30 today my friend and your loss was Ian Nero’s gain.
It was a bit of a tentative start as I began quite chatty and discussed dishwasher etiquette with a woman in the front row who husband also put knives point up for fear of damaging the basket, but the crowd warmed up and I had some fun with Cliff Richard and some people who looked like they were walking out (though they came back) and it was interesting doing the material about SCOPE with two men in wheelchairs sitting prominently on the front row (luckily they got what I was doing and laughed along and I was able to reference how awkward everyone else was to their delight!) I’ve dressed a bit more informally for the last two or three gigs (mainly out of the usual late tour laziness) and maybe that has led to a more relaxed atmosphere.
I also had fun tweeting some of the posters from the dressing room, which stretched back over the last 30 or so years. Robert Llewllyn in the Joeys, Anorak of Fire, lovely Alison Goldie and some idiot doing a show called "Talking Cock". Whatever happened to him? Such promise.
