On Thursday, I left my cosseted suburban existence to catch a gig in London, as I am a fully formed adult now. On the way I met up once again with the promoter whom I had an extreme fit of perspiration in the company of. Since writing that particular entry, there has been another occasion that I have been struck by an attack of irrepressible self-moistening. According to my personal journal, this was on Fri 4th June. A date I should be able to remember with ease, since it was a very special day for one of my friends from school, who was betrothing himself in matrimony that day; and I had been invited along to witness the occasion.
(NOTE - When I say “friend from school”, I do mean a person I befriended whilst attending school as a pupil. I feel obliged to clarify this, as a little further on in this entry, I will have been victim of a major sweating outbreak, and will have lank greasy hair stuck flat to my forehead; thus fitting the perfect stereotypical appearance of a dubious person who might well wish to ingratiate himself schoolchildren. Which I assure you I am not.)
It was a wonderful day for a wedding. There was not a cloud in the sky. I suspect it may have been the sunniest day of the year so far. But the first mistake I made was agreeing to wait for my mate Neil to call by my house so we could walk to the church together. Because Neil is always invariably arrives late for everything. It is the only consistently reliable thing in his nature.
Whilst I do not consider myself most au fait with social convention, I am pretty confident that arriving at a wedding, effectively following the bride down the aisle is not deemed particularly appropriate behaviour. So dressed in full three-piece suit attire, Neil and I were obliged to run to church in order to prevent such a faux pas occurring. Thankfully we did manage to beat the bride’s arrival, but given the amalgamation of heavy clothing, the temperature and the act of running, my breathless entrance to the church managed to make me feel like I was turning the occasion into some weird real life re-enactment of the ending from the film “The Graduate”.
The usher seemed a bit flummoxed by our last minute arrival too, as all the seats in the church seemed to be occupied, bar for a few at the very front; which, to my immense surprise, he continued to lead me to. I knew at the time he was making some sort of mistake. And so did everyone else seated in the church. As I followed him down the aisle, I did not dare look at the other guests, but I could feel their eyes looking at me. And upon taking my seat, I could still feel their glances burning the back of my neck. It was at that moment the sweating began in earnest. For even given my ignorance of formal social conventions, even I know that these seats are reserved for specific alumni. To the other guests I must have been exuding a certain amount of hubris, appearing as if I considered myself important enough to turn up to a church last, and then arrogantly assume my place alongside the bride and grooms’ family. But at this stage, the last thing I desired was to draw further attention to my profusely sweating face. All I could do was sit there feeling socially helpless. And rather damp.
Since I had seemingly lost the ability to take responsibility for myself, it would eventually be the Best Man who would save me from my plight. He kindly (and thankfully) grasped control of the matter, by locating a store room with chairs, and placing one at the very back of the church for me. This relegation meant that I would no longer have any sort of view for the ceremony itself. But I cared little. At least I was now hidden away out of view, tucked behind the other guests, where I could commence my sweating with a degree of privacy. The only person that paid me any attention was a young mother sitting in the row in front of me, who had happened to looked round. She took pity on me, and kindly offered me a wet-wipe. Initially I thought this was some sort of cruel joke, since conceptually, adding a moist wipe to a moist face seemed devoid of being any practical assistance. But the wet wipe actually ended up doing the trick nicely, managing to cool my face, and I was soon able to enjoy some of the ceremony with a degree of comfort. I must find out who that lady was, and thank her sometime.
Which brings me to my meeting in London with the promoter on Thursday. I am rather afraid to say that my body temperatures fared no better than on our last meeting. Which makes me feel a degree of chagrin. The recent onset of these intense and untimely perspiration attacks seem very unfair. Why on Earth have they started to happen now? Were I unfit I could understand them, but I currently live a healthier lifestyle than I’ve ever done previously. I eat healthily, have a better regime than ever, and whilst not strictly teetotal, I am not the drinker I was in years gone by.
In my defence, we are in the middle of a major heat-wave. And I did have to carry a heavy rucksack full of scratching around London. Yes that is right – there is no need to re-read that sentence. On learning of the meeting my boss couldn’t resist the opportunity for more nepotism, and requested I took a bag of pork scratchings as a gift for each member of staff. I figure he thought this as a slightly kooky West Midlands thing to do for a bit of a laugh. But it is still fundamentally depressing to think that I have been working in the entertainments industry for twelve long years now, and I have been reduced to carting a rucksack of dead pig’s skin across London, like some weird Pied Piper for the capitals’ stray dogs. Imagine how that would look to the Transport Police on the tube. Thank heavens I never had the indignity of being searched. Twelve fucking years long my career I tell you, and this really the best I can aspire to? The life of some slightly dubious, anti-Semitic working-class fluffer? And to further such indignity, when I got there, they didn’t even want them!
Oh well - looking on the bright side, at least the stench from my rucksack might in some way mask the stench of stale sweat. If these attacks continue to be a problem, I may have to take to wearing nothing but an impractically tight pair of Speedos to such meetings and formal occasions. But I hope that there will not be a need to take such measures and this is just a passing phase, or something I can learn to control; having so far ascertained three fundamental lessons.
1) Don’t eat whole chillies
2) Don’t go jogging in a full suit
3) Don’t carry a heavy rucksack of Pork Scratchings on a hot day.
And for the benefit of people who have never suffered such problems, I have made a short compilation mix, featuring the music which I believe best evocative of the sticky, clammy feelings of an intense hot summers’ day, so that you may be able to empathise with my plight in some way. I have called it “Music To Perspire To” and you can download it here.
And whilst demostrating such an unashamed level of self-indulgence, here is another chance to download my own musical/monologue collaboration for as long as the link lasts.
