The Web Pen Interview

Friday, June 1st, 2007

It was a dark and stormy night, as Snoopy did once upon a time write, when I opened the doors of my home in cyberspace to a strange American man who, mad-eyed, raised the lantern he was carrying and held it up so he could better see my puzzled expression. He bade me invite him into my spicy cauldron domain. Like a fool, I did so. I can only surmise now that he used some kind of mesmeric influence upon me.

Once inside the cauldron, he took it upon himself to sit down in my most comfortable armchair. As he shook the rain from the huge top-hat he wore, revealing for a moment a spiky and contemporary hairstyle, I could see that although the man was obviously insane he had lived a life of laughter: many were the lines around the eyes. I told him this, and he hurriedly reached into his pocket for the pro-retinol moisturiser he said he carried at all times (along with his iPod and joke book, apparently).

He announced his name was Howard as he applied a thin layer of cream underneath each eye. “But no connection to the duck,” he added as an after-thought. I think he could tell I had not a clue what he meant, for my non-responsiveness at that juncture seemed to please him.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “And please blow out the lantern, I don’t want you setting fire to anything.”

Howard did as instructed and smiled. I shuddered. “I have been sent by higher powers,” he whispered. “You are under instruction to answer my questions, and when you have answered them you are destined to ask five of your very own to five other souls in this technological trap set for us all, for us all, I tell you!” He laughed. “They know we’re here,” he added, but elaborated no further.

I answered the American’s questions. I saw no reason not to. Upon conclusion he grunted, nodded not once but twice as if for confirmation, and rose from my armchair. He picked up his lantern and moved to the door, opening it.

Outside it was still a dark and stormy night. As Howard left he pulled the door closed behind him, but his final words chilled me to the bone.

“You must tell the world what I asked of you,” he ordered. “Your answers must be revealed alongside. And remember–” He paused, fixing one eye upon me.

“Yes?” I asked, prompting him.

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush! Didn’t you know? Fool of an Englishman!”

That curious statement made, he snarled, turning away and slamming the door. He was gone. I was left alone with an unexplained visitation to ponder and a mysterious mark to remove from the armchair.

It was only later… much, much later… that I realised I had never once raised a question about the withered arm or the tin of baked beans…

Here are the questions he asked of me, and my answers:

1. I’m one of the people you share with. What in the world made you trust me?

It was the cut of your jib. You struck me from your blog as being a kind, honest person with, nevertheless, a sharp and even at times one might say rather ascerbic wit. Perhaps I saw something of my own world values in you, in fact, I really think I did. You’re a comedian with, as many comics have, a serious centre behind the shenanigans and fireworks, not exactly hidden away but certainly not the first layer of personality we meet. The blend, as with certain coffees but most definitely not all, was to my requirements for friendship and trust to be extended.

I hope you like that answer.

2. You feel the pain and ecstasy of being 40 as well. How do you reply to those that call you ’sir’?

I say they’ve called the wrong number, I don’t do that kind of thing. Not unless I’m wearing a gas mask, big black goth boots and rubber gloves while carrying a feather duster. This doesn’t happen very often, though there are times in my life when I have, actually, had one or all three in my temporary possession.

You don’t have to be 40 to be called Sir.

You know, when I was a kid, all the letters I got through the post were addressed to ‘Master…’ followed by my name. I’ve always thought that a strange hangover from past times. Don’t you? It kind of sets boys up to be dominators in adult life. Girls get ‘Miss…’ which immediately makes me think of My Little Pony, the colour pink, and Tiny Tears.

Am I showing my age by referencing Tiny Tears? Probably.

3. What is the most bizarre American slang you’ve heard?

I don’t know if it counts as slang but the term ‘frat boy’ has always puzzled me. It seems to be about fraternity—that is, brotherhood. Frat boys in gay culture—okay, not culture but the stuff that gets exported from the US to the UK other than Desperate Housewives, ER, Battlestar Galactica and nasty chat shows—are always extraordinarily pretty, use hair removal wax to an astonishingly comprehensive and thorough degree, and like to take their clothes off in front of strangers. I thought that frat boys had some connection to higher education, but I’ve yet to see a frat boy who looks like a bookworm, a nerd, a geek. Surely there must be some? They can’t all look like the Mormon Twins who turn up on our doorsteps over here in Britland offering salvation and big gold statues of the Angel Mormon in my home town while also offering to buy the homes of locals for way above the market price in a sinister invasion tactic?

But I digress.

All the frat boys I’ve ever seen are frustratingly attractive-looking harlots, truth be said, yet they all seem completely dumb as well. This farm-boy simplicity isn’t something I find charming. It works against all the shallow plus factors and is something I’ve always found a complete turn-off. I know there are American males with brains. They do exist, and there are lots of them. But they don’t seem numbered among frat boys. Maybe they are, but they hide their lights under bushels. But the frat boys I’ve seen in my life don’t hide much of anything, so I don’t know. I’m flummoxed.

Have I been looking at the wrong movies, misreading my cultural reference points? Or is my notion of a frat boy accurate? The closest equivalent I think we have over here are rugby players. Something to do with soggy digestive biscuits. I don’t know, it’s what I’ve been told, let’s move on. Yes?

Oh, but before we do, I would add that my notion of frat boys is somewhat similar to Eastern European lads—specifically, the Russian Army. And I got my impression of those from the BBC in shocking documentary reports. Make of that what you will. But did you know many in the Russian Army go forever without being paid? You’ve got to earn money somehow, I guess.

Above all else, we shouldn’t judge, should we?

4. Who did put the bop in the bop-shoo-bop?

That would be Cyndi Lauper. She Bop was a great track that didn’t do very well at all when released as a single in the UK. Did it do better across the water? I believe it was a song that in the US had very rude connotations, but not here…?

Oh, and then there’s Madonna—a woman who herself has very rude connotations but the song she sang that I’m thinking of right now was Shoo-Be-Do from her Like A Virgin album and, it has to be said, it wasn’t very good.

Various bops and shoos can also be found liberally sprinkled across the soundtrack to Grease. Then there are deely-boppers, the less said about those the better.

The fact that shoo sounds like shoe but isn’t the same thing at all is weird. Don’t you think? But shoe is much older than shoo, and more often used as well. Shoot is an old word, but aha! The question is, did shoo come from shoot or did shoo never have anything to do with the letter T at all?

5. Would you ride your broom between your legs or side saddle?

Between my legs is an area not often referenced by myself in public—certainly not as openly as dear Rufus Wainwright references that part of his own body on his latest album. But, to answer, I always ride my broomstick while sitting astride the thing and holding onto it firmly with both hands. If I encounter turbulence I have been known to wrap my feet and ankles around the broomstick as well. I don’t like doing that, because if any other witches see me in that position, it’s kind of demeaning and very hard to explain.

Did you know before asking this question, I wonder, that I own an actual broomstick? I can’t recall telling you but maybe I did. It is used for ritual cleansing and protection and sits right next to the front door of our home. Sadly, it lacks the functionality of a Nimbus model but, then, I’ve never wanted to play Quidditch so I’ve never felt I was missing out.

Are we done now?

Currently listening to: David Sylvian – Camphor – The Song Which Goves The Key To Perfection