I once had my head kicked in by 2 skinheads at Angel tube station, London. This may be because I was wearing a red jumper and a golden badge and blue eye make-up.
In 1998 I nearly drowned in Cornwall when a riptide pulled me out to sea. I escaped by telling the ocean to **** off.
Approaching Christmas one year I was pushed into the road by a rampaging european woman at around 5am in East Dulwich, London. She had moments earlier been noisily ejected from her female lover's flat. I decided to deal with this situation by gazing at her kindly, in the manner of Jesus. She backed away carefully.
Some people call me 'Skurvy Irvy' to my face. I'm told that this is intended as a demonstration of affection and familiarity.
Two young men began to mug me in a dimly lit section of Deptford High Street early one Saturday evening, placing one of their 4 arms around my shoulders without invitation. Due to a previous attack I instantly became filled with indignant rage which emerged in the form of a blood-curdling scream. They decided to abandon their mission and briskly trotted away to the north.
Recently, without looking up from her Mega Bloks, my daughter (5), sighed and told me "Daddy, when you play the piano it makes me feel even sicker".
Late one night in Deptford I found an elderly, unshaven man lying in a pool of his own blood in the street. He had banged his head against the kerb and was now sleeping. I encouraged him to wake up and promised to accompany him to his house. Because he was very drunk we travelled slowly. He said to me "I'm sure you must have some Irish in you". I told him that a quarter of me is an Irishman and he immediately squatted between 2 parked cars to have an enthusiastic dump. I delivered him nevertheless.
One fine summer evening on the bottom floor of a double decker bus on Brixton Hill a man told me "I'm going to cut you, you s**t". This was because I had foolishly distracted him from his original purpose of threatening a woman. The bus driver now stopped the vehicle and opened the doors to make it easier for me to be murdered. The aggressive man then enquired of me "Do you want some?" to which I calmly replied "No! I do not". This exchange was repeated almost identically a large number of times. The man eventually became so frustrated that he began to sob and was led from the bus by a kindly older lady. I continue to recommend public transport.
Because my northern english accent made me pretty much unintelligible when I first moved to London, the Australian barman of a pub in Chelsea misunderstood my request for half a lager, giving me a whole pint. When I pointed out that there had been an error he responded by leaving his post in order to angrily shake an oar at me. My girlfriend of the time was able to recommend a pub across the street. This left us in a difficult situation though since we had already paid for tickets for a performance of A Clockwork Orange to be held in the upstairs room of the pub from which I had now been so unfairly banned. Happily, my girlfriend of the time was able to recommend re-entry by fire-escape.
A subsequent girlfriend once said to me "I HATE your stupid flat, I HATE your stupid friends and you CAN'T COOK!" I now only cook for my stupid friends.
Still recovering from a serious back injury I crossed Cannon Street on a sunny morning using slow, stiff movements. A militant cyclist jumped a red so that he could buzz me and this caused a powerful spasm in my back which triggered a cry of pain. He then paused in his busy schedule to tell me to "F*** Off!"
In mist, at dusk, I was travelling home through Surrey Quays when I fell from my bicycle on a slippy wooden bridge. I laid on the empty path for long minutes feeling quite unable to stand. Fortunately 2 teenage girls appeared and were kind enough to step over me and move on without making eye contact.
My friend who is a man-about-town and I were drinking alcohol in the otherwise deserted basement of a pub in Grays Inn Road when 3 women strangers marched into the room, lowered their underwear and commanded us to judge their rears. Without thinking I immediately cried "It's clearly contestant B!" As soon as the words had left my mouth I realised that the conviction of my decision must have been a dreadful blow for the other entrants. I vowed never again to take on the terrible responsibility of judging a bottom-contest.
When I am eating, I sometimes shout out in great pain because I have suddenly and ferociously bitten the inside of my mouth. When this happens I briefly become so angry that I want to kill myself. I don't mean that I want to commit suicide - I just want revenge.
My 5 year old daughter recently claimed that while she was still in the womb she was able to create cave-paintings on her mother's bones.
I am always polite and respectful to figures of authority but when I was told by a Shrewsbury policeman that he was going to arrest me for stealing petrol I accidentally laughed in his face because I thought he was joking. I was put in a cell for 3 hours and then interrogated. The same slightly shy and gentle policeman couldn't think of anything to ask me but with my help and encouragement we managed to get down on tape the fact that I am not a counterfeiter of 10 pound notes (even though I had recently gained a diploma from The London College of Printing) and that the tenner which had alarmed the woman at the petrol station had always been genuine. As I was being released a herd of struggling away-supporter football hooligans was dragged into the station. These angry young men were, by coincidence, from my home town although at the time I could not know this because I am immune to football.
My girlfriend gets really annoyed whenever I play the theme from Cheers. I don't think she minds my piano playing or even my singing and she certainly likes the song itself. What drives her mad is when I announce at the end that "CHEERS is filmed before a LIVE - STUDIO - AUDIENCE".
Because I love to walk long distances all over London (or any city), I was once interviewed on Channel 4 about an imaginary sport called Urban Walking. I tried to be a perfect talking head but my voice kept telling them I could not recommend Urban Walking to anyone. Something else I do not recommend is seeing yourself on TV because that's when you find out that you have always looked, to other people, like a twitching motel receptionist who hardly moves his lips when he speaks.
One dark winter my lungs became filled up with fluid. My chest felt like it contained mud and razor blades, and the toxins in me caused astonishing and beautiful visual disturbances. Whenever I closed my eyes I saw an overpowering, high-resolution, 200 mile per hour, full-colour dissolving-world scenario which was viewed through video-game camera work. I saw fine close-ups which were detailed far beyond anything I have observed in the real world. I saw enormous wide-shots of an entire solar system which then zoomed in with sweeping camera work to a liquid-engulfed world where unresistable water swept away buildings, vehicles, trees, mountains, entire cities and happy laughing crowds of people. As the anti-biotics slowly defeated the stuff in my body the water gradually ate away the soil of the planet and my hallucinations began to fade. A doctor at the hospital told me that they were not intending to commit me because I seemed to know the difference between the visions and my real world. I told him I was very grateful.
