No, I'm not Tony Robinson. It would be weird if I was. But also quite brilliant.
Imagine if you'd been reading this blog for nearly three years (remind me to forget that anniversary), without knowing that I was Tony Robinson. I might have carefully hidden that fact by posting photos of a stranger, and avoiding telling Blackadder anecdotes. It would be pretty clever.
Also, most people who read this know me. Well, they know Paul Fung. But what if I, Tony Robinson (I'm not Tony Robinson), had hired this Paul Fung to pretend to be the author of the blog. Just so I could have my fun.
But to what end? To fool the many (many) readers of Headscissors. To show them that my creativity didn't end with Maid Marian and her Merry Men, but that I'd been working on a small-scale, but beautifully crafted, writing project: disguising myself; creating a fictional writer persona called Paul; seeming to run out of ideas quite often; feigning boredom at a non-existent job; going nowhere.
It would be quite something. Banksyesque.
I might win some kind of prize. What about that Turner Prize? Could this count? Could I, Tony (not Tony), be rewarded for this brainwave?
I should be.
Or, I could be.
But of course, I'm not Tony Robinson.
I'm Paul Fung. A real person, really writing this, who has never even met Ben Elton, and never excavated an old wall.
I'm not Tony Robinson.
RUNAWAY TRAIN (remember that?)
I've recently been looking through some old stuff.
I'm not Moroccan historian Mohammed Akensus. It would be weird if I was.
But also quite brilliant.
Imagine if I, faking my death in 1877, had survived to the modern day and started to write a mundane English blog about nothing.
It would be an excellent ruse. You can consider the genius of the details yourself.
The old stuff I'm referring to is some items from my own past.
I have a couple of folders of assorted important documents, letters, certificates, photographs, other letters, knuckledusters and used wicks with sentimental value.
I might write about some of these in the days to come. (I can already hear you panting with anticipation - and thirst. Drink some water.)
There's a red plastic concertina-file full of the stuff. Most of it boring. Some of it erotic. All of it Paul (and certainly nothing to do with a certain Mr Robinson).
To start with this goldmine, I'm going to transcribe a story I wrote in Year 11 - GCSE English.
This is pretty much the only bit of my schoolwork that seems to have survived, so is a valuable resource.
I would have been about 15 or 16 when I wrote this. There are lost of amusing things about it, including a terrible title, and the fact that I'm writing about adult things in what I imagined to be a grown-up style, even though I'd read no books, and had no life experience whatsoever.
It's always embarrassing to look at the creative work of your youth (I just re-read the beginning of this very blog post, and it's cast-iron tosh), so bear with me. I was young, remember?
Here it is, transcribed verbatim:
***
Paul Fung 11GC
Personal writing
Analysing Shadows
Analysing Shadows
A solitary torch flickered in the darkness, casting contorted shadows on the moist stone walls. If you looked carefully, you could see the steam rising off the still warm bodies as they lay, submerged in the murky depths of the sewer floor. The flies buzzed overhead, competing with the rats for some sort of nourishment. Thankful that the stench of sewage overcame the smell of blood and rotting flesh, he sat in the darkness, crouched, his head in his hands. He mumbled to himself as the saliva dribbled down his chin. You could tell that somewhere through the yellow pigment of his semi-shut eyes, he was staring at the blood on his hands, some his, some not. As he stood up, you could see him more clearly by the light of the flaming torch. A mop of dark, greasy hair covered his forehead and what remained of his only ear, the other lost in some forgotten conflict. The pale complexion and icy stare were emphasised by the sickly smile on his thin lips. He waded through the dank water as his ragged shirt clung to his wet body, a tattered tie hanging loosely around his neck. Worn trousers - and a soiled suede Armani shoe on his left foot. He looked up through the manhole cover, at the three circular streams of daylight coming through, and started to climb.
David woke up with a shuddering jolt, a cold sweat covered his body. His eyes managed to focus and he could see the dark curtain flapping in the breeze, which came from the wide open window. The sky was a deep blue and he could see the skeletal trees swaying. He walked to his bedroom door, inadvertently kicking the bedpost as he did every night. The annoyingly bright glow of his digital alarm clock heralded the midnight hour. He walked down the corridor to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. Six nights in a row. Six nights in a row he had been woken at the same point in the same dream at exactly ten seconds before twelve. The first night he assumed it was something he ate; his girlfriend's Cajun cooking was not what you would call bowel-friendly; but now it was six nights. His blurred image stared back at him from the smeared mirror. Not wanting the fuss of his contact lenses, he went back to bed, knowing sleep was out of bounds for the rest of the night. Six nights.
He arrived at work as he always did, nodding hello to Julie the receptionist. Striding towards the lift he pressed number fourteen. The top floor. And pondering the dream as he had done for the last six mornings, he rubbed his eyes. The bell sounded; the door opened. He walked towards his office.
"Any messages?" he asked his secretary unnecessarily, as he had done every day of working in the building. He did not break his stride, as he knew the answer.
"No, sir."
Big surprise. The rest of the day went as normal, nine hours of isolation; he took an hour's break so he could be alone, of course. It was during this break that he realised that his girlfriend, Katherine(with a K), hadn't called for three days. Three days ago was Valentine's day. She wasn't upset because he forgot to buy her anything was she? Ridiculous! So at the end of the day he went home, he went to sleep.
Seven nights now. Seven. The same shadowy figure, the same sewer. This time, after he stubbed his toe on the bedpost going into the bathroom, he decided to put his contacts in. He forgot about sleep for the rest of the night and concentrated on how to analyse his dream. Maybe something he saw on T.V.? No, he didn't watch anything like that. A conversation he overheard? Between whom? The two people he didn't share his office with?
The next day, on the lift ride, he decided to see a psychiatrist. Nothing wrong with that. These days it's like seeing a doctor. In America, they do it all the time. Of course he had heard that most Americans were insane anyway. Still, unshaken, on his undisturbed walk to his office, he asked his secretary:
"D'you think you could find the number of a psychiatrist for me?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was not as surprised at this request as he thought she would be. Still, what can you tell from someone who was wearing a pink plastic bag for a jacket? He looked on defiantly and walked into his office. He couldn't concentrate for the rest of the day. Especially when Katherine (with a K) called to ask when he was going to return her things. What was that about? Anyway, he got the number: Dr Andrews, and made an appointment for the next day.
Eight nights now. This would be something to talk about.
He took a day off to see Dr Andrews; he hadn't had one for five years, so it was due. The psychiatrist's waiting room was like a leather prison. It must have taken six cows just to make the chair he was sitting on. The brown floral wallpaper was a bit much. If you weren't crazy before you went in... Anyway, he felt a bit worried when he saw the other patients. One mother sat idly by as her son head-butted the oak bookshelf, and one man was chewing the mittens he had, pinned to his jacket. The young attractive nurse came over to him.
"Dr Andrews is ready to see you now, sir."
He walked into the large room.
"You're a woman," he stated, as though he was the first one to notice.
"That's right," she said, applauding him in a sarcastic tone. "Dr Catherine Andrews."
With a C. He explained his problem and through various avenues of discussion, he left feeling as though he'd spent £40 to find out he was afraid of his father and had "issues" with commitment. Feeling thoroughly depressed and even more confused, he went to bed.
Nine nights now. But something different this time. The shadowy figure looked up through the manhole cover, at the three streams of daylight coming through, and started to climb. He reached the metal covering and slid it aside, allowing the sunlight to fill the sewer like water down a plug hole, and climbed out.
He slept for the rest of the night until he was rudely awakened by the bleeping alarm clock. He seemed wary, as though this was the dream, and on his way to the bathroom he was careful to avoid the bedpost. His room was bathed in sunlight as he went to put his contacts in. He arrived at work, nodding hello to Julie, the receptionist. He was about to enter the lift when he decided to take the stairs. He reached his floor and, for no apparent reason, he started a conversation with his secretary, who asked how his session with Dr Andrews was. He didn't really know how to answer. The dream seemed to have gone; maybe it was £40 well spent. He wasn't afraid of his father though. And "issues" with commitment, ha! Ha. Maybe he should give Katherine (with a K) a call.
***
Before transcribing that, I hadn't read it for years.
I think it's brilliant.
I particularly like the 15 year old me writing about relationships, office work and psychiatrists despite knowing nothing about any of them (do they have nurses in psychiatrists'? Young attractive ones?).
The depressing thing is that my writing hasn't really improved that much. Except perhaps in overcoming my adolescent obsession with semi-colons. But then, all teenage boys go through that phase.
Here are my favourite bits:
The first paragraph is basically just a physical description of professional wrestler Mankind. I could at least have changed some of the details!
"he was staring at the blood on his hands, some his, some not"
God, that's good. I wonder what my teachers thought of this (actually, I have their comments - I'll post them afterwards). I sound pretty screwed up. I think as a rule of thumb: if you include in-depth discussion of psychiatrists in a piece of schoolwork, YOU NEED A PSYCHIATRIST.
"The annoyingly bright glow of his digital alarm clock heralded the midnight hour."
This is probably the best sentence I have ever written. There's nothing about it I don't like. It's florid, specific and doesn't make any sense. A real WRITER's sentence.
"his girlfriend's Cajun cooking was not what you would call bowel-friendly"
Where did that come from?! This is a good example of the interesting tone of the piece. Ostensibly a serious look into the human psyche but with lots of odd non-sequiturs.
"It was during this break that he realised that his girlfriend, Katherine(with a K), hadn't called for three days. Three days ago was Valentine's day. She wasn't upset because he forgot to buy her anything was she? Ridiculous! So at the end of the day he went home, he went to sleep."
I like that he only just realised. Oh yeah. I knew there was something I'd forgotten.... My girlfriend! This was how I imagined relationships worked. I was pretty much right.
"He forgot about sleep for the rest of the night and concentrated on how to analyse his dream."
At this point, I seem to have avoided the "Show, Don't Tell' approach with a new 'Fuck Subtext' method.
Then there's a couple of bits that were so ridiculous they made me laugh, but my teenage self seemed to be aware of it.
On the potential source of his dream: "A conversation he overheard?"
Oh yeah. That conversation.
"Hey, Gus. Did I ever tell you about the time I was trapped in a sewer with bodies and rats and stuff?"
"You sure did! What a story!"
But 15-year-old Paul is all like "Screw you, old-Paul I know what I'm doing."
"Between whom? The two people he didn't share his office with?"
Bam! He drops the whom-bomb, than adds a surreal bit or sarcasm. In my face.
Similarly:
Still, unshaken, on his undisturbed walk to his office, he asked his secretary:
"D'you think you could find the number of a psychiatrist for me?"
That's a tremendous opening conversational gambit. But Paul 15 is all like:
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was not as surprised at this request as he thought she would be.
Bam! Comedy! Then:
Still, what can you tell from someone who was wearing a pink plastic bag for a jacket?
Bam! That came out of left-field! It's not even mentioned again! What was I thinking? Oh yeah: I'm a WRITER.
What was that about?
Yeah! Even then I spoke like a bad Jerry Seinfeld! NOTHING HAS CHANGED!
One mother sat idly by as her son head-butted the oak bookshelf, and one man was chewing the mittens he had, pinned to his jacket.
This is the worldview of a person who has learned about society through the Beano.
The psychiatrist is a woman! Take that, men! Even back then I was a feminist!
Then, the climax of the story just doesn't take place. The therapy session cures his problem. But we don't know what was said, because I was too bored to write it. WE MISS THE WHOLE POINT OF THE STORY!
I can't believe I was ever that lazy...
Yeah...
Like all my stories, then and now, I started with a single image, but had no idea where it would go. So it went nowhere.
Here are my teacher's comments:
A well crafted story Paul, using a wide range of vocabulary and style to achieve a sophisticated effect.
51
51! That's right! 51!
I'm sure that's a good mark, right? It was probably out of 52 or something.
This has been long. Sorry about that.
As far as self-indulgent posts go, this must be up there.
A long ramble, a transcription of my own story, and an interminable analysis of that story (and associated shadows).
Well, I enjoyed it. It was like reading something written by someone else.
I am slightly annoyed that I haven't got much better at writing, but at least I've loosened my grip on the semi-colon; to a certain extent, anyway.
That was me as a teenager.
And by me, I mean Paul Fung.
Mohammed Akensus had neither the word processor, nor the cultural references, to produce a piece of work like that.
Unless that's what he wants you to think.
Unless that's what I want you to think.
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