Fringe Pig Blog #1
I have an innately self destructive, monomaniacal disposition, and when nothing of purpose is occupying me, I have a tendency to obsess over myself – teeth, lungs, newly discovered skin blemishes; penis size flaccid, penis size erect, why is my penis not getting erect, what is wrong with my penis, am I impotent… or gay: working with the wrong romantic reveries, maybe if I think of men… woah did my penis just twinge at the word men… Well, I am a man of habit; no time for life changing revelations (I have six jars of jam in the cupboard, I do not want to discover latent love of marmalade – it might put me off my jam [this is not a metaphor for sexual orientation, it is a literal discourse on fruit preserves; though if my larder is outward projection of my psyche I have a worrying amount of spaghetti).
To save me from such potential introspective calamities, I have a talent for contriving situations to occupy myself with. Often these involve losing, then trying to find, something. This can be hard to live with for my partners. As in the case of the missing monkey arm. The monkey was a two inch high figurine that I bought because it had a revolving left arm (most of these figurines are borne of a single mould, this was borne of two [I know, it is exciting and warrants the double parenthesis]). One day I noticed the arm was missing. My girlfriend held up well to questioning, but her lack of empathy came as a shock. THE MONKEY IS MISSING HIS ARM! IF YOU DO NOT CARE FOR HIS FEELINGS THEN AT LEAST YOU COULD CARE FOR MINE! I reasoned. The flat was scoured, the vacuum gutted, the bin emptied. No arm. A relationship ended that day. I could not bear to look at the monkey: his badly painted face, a joy when seen alongside a revolving arm, now just suggested a cack-handed hobbyist.
This behaviour during a particularly nasty bout of unemployment. My girlfriend, staunch and loving, tried see beyond my peculiar logic (What’s wrong Richard, like really wrong?), but my knack for dissimulation was great, and I would indignantly persevere with my rationale. Sometimes, I reflect upon the possibility that I unconsciously, but deliberately, disposed of items just to give the rest of my day a focal point, and, when my life flashes before my eyes, all will be revealed, like a bad twist in a mystery movie; Oh wow, I did it!
Other adventures followed: a highlight for no one being: The Mysterious Case of the Sound Within the Walls. A gripping tale wherein I sought to find the source of a faint, persistent humming noise in our flat. Unfortunately, and problematically, only I could hear it… Friends and visitors were all put to the task, and all ended up looking oddly at me: in hindsight, I believe the source was in my head (imagination).
Regrettably, during this period, I never obsessed over my girlfriend – she probably would have appreciated a little bit of obsessing, or just plain old attention. We split up. Amicably. And years later met and reflected, with good humour, on this period. We agreed, with good humour, I was probably depressed and without good humour (sitting on the sofa in a Gucci suit, because all my other clothes had atrophied, watching repeat episodes of Going For Gold). But that doesn’t change the fact that I am still, frustratingly, in possession of a one-armed monkey. I mean, where the hell is it? And what is that noise?
See Richard Todd perform in his new show, We Need The Eggs, at Pleasance The Attic between 1st and 26th August (not 15th). Tickets and more information: https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/richard-todd-we-need-the-eggs