7th February 19mphmphmph. What a day; an auspicious day you might say. For on that wintry Wednesday morning in Halifax, after the disappointment of three daughters, all of my mother’s dreams came true and her little “fair pink and white” (which in hindsight, has certain racist overtones), was bestowed upon the world.
I was reminded of this the other day when the first birthday card arrived from the youngest daughter suggesting that a present would be coming, but she was having an awful time trying to work out what a good present might be for someone as special as me.
“DON’T DO IT SIS! THERE’S NO NEED! I NEITHER NEED NOR WANT ANY MORE STUFF!”
She won’t listen. They never do. Next time I see her, she’ll be like
“Here Creasy, I got you a Porsche for your birthday. remember I said I would get you something”
I don’t even like Porsches. What am I going to do with a bloody Porsche except mince about trying to pick up some young totty like I’m having a mid-life crisis? She lives on a bloody rock in the middle of the Irish sea, so whaddya expect?
I was reminded again, when the middle daughter sent what appeared to be the ideal gift because, at first glance, it appeared to be a pre-loaded crack-pipe.
“Now that’s more like it!”
….I thought.
“Just what the doctor ordered to get through this Lockdown business.”
I thought…
But no, not a crack pipe at all. In fact, it turned out to be a salt pipe. No mind-bending intoxicating highs in there methinks; not a one. You can’t imagine. It’s impossible.
“A say whatnow Creasy??”
A salt pipe. Come on everyone knows what a salt pipe is. It’s like a regular pipe (or a crack pipe), except instead of lighting a bowlful of aromatic tobacco (or crack), and allowing the complex flavours of the burning bush (crack) to swirl around your mouth (brain), you stick this thing in your gob and sit there for 20 minutes sucking down salt crystals, like a COVID patient on a ventilator.
Too soon?
Anyhoo, this thing apparently has miraculous lung cleansing properties (apparently, people who work down salt mines are amazing breathers. Who knew!), and because I’m getting old and wizened and have mild asthma, what else would you get me?
YOU LIVE IN SCOTLAND LOVE – WHAT ABOUT THE BIGGEST BOTTLE OF SINGLE MALT WHISKEY YOU CAN FIND? WHAT ABOUT THAT? THAT ALSO HAS AMAZING CURATIVE PROPERTIES! WHEN HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ME SOBER? WHEN?
“You said three daughters Creasy, what about your eldest sister?”
The eldest Sister? Nary a peep. Not a sausage. She’s proper gangsta, and like a slab of granite that one. If she had a pocket full of fucks she wouldn’t give you one.
AND THAT’S EXACTLY HOW I LIKE IT BABY!
She gets it dude! She totally gets it bra’. And because she so gets it, I completely ignore her birthday in January too, because I know that’s exactly what she wants! Isn’t it sis? I say, hehe, isn’t it?
I mean what is this whole birthday crap all about anyway! Who came up with it. I’ll bet it was the owner of one of those “would you like to come in and buy some shite” shops that sell nothing of any use whatsoever, and we all went “Oooh, that’s a great idea I’m sure little Timmy would love another plastic beaker with the words “Best little birthday boy in the world” daubed across it“.
And oh the woe; the emotional upheaval caused if you buy the wrong thing! One year, as a joke, for the youngest sister’s birthday, we themed the whole thing on dogs. The card was all dogs, her gifts were all about dogs, we may have even dressed up as dogs, I can’t remember. if we didn’t, we should have, because that would have been the icing on the cake (don’t get me started on fucking birthday cakes)! In any case, the whole thing was hilarious and made more so by the fact that we didn’t even have a dog, and she didn’t even particularly like dogs. It was completely random and therefore hysterical. So was she. In fact, she didn’t appear to see the humour in any of it! What she tearfully took away from the whole thing, was that we thought she was a dog! You know, like fugly.
Wassat sis? Too soon? Wooosa……Woooooooossssaaa.
And my wife! Sheesh my wife. Oy vey!
“You’ve got to have something Creasy. Go on, what do you want? Shall I cook for you? I’ll cook for you. I can make a biriani. What about another electric toothbrush? You have to celebrate your birthday….YOU HAVE TO CELEBRATE YOUR BIRTHDAY CREASY! WHAT DO YOU FUCKING WANT? WHY ARE YOU BEING SO SELFISH? DON’T THINK I DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT YOU SHIT. YOU THINK IF I DON’T GET YOU SOMETHING THAT YOU DON’T HAVE TO GET ME THAT LOUIS VUITTON HANDBAG IN APRIL BUT YOU ARE SO WRONG FUCKER…..SO FUCKING WRONG”
Her sister is the same, but with food…
“You gonna have some Creasy? Go on have some”
“Nah, I’m ok Bri…not really hungry”
“Go on have some Creasy it’s delicious, look have some”
“Nah that’s alright Bri, really, I’m ok”
“Don’t you like it, Creasy? It’s delicious. Look it’s delicious. Just have a little bit”
HAVE SOME, HAVE SOME, HAVE SOME, HAVE SOME”
“Look Bri, I don’t want any and if you keep asking me I’m gonna hit you in the head with an automatic boot lid…”
Wassat Bri? Too Soon?
And then there’s Gonzalez whose birthday is precisely 8 days after mine. He was even born in the same year. Every year on the 7th though, the call comes in….
“Awreet you ould bastard! See you’re still here then”
And even though HE’S the younger one, he’s getting really grumpy the older he gets. You see, he hasn’t been able to pull off the same graceful, elegant glide towards an entropic state as me. Just keeps banging on about how BREXIT has fucked up his holidays and how Boris, uniquely among politicians, tells lies. Really big ones that make you a proper cross-patch! Wooosa Peter, Wooooooossssa. You’re going to give yourself a hernia!
Mind you, he always has a joke for me. There’s always one joke and it’s always a cracker, and well, that makes my day.
Here’s one of my favourites. Hope I can remember it.
There are two really old Northern blokes with Alzheimer’s who have gone for a walk in the park at the height of summer. Let’s call them John and Pete. It’s baking and they are ancient. They both have on buttoned-up cardigans, full trench coats and flat caps and sticks to help them walk. John says to Pete…
“Ooh it’s a bit bloody ‘ot init Pete?”
“Aye, T’is that”, says Pete
“D’you know what?”, says John
“What?”, says Pete
“I’d love an ice cream”
“Oooh, that’s a crackin’ idea”, says Pete. “Tell you what, tell me what flavour you want, and I’ll go and get us one each”
“Eh? yer jokin'”, says John. “You’ll never remember what I want and then I’ll be disappointed when you don’t come back wi’ the right thing”
“No it’ll be fine” says Pete “Trust me, I’ll remember”
“Awreet” says John “just get me a vanilla, yer can’t forget that”
“Fine”, says Pete “and ooh, d’yer fancy some rasburry wi’ it?”
“Look, just forget the whole thing”, says John “You’ll never remember two things and then it’s going to ruin my day when you come back wi’ sommat I don’t want”
“It’ll be fine”, says Pete “I’ll remember, I promise. So that’s a vanilla wi’ rasburry. How about some ‘undreds and thousands?”
“Bugger off will yer Pete”, says John “this is a joke. There’s no chance you will remember 3 things. I don’t want it now. Just forget it. I wish I never brought it up in the first place”
“No listen”, says Pete “Vanilla wi’ rasburry and ‘undreds and thousands. I’ve got it you see? Hey. Hey. What about mekkin it a 99? I bloody love 99s”
“Right that’s it”, shouts John “I’ve ‘ad enough. Yer just going to mess the whole thing up and I’m going to be spittin’ feathers when you come back wi’ nowt”
“Listen, I’m tellin yer”, says Pete “I’ll remember. so it’s a Vanilla, wi’ rasburry’ ‘undreds and thousands and a 99. Stay here, I’ll be back in 5 minutes”
Off Pete goes and John sits himself down on a nearby bench. Sure enough, 5 minutes later Pete reappears and hands John a meat and potato pie.
“Oh Fer fucks sake”, says John “Where’s me chips?”
Then Pete eats the meat and pertater pie.
It’s not that I don’t like birthdays (I don’t like birthdays), or even that I don’t want to celebrate other people’s birthdays (I don’t). No, it’s deeper than that (not really). Philosophically, I am predisposed to live in the moment. The past is, well passed. The future is unknown (duh). No, I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat of my pants kinda guy (what movie is that paraphrased from – answers in the comments please), and I just can’t see why people want to celebrate the passage of time so much.
Birthdays serve only to remind us that there a cosmic clock counting down to the inevitable moment when you realise that you have dribbled your last slice of birthday cake down your chin, opened your last present (scrabbled at the wrapping with hands too weak to tear the paper while thinking “which sadistic cunt wrapped this bastard”), with your family looking on grinning “Go on Granddad open it. Go on, you’re gonna love it if you can open it”, and sucked down your last salt crystal because your lung is so feeble (the other one gave up the ghost years ago), it can’t handle microscopic sodium particles “cleansing” around down there any more.
But maybe I’m missing something? Maybe I’m being too cynical? Maybe there’s more to it than that? Maybe it presents an opportunity to show the other person that you are thinking about them, and that their existence in this world is appreciated and that they are loved by someone somewhere.
Maybe I should be more grateful then. I really love all the nice socks and jumpers and toothbrushes and books and pipes, so why can’t I just say a simple thank you and be on my way. Ok here goes.
I would like to publicly thank my whole family and all my friend for thinking of me, every year, on this special date and for showing that they care.
Nah, that’s all bollocks, so unless someone can resurrect Marilyn to come and sing breathily at my birthday (and even then she’d be some ghoulish-zombie-shadow of her former self), I’m of the opinion that we should abolish birthdays altogether on the grounds that they are crappola.
I’ll let you stew on that one until next time. I’m off for another suck on me salt pipe.
