The Friday Interview: The Socialist Magician

In the latest of an occasional series of interviews, Graham Bandage talks to Declan Blunt, one of only two socialist magicians.

Graham Bandage: Declan Blunt, you're one of only two socialist magicians, aren't you?

Declan Blunt: That's right, it's a small niche, but there's room for the other chap. That's what socialism's about, sharing. And magic, of course.

GB: What makes a socialist take up magic?

DB: Well, of course, there's a long tradition of magic on the left. Marx himself came up with the three-ring trick as an allegory for the separation of legislature, executive and judiciary, then Lenin himself came up with the three-ring trick as an allegory of legislature, executive and judiciary, and Stalin used to cut men in half.

GB: That's amazing. How did he do that?

DB: Oh, he had a massive saw. I mean, he didn't put them back together, but it was probably a relief after the gulags. That's the thing with Stalin - a showman. He used to wear a fez when he did his tricks. That's where Tommy Cooper got the idea.




GB: Can you take us through your act? I mean, I'm really interested to find out how a socialist magician differs from, say, a conservative magician like Paul Daniels.

DB: Well, for a start, there's no oppression in my act. I don't use a magic wand for starters as it's a phallic symbol and the colour is unnecessarily divisive.

GB: Well call me Thick Jack Clot if you like, but how can you do magic without a wand?

DB: You do know it's not real don't you.

GB: Er, yes.

DB: I don't use animals, so, for example, I would never pull a rabbit out of a hat.

GB: You shouldn't even put one IN a hat in the first place. That's just cruel.

DB: Yes, anyway, I don't put women in boxes and stick swords in them.

GB: Well, yeah. I mean, that's dangerous. Clearly.

DB: Right, so I don't do anything that's oppressive...

GB: You could have a tiny little hat and put it on the rabbit. That'd be OK, but it wouldn't be much of a trick.

DB: ... and I don't do anything that glorifies capitalism.

GB: So what tricks do you do, then?

DB: Well, I only really have the one. It's mostly polemic.

GB: One? It'd better be stonking.

DB: Oh, it is. I get an expensive watch from somebody in the audience and wrap it in a handkerchief. Then I smash it with a hammer.

GB: Yeah?

DB: Yeah, and then I take all the pieces and hand one each to every member of the audience. Makes 'em think.

GB: Declan Blunt, thank you.

Monotone

It's not easy being grey.

The Most Disturbing Image Ever

Brrr. Chilly.

Imagine being an employee of the T-Mobile shop on Lord Street in Liverpool and seeing that sign as you arrive for work.

There are only two interpretations one can put on that sign, as far as I can see.

The first is that the manager of the store has hellish precognitive powers. Not like Derren Brown, who is a fake and a charlatan, but like that bloke out of The Dead Zone... only real. Last night, after the employees left the store, he became aware that one of them was going to be struck down with illness, maybe even death.

I wonder why he hasn't been more specific. Perhaps the visions are shadowy. Or perhaps he doesn't want the employee in question to have this awful Sword of Damocles hanging over him or her. It must be a terrible dilemma for the manager - not wanting to worry the staff, but at the same time having to warn the public of a minor reduction in service.

But the second interpretation is much more sinister. It's a threat. Somehow, maybe by some sort of injection, the manager is going to actually bring about illness in his staff. And he's so calculating, he even knows what time it's going to happen. Honestly, what sort of manager plots the incapacitating illness of his staff? A sick and twisted one, I'd say. Certainly, it rides roughshod over dignity in the workplace guidelines.

I don't have the answers, I can only offer you questions.

Correction

Oh, bugger!

I'm wearing the wrong socks.

The Friday Interview: Th-th-th-that's Abuse, Folks!

In the latest of an occasional series of interviews, Graham Bandage talks to abuse survivor Trevor Coyote.

GRAHAM BANDAGE:
What is it like living with an obsessed and frequently thwarted parent? What if they take out their frustrations on you? What if they are violent? My guest today knows the answers all too well and has written a heartbreaking memoir about his childhood. Trevor Coyote, when did the abuse start?

TREVOR COYOTE:
A year after I was born, so I was about seven.

GB:
Ah, the dog calendar. I always meant to ask, do you have the same names for your months?

TC:
No, as our years are so short, roughly two of your months, it's a bit pointless having months.

GB:
Fascinating. Carry on.

TC:
So up till seven, everything was fine. Dad would come home with a couple of chickens he'd slaughtered. My mother would prepare them for us. Oh, and he had this brilliant trick he used to do. He'd run hell for leather, then stop dead in the air, just suspended there, and our species' Latin name would appear beneath him.

GB:
That's astounding. He could have gone into the theatre.

TC:
I think he tried. The trouble is, when you've done it once, where do you go from there? You can't just keep repeating it for five minutes.

GB:
I suppose not. Do you get seven birthday cards a year?

TC:
No. We don't celebrate birthdays.

GB:
Too expensive, I suppose.

TC:
No, we're Jehovah's Witnesses. So it was an idyllic childhood for a coyote. And then things went wrong. Dad became obsessed with this bird.

GB:
What was so special about this bird?

TC:
Well, first, it could do that stopping- in-the-air-Latin-name thing, just like dad. It really infuriated him, like the bird was mocking him. So he was determined to get this bird.

GB:
Why didn't he?

TC:
Well, it was really fast.

GB:
Well, if I know anything about coyotes it's that you'll concoct all manner of elaborate plans to catch your quarry, from stringing up a one ton weight over some bird seed, to constructing a massive bow and then using oneself as an arrow.

TC:
Yes. Well, dad did all that. The old stand-by coyote tricks. But the bird was wise to it and kept escaping. Dad had to come up with even more preposterous schemes. And he'd get really badly hurt. I can't tell you how many times he'd fall from a cliff or get squashed by a massive mallet.

GB:
Crikey. I bet that was painful.

TC:
I'm sure it was. But then he'd come home and he'd take it out on us. First me and mum, and then when mum left, it was just me.

GB:
What did he do? Don't spare the detail, as that is very much what we all want to hear about.

TC:
Oh, it was awful...

GB:
Good, good...

TC:
I remember once he came home - this was after mum left - and he'd had a massive electric shock. You could still see his skeleton through his skin. Anyway, he had this baseball bat. And he fed me into this machine which forced me into the shape of a ball, stitching and everything, chucked me into the air and hit a home run.

GB:
You poor, poor thing... Say more stuff.

TC:
He fried me with some eggs then hit me with the frying pan. And that really hurts because it makes your face all big and round and flat. He gave a French skunk friend of his some Viagra and painted a white stripe down my back. He attached six strings to me, put me in an ACME time machine and sent me to Jimi Hendrix at the Monterey Festival.

GB:
The torture...

TC:
But the most humiliating time was when he whacked me with a cactus and sent me to school. When I had my lunchtime drink, all the orange juice leaked out of the holes on my body and went all over the floor. All my classmates thought I'd wet myself.

GB:
I bet they called you 'I'll Wee' Coyote, didn't they? Children can be so cruel.

TC:
No, they didn't.

GB:
And did your dad ever catch the bird?

TC:
No.

GB:
What's the title of your book?

TC:
It's "Please Don't Make Me Eat The Anvil, Daddy. It Will Give Me A Huge Anvil-Shaped Lump In My Neck" and it's available on ACME Press.

GB:
Trevor Coyote, thank you.

Socks Maniac

I took a bit too long retrieving socks from my sock drawer this morning. This is because I am on the "socks with the name of the day printed on them" treadmill.

The "socks with the name of the day printed on them" treadmill is a cruel mistress, for when one steps upon it on a Monday, one cannot step off it until the Saturday. One cannot, for example, wear the socks on Monday and Tuesday, and go for a light grey pair on Wednesday. Even if it's "Light Grey Socks Wednesday" in work.

This is a shame, as I quite like "Light Grey Socks Wednesday," much more than "Drag Tuesday" or "Dress Down Friday," when we all turn up to work and get a telling-off from the boss.

I don't want you to think I have OCD, but I am quite obsessive about this. I think it's very important to ensure the correct socks are worn on the correct day, even though the word printed on the sock is on the sole, for I would be mortified to have an appalling accident.


Something like this would be bound to happen...

A&E DOCTOR
What have we got?

BANDAGE
Urrrr. Gahhhh. Ooh-yah!

PARAMEDIC
Weird looking chap. Glasses, sticky-up hair, ill-fitting suit. Looks a bit like a cross between Ardal O'Hanlon and Adrian Chiles. RTA. Hard to tell what's happened. Looks like the car mounted the pavement.

A&E DOCTOR
Ah, is he a homosexual? As has recently been established by Liverpool City Council, cars are like kryptonite to the gays.

PARAMEDIC
No, I don't think so. As I mentioned, he has an ill-fitting suit and looks like a cross between Ardal O'Hanlon and Adrian Chiles, so I suspect he'd get short shrift if he so much as dipped a toe into the gay pond.

BANDAGE
(indistinct mumble)

A&E DOCTOR
Hmm, he's saying something about his feet. Let me have a look at his feet. Help me get the shoes off.

BANDAGE
(AGONIZED) Nooo.

A&E DOCTOR
His socks say Thursday. But today is Monday. He probably thought the road was safe, maybe even a grassy meadow, so confused is he by life and the outside world. Hmm. Nurse, bring me the "special" pain-killers. We'll put this poor confused idiot out of his misery.


This could quite easily happen.


On an entirely unrelated matter, is this the most disturbing gingerbread man ever created?



What sort of person goes into confectionery to create a monster like this specifically to scare children? A very bad one, I'd venture.

Village People

I was tickled pink to discover that Liverpool is to have its own gay village, Dorothy being a friend of friends of mine.

But then I was disappointed that it will not be a permanent fixture, with, for example, a gay village shop and a gay village idiot.

It will only appear at night, the catalyst being when Stanley Street becomes closed off to cars. Pedestrianisation is, apparently, the single precondition for the establishment of a gay village.
I had no idea that cars were a particular risk to homosexuals.

My only thought is that their heads must be so full of gayness that they are unable to walk exclusively on pavements. Perhaps that is what being gay is all about - it's not about chaps liking to play with other chaps' bits, it's jaywalking. Or gaywalking as it was probably originally known before the PC police came and took all our words away.

I used to work in Southport and Chapel Street was a bustling street full of life and litter and that. But it has recently been pedestrianised.

Anyway, to test whether my theory of pedestrianisation being a precondition for an outpouring of homosexuality, I popped along to Chapel Street.

Here are my findings...

9am Not many people.
10am Not many people.
11am Somebody walks into Marks & Spencer.
12 noon Lunch
1pm Not many people.
2pm Not many people.
3pm Not many people.
4pm Not many people.
5pm Not many people.
6pm Not many people.
7pm Not many people.
8pm Nobody.
9pm Nobody.
10pm It's like magic. From out of nowhere, a rainbow of coloured handkerchiefs. Men with moustaches. Women with moustaches. Balloons. People not breeding. It's a big gay party of gayness with gay people being gay in a gay context.
11pm I just saw a gay man holding hands with another gay man. It's just like Torchwood.
12 midnight At last. A man with oiled muscles and leather chaps walks down the street. He's carrying a banner. It reads: "Boo to cars. They are like kryptonite to us gays."

Proof positive, I reckon.