Birthday!

Strictly speaking, it's actually Wednesday 11th as I write this, and I'm on a train to Brussels, but more of that in another entry. For now, I'm going to try out my birthday present to myself: a brand new narrative device. If I've wired it up correctly, it should allow me to write as though it was yesterday. If at any point you feel dizzy or nauseous due to the time distortion, please open the windows and stare at a far-away object. You must be at least this open-minded to ride this blog entry...

I recognise this place. Somehow, by strange co-incidence or the way of the beaten track, I'm sitting in a very stumbled-upon bar, roughly in view of the Eiffel Tower, drinking Heineken with Pete, and realising I've been here before with Fran, long ago. The place is classically Parisian; too much of it has been flung forward from the seventies - wrought iron stairwell painted in rust-proof cream, dark, slack-brown on the walls and shiny orange furniture - a decor straight out of a Morcambe and Wise sketch. But staring out of the window into the rain, listening to Pete and half debating whether or not to brave the handsomely displayed boiled eggs, I find it easy to relax.

While James has wandered of for a few hours to find his French cousins, Pete's telling tales of his recent holiday to Ireland, and there's a stack of photo's on the table - countryside landscapes that invite as much as they warn of perishing cold, pubs you'd like to drink in, ladies you'd like to meet, cunning bartop stunts with pints of Guinness, and a classic one of two friends, Guinness in hand, sinking in sync. And as I flick through the photo's, wishing I could have seen the land first hand, and hearing about this place that for Pete has become a second home, my mind occasionally wanders to an important point of the day - what is it that has made my two friends come all this way from London to Paris? Taking the time, effort, money and energy just to celebrate the birthday of another bloke in this world, a no one by design, and a nomad by intent? Perhaps it's as straightforward as Pete likes to formulate it - "The two important things in life are your friends and your family." But that, to my mind, doesn't go deep enough to express what's really going on.

Do you know what they got me for my birthday? After hinting, flaunting their secrecy openly, winding my curiosity to the limit, we eventually stopped at a spot by the Seine, again with the Eiffel Tower just in view, and they gave it to me - A Boomerang, signed and illustrated, personally, by Rolf Harris! One day it'll be in a gallery somewhere in London, with the words,

"Cheers! Rolf." - 2001
Felt-pen and Tippex on shaped Plywood
(Donated by the Jenkins Trust.)

Sipping a beer, I can't help but just stare at it again and again, marvelling at the amount of planning and preparation that goes into a present like that. Something symbolic of where I'm going, and a one-of-a-kind original surely, but more importantly, it's symbolic of the lengths these guys have gone to, once again, to put a smile on my face. It's quite humbling to think that they've gone to such effort for me, who is in the grand scheme, well, no one in particular.

It's not about time, though they've certainly given me more than I'll know, and it's not about money, though they've sacrificed more than they should to get here. I can only say it's about the energy they've put into putting together this day. But this, of the boys, is their M.O., it's the way they are. Between the two of them, they invest enough energy for a full-time life into writing and gathering jokes, for the chance to put a smile on the face of any who'll appreciate.

Pete's a pretty straightforward guy, as far as anyone is. Give him a car to get to all his friends and family, a few of Her Majesty's drinking vouchers to enjoy and share, a receptive ear and a hearty laugh, and he's happy. Not to simplfy him, but he know's where he's at and what he likes more than many people I know. Because he's always giving before he gets, he gets plenty. Because he always makes people feel important, he's never far from a good mate - his address book must look like a who's who of the coolnik elite, but he's not a socialite (or a socialist as my brother would put it), just a guy who's presence is never far away and always welcome. I defy anyone to accept him as a friend and then not feel like they've know him forever. But maybe I'm biased, as I have known him forever. Or at least, for about half my life, which at my age is forever...

James is more of an enigma. In depth, every bit the man Pete is, and in my book that's a complement to them both, yet his persona seems less fathomable. Know him for long enough, and you begin to feel that there's someone there that you never see directly, only through the creative roles he plays. But that's the characteristic, and the cliché, of the actor. I don't buy it. What sets James apart, and makes him apt for his trade as an actor, is that like all of us he wears masks appropriate to the situation, but he has the double-edged talent that his masks are more distinct, more easily recognised as being in transition. His talent is that he can draw out particular elements of a persona, and wear it, which shows us ever more clearly the facets that make up the best or worst of our personality. His pain, and this is my two-bit psychology for you, is that his masks are so distinct that he more aptly feels the trap that we can all fall into - the mistaken thought that there's one true mask, "The Real Me" to be found or revealed. Would it be too abstract to say that if there's something divine in all of us, we spend so much of our time building a richer and deeper theology of personality, that we forget it sholud only exist to reveal our centre more clearly? Yes, it would be, so let me instead say that James's joy is in the energy he gives out and above all that, transcending the fronts that we both wear. Both James and Peter, through the personas with which they do things, have given so much energy to handing me this boomerang, that it leaves me thoroughly laughing my tits off with delight.

I don't know if I've managed to say what I'm trying to say. To formulate it too simply is to strip away all the texture, but maybe it takes more skill than I have to weave something sublte, yet engaging enough to not become cryptic. Maybe I'll give it one more, shorter crack -

I'm in a bar in Paris with a beer, two buddies and a boomerang. They've put in a lot of energy to make sure I get something special today, and I hope I'm smart enough to learn how to make sure it comes back...