Part X - The adventures of Superfly

London is as they say only a city. But do you not think it more? A creature no less: breathing and growing and belching and fucking. A dragon with moods: In winter sombre and frigid. In summer sexually deviant in buttercup glory. In winter the women are at their sexiest. Do you not think? – It’s all those layers you see. Like orange peel white underneath. I don’t know maybe I’m sick. Someone once told me or maybe it was something I’d read, that London is the great ‘equalizer’. In the London street with the chaffing shoulders and scratching nerves, you don’t matter. Some people find this disturbing. For others it’s a release. If you’re one of those non self-effacing people who think you do matter then you need to grow up. You need to grow a sense of scale. Death is also an ‘equalizer’ of sorts, but my new year resolution is not to stew on death too long – it’s too moribund a topic of conversation. Moribund - I like that word. I do think about it often though. Death. I’ve heard so much about it, so many things, and seen it on TV. On TV it doesn't really have impact, doesn't feel real. I wonder what it will be like in person. In the flesh. Will it live up to expectations? Or will it, like most things you see for yourself, be a disappointment? An under-achiever? Under the gaze of death we are a meritocracy. I find that strangely comforting. I am not the jealous type and nor do I envy but I do feel for all the Slumdogs out there. The Slumdog Millionares! My comfort is reserved for them, not me.

Superfly was in London. And the grim reaper was after him has he bounded through the great city maze. He’d first heard of London in Pakistan. ‘The city of Kafirs’ they liked to call it or the ‘Head of the manacles of empire’ and my favourite ‘The big smoke’. London is no longer a smoky city. Oh no! It is electric. The steam-engines were shut down many years ago and today you can find them in the Science Museum. Nowadays the only ‘smoke’ your likely to encounter is that coming from the mouths of prickly Londoners. And they can be prickly indeed if you know which buttons to press; especially in the North. Superfly had read somewhere that London was ‘that darkness that sucketh Empires ill-gotten gains and speweth forth the clanging hammers of industry’.

But the great thing about London, apart from the electricity and We Will Rock You, is of course the fact that it is so easy to get lost in. Be anonymous. A freak amongst fellows that don’t really give a damn exactly what you are or where you're from. City, country or planet. And to be honest who really knows what they are and where they're from anyway? Can you really stake your claim and say where you're from in todays' world? But think of the release not having a label affords! Hence, why the The Vagabond so loves London and is so taken in by it. Do you know those dark locked off parts of your brain? You know the one’s you don’t want anybody to know about? Well I know what’s in there. Oh yes! I know what your dirty litte secrets are. How do I know? Because of London. All of life is here; all squashed up and mangled in puttyfied slags and it seeps into my pores and infects my mind. I have nightmares you know. Other people’s nightmares and they’re mine to keep. So hands off.

But where were we? Oh yes we were saying how the The Vagabond likes London very much. It’s a symbiotic relationship. He breatheth from the city the stench of life and in return he giveth his soul. Perhaps that is why he keepeth coming back? Why he don’t have to play hide and seek with his own shadow. The vagabond loves to watch. And to think (or at least try to). He lives in a small but comfortable flat, nicely furnished, with just the right proportion of ostentation, taste and bookish charm not to look pretentious. It is a fact that one who is learned and well travelled with well scuffed heals, by osmosis, attracts towards him the trappings befitting his station: books and journals and obscure texts and carvings and prints. Crates and crates of the stuff from far away places that clutter his flat, his mind and his relationships. In fact he spendeth an inordinate amount of time in a stupor. Currently he is obsessed with the question: Why are people nice to each other? He is crazy no?! But there is method in this craziness. Look, do you know why people are nice to each other? Let me tell you: It’s not, as many would like to believe, because people are genuinely friendly, but because of the old adage: ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’. You see at the heart of all kindly behaviour is a motive. Oh yes! The motive is selfish. But it is hidden in our breast away from us. What does that do to you! Can you live a normal life knowing this shit? You can’t I tell you! It’s unfair to live with this burden of knowing.

The Vagabond lives in a salubrious (salubrious = nice) part of town where he generally keeps himself firmly to himself. 'Generally', because as much as it may ail him, he must occasionally venture into the open for milk and fresh air. He is not an overly ‘social creature’ by any stretch of the popular imagination! – in fact he is rather misanthropic, preferring the company of himself rather then others. Some may attribute this to an acute or chronic shyness - but that is humbug. The vagabond is extremely comfortable in the presence of human beings but with the proviso ‘when he wishes to be’. The bottom line is that he wishes that people were more like him: misanthropes - so he wouldn’t have to bump into them! Misanthropes are a rare breed. Most people are so in love with they're own image that they can’t help boasting about it. I like to call it wanking your ego. Or having sex with yourself – it’s the same thing.

The Vagabond has many friends. They're called books. Do you know what the best thing about books is? They don’t speak! They just sit there until you open them and then they come alive. And they have so many interesting things to say. They can be jam-packed with information on the Burgess Shale or be a window into somebodies heart. Unlike normal conversation with a human, which the Vagabond finds to be tedious and rather painful. Also, if books get boring or repetitive you can skip a page or two – try doing that with a conversation! What else? The Vagabond has no partner as yet. Notice the inflection on the ‘as yet’ – this simply means that he does one day intend to find a partner. Find, yeah as in find wandering around somewhere. Like in a park:

‘Hey there pretty girl I was looking for something and I’ve found you, you wanna be my partner?’

And the girl mildly flustered says: ‘Erm, ok, but what’s in it for me?’

Isn’t that what normal people do? Find partners? Though, and this is not boasting, there is no dearth of admirers for The Vagabond. He has been approached many times by the fairer sex for erm whatever it is they approach him for. But in truth he has no interest in pursuing a lengthy and time consuming ‘courting ritual’ when he’d rather read and do other stuff more productive like write and watch movies. So there you have it: The Vagabond incarnate. You may see him as a devil, a selfish oaf or the vilest abominable outrage of nature; but there is no doubt that he is a genius and a perceptive observer of mankind. Whatever his faults. Is he loveable? Is the moon made of cheese?

The Superfly pressed the doorbell. After a pause it rang. It was obvious the doorbell wasn't used to being pressed and found the whole affair annoying. There was music playing inside the flat. The door opened gingerly. It's hinges were not used to this either and they complained. A head popped out. It looked as if it had the weight of the world on it's shoulders. The head eyed Superfly with a severe look. Suddenly there was recognition and the eyes lit up, the mouth widened with a mischievious grin and the furrows eased out. The Vagabond was most pleased for this rare interruption in his routine...

To be continued...