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Eventually, I’ve wasted enough time to justify opening a beer. As I close the fridge, I see another chutney that I’ve never opened before. It has Rach’s handwriting on it. It says mango, lime and cumin chutney. I close the fridge on it.
aZiZWILLKILLYOU episode 2 Aziz vs Tattoos [posted 8 September, 11:02] (#u7f94ab5b-7931-5b57-9c90-833efb99fc36)
People, there are 3 rules that apply to all tattoos …
1 If you get the name of a loved one tattooed on your body, you will break up with each other.
2 If you design the tattoo yourself, chances are it’s not good enough to go on your body.
3 If you think your tattoo is unique, it definitely isn’t. If your tattoo is unique, it’s most likely shit.
AMIRIGHT?
Take it from Aziz. This shit is gospel. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and AZIZWILLKILLYOU gospel.
So guys, something weird happened last night. I was talking to my brother, Kit, about getting a tattoo. I want one. I’ve never had one before. I’m definitely the kind of crazy motherfucker who needs a crazy motherfucker tattoo to make him look like a crazy motherfucker. But those 3 rules I listed, they always stopped me. And, why mess with perfection? Innit? My bro Kit’s already declared he’s going to get an ironic ‘job description’ tattooed on his forearm, the sensitive artist. But anyway, we were chatting.
I was saying I should get a random word like ‘sparrow’ or ‘erudite’ tattooed on my bicep as a talking point. Conversational lull? Wanna mystify some beanie in the pub with something vague but talking-pointy? Flex your biceps and wait for the enquiries to pour in.
Because, then people’ll be like … why does it say that word? And I’ll have this amazing story prepared for them. So, Kit and I are discussing words.
‘Sparrow,’ I was like, yeah, weird word.
And he was like, ‘Why?’
And I was like, ‘It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point. It’s a talking point.’
‘Yeah, but neither of us know what to say about it.’
‘True. Erudite?’
Then Kit was like, ‘And what?’
‘And what what?’
‘No … and what?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean … and what?’
‘What the words … “and what?”?’
‘Yeah …’
‘That’s pretty cool. What about an ampersand and a question mark?’
‘Pretty cool.’
‘Not cool enough.’
And then, it hit me. When he came back from the fridge, I was like, ‘I have the answer.’
‘Hit me,’ Kit said.
‘I’ll get my favourite t-shirt. On my chest. That way I’ll never lose it, shrink it, or ruin it. Think about it, I’ll always be dressed. In my favourite t-shirt.’
Kit laughed.
‘Imagine,’ I said. ‘People who confine their tattoos to where they can’t be seen when you’re wearing a suit – what if they got a tattoo that smartened them up?’
‘Like workwear tatts?’
‘Exactly. You gotta be smart for work, right?’
Kit said, ‘I wonder if you could get a tattoo of a tie? That way you’re always smartly dressed.’
‘Nah, man. That would be annoying over your belly. Especially if you put on weight. It’d look stupid,’ I said back.
‘No, mate. A bow tie. Imagine a bow tie tattoo. You would be so dapper, mate. Do you think anyone has ever had a bow tie tattoo on their neck?’
We Googled it. Why not? We’re modern men. And what is the smartphone if not the thing that means conversations never have to descend into bullshit? We have every answer at our fingers. I’m only too happy to look up bow tie tattoos, because if there is one out there, that person is my new hero. All my heroes are either stupid or brave. I typed ‘bow tie tattoo’ into my phone’s search engine and tapped ‘GO’.
I hit the image search and there, courtesy of the internet, were photos of a surprisingly diverse selection of people with bow tie tattoos. Some with bow ties on their breasts, some with bow ties on their forearms but only one where an actual bow tie would be.
‘That’s me,’ I said.
I handed the phone to Kit. Fourth picture into the image list there was a thumbnail of a man who looked remarkably like Aziz. This guy was wearing sunglasses I might wear (aviators in a new rave hue), a black wife-beater, a wicked shit-eating smile, Chico Dusty chocolate skin and the same spiky hair that’s been poking up between girls legs round my way for the last 15 years. The same nose. The same wide-eared ‘YESSSS BLUUUUUD’ grin. And a red bow tie. Tattooed under his neck. Where a real red bow tie would be. I clicked on the thumbnail and it took us to a larger photo. Kit moved to sit next to me. We stared at the screen, dumbfounded looks on our faces.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘No,’ Kit said.
‘I’m doing it. That’s me. I have to do it. I owe it to this me.’ I pointed at the phone. I pointed at the scar on my neck. ‘It’s time to cover this malarkey up.’
‘That’s not you,’ Kit said.
‘It could be me. From the future. Apparently they can do that now with the internets.’
We examined the contours of the bow tie tattoo man’s face. The closer you look, you realise it isn’t me.
‘It’s bloody odd how similar we are,’ I said.
‘That’s the power of the internet,’ Kit said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The more we’re allowed to Google search stuff, the more we realise we’re not special.’
‘Oh, shut up. There’s no one like Aziz. And I’m getting a bow tie tattoo.’
What do you think?
There are 8 comments for this blog:
Muderation: DO IT
Philo Savvy: Yes, cossssssign. DO IT.
MichaelMcArthur: Seriously? WTF> You cray, Aziz.
Decarp: Someone just tweeted this blog and it’s nuts. Wait – you’re gonna get a bow tie tattoo cos someone else who looks like you has one? Yes.
Philo Savvy: Pics or STFU.
AZIZWILLKILLYOU: I’ve been thinking, this is definitely happening people. Not only am I getting that tattoo, but I’m hunting that fuckface down.
KITABWILLDESTROYYOU: Go to bed. Stop stalking people online.
Decarp: Go Aziz!
History:
Tattoo disasters – GoogleSpying on people’s Facebooks – GoogleBest Asian author – GoogleJhumpa Lahiri hot – Google (#u7f94ab5b-7931-5b57-9c90-833efb99fc36)
It’s Friday night (my dad’s usual slot for me – Friday for the children and friends, Saturday for the ladies) and I’m sitting in our favourite Indian restaurant waiting for him to arrive. When Dad shows up, he is dressed in a silk pink shirt, a leather jacket that goes past his waist, and black trousers. The only thing missing is some crocodile shoes. Instead my dad is wearing the omnipresent black Nike Air knock-offs he’s been wearing for the last 20 years, which keep his now-mangled feet breezy and comfortable. I once bought him some proper Nike Airs but they’re boxfresh, unused – ‘unused to my feet’, Dad said. His feet are now moulded to the shape of the inside of these cheap versions. He is holding on to the remnants of his sparse, thin, silky silver hair by growing around the bald crown a fine mane as long as possible.
‘What’s new, kiddo?’
‘Rachel wants to be my friend on the Facebook.’
‘She wants to be back together? Good, I like that.’
‘No, just friends on Facebook.’
‘Why would she do that? Unless she wants to be back together?’
I don’t reply. We both snap poppadoms.
Dad spoons onion onto his shard and I stare at the bubbles on mine, before dipping it in the raita and crunching down, grimacing at the sugary yoghurt.
‘Thank you for shaving. You know? Your face looks fat. Why is your face so fat? I need to work on this beer belly so I can get more dates, eh kiddo?’
When my mum died, when I was young, he went through a decade of wearing a fleece jumper and tracksuit bottoms, going to work in the same warehouse and coming home and eating the same food watching the same DVDs of the same Bollywood songs he and my mum listened to. It was a decade of mourning. Then he retired, and quickly realised how much of a social animal he is. He goes out 4 nights a week, wakes up in the early afternoons hung-over and watches old films till it’s time to go out again. He is basically me in my early 20s. Wednesday and Thursday nights, he props up the bar in his local Indian pub, watching cricket and counting masala peanuts (finely-chopped onions and chillies mixed in with dry roasted peanuts, drizzled in lemon juice and chilli powder) as dinner. Fridays and Saturdays are date-nights for him. He only ever has dinner with me or with a lady. And because he’s the type of guy who stands on old-fashioned ceremony, he will never let his child or a lady pay for dinner. We eat for free.
‘Son, I am happy to see you because you are my son, but going out with guys is no fun,’ he says to punctuate a silence.
‘What do you mean? You can talk to me about football, girls, whatever you want …’
‘I go out with people to have fun, not talk. I want to flirt, to dance, to eat with a knife and fork.’
‘You can do that with blokes. Why do you need to date girls?’
‘These are not dates. They are my friends. The girls are all my friends. Because I take them out, we eat good food, listen to the music, and dance. And they laugh at my jokes.’
‘Because you’re paying to take them out.’
‘Why must you make me feel like they are my prostitutes?’
‘Because you make it sound like you pay them to let you take them out.’
‘Well, kiddo … I’m old-fashioned.’
‘And it is the oldest profession,’ I say, spooning onions into my hand and throwing them into my mouth.
I feel, as I always do at these dinners, the unsettling pressure to be my dad’s best friend as well as his son. Dad used to have 2 close friends whom he did everything with. They watched every sport going, from cricket to the World’s Strongest Man, drank together, played cards, even worked together. Now those guys have retired and moved to Dubai, leaving my dad to date and take me out for dinner. And be a barfly.
He finds friends of friends, divorcees or widows who want to be taken out for dinner and a dance and he uses them for company. He pays to take them out and they give him company. He has rules for prospective partners. He’s trying to protect himself from history repeating. He doesn’t want to outlive another partner.
My dad doesn’t ever want me to come to see him in our family home, probably because he thinks the sight of all the kebab cartons and empty beer cans, dirty bathroom and unwashed dishes will probably send me into a panic. I think of the state of my flat … Rach’s chutneys filling the fridge are the only civilised things left about me.
Dad will dress up to visit in one of his 3 silk shirts and come and see me in my part of town because he thinks it’s buzzy (he describes it as a ‘carnival atmosphere’) and filled with beautiful women. He’s always disappointed to learn that the crowd is rarely, if ever, middle-aged single Indian women looking to be wined and dined, only thin boys and girls not bothered by our presence in the slightest. Still, he pays. And it’s near my house, so I’m happy.
Dad, when first looking for a new girlfriend, set himself some rules and parameters. He laminated them on a card to stick in his wallet as an aide memoire. They were: she must be younger than me; healthier than me; Gujarati Indian but, not too traditional or religious; able to dance; tell jokes; know how to cook (and he goes on to reel off a list of my mum’s signature dishes). I repeatedly told him in the last year that he’s not going to find a replacement for Mum, not least because his parameters are too defined. He thinks, why mess with perfection?
‘How is your book doing?’ he asks me, placing his hands together in prayer formation, to show me he’s listening.
‘Okay,’ I say, not looking up from the table, as if enthusiasm would indicate failure. ‘Sales are slow, but you know, at least it’s out.’
‘But what is your marketing strategy?’
‘I let the publisher deal with it.’
‘How can you trust them to market you? You need to determine your market and sell the book to them.’
‘Sure,’ I say, to shut him up.
‘You better be writing a bestseller. One with police detectives in the countryside. One with murders and car chases. Something you can buy in an airport and a supermarket.’ He pauses. ‘And don’t talk about the past this time. No one wants to hear about the past. Talk about now, kiddo.’
‘That’s not my thing, Dad.’
‘You should though. Don’t think you have another inheritance coming to you. I’m spending it all now on enjoying myself. So, write a bestseller.’
‘Okay, Dad.’
‘In fact, you better not be spending Mum’s inheritance. You better be earning, kiddo.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I lie. ‘I’ve been doing great. Really great.’ He doesn’t need to know about my job interview. Not until I have news. News that ultimately proves he’s right.
