Im sitting a little way along from all of the kerfuffle. The press are still very much in attendance, having their field day, making all their pictures, writing all their commentaries (uh, is it just me, or dont they actually realise that this slightly chubby, very famous 30-year-old illusionist isnt really going anywhere? Dont panic, lads, you have about 36 more days to sort out your copy. Sit back, relax. Just do as the magician does).
Its a tragic fact, but Blaine is definitely bringing out the worst in we Brits. I dont know if this is what he wants (if its all part of the buzz for this American Christo-like) or if its what he expected, but hes headlining it in most of the tabloids today. Theyre calling him a fake, a cheat, a freak, a liar. Theyre up in bloody arms, basically. And its a moral issue, apparently. Because its in Very Bad Taste to starve yourself if you have the option not to- yeah, so why not go and tell all those fucked-up, deviant Anorexics that? especially (especially) if youre calling it Art (and pocketing a- purely coincidental- 5 mill. pay-out).
Cynical? Moi?
Look, Im just sitting on this damn wall and watching all the colour unfold around me. I dont quite know if Im loving it or loathing it (youll find me on the fence. Im the kind of guy who used to actively enjoy leaning on his bikes crossbar as a kid). But who (who?) can deny that its a big story? Its a big settingI mean Mary Mother of Jesus, how the hell did the council give permission for all this crap? Right here, on their doorstep? In the middle of everything?
Its just a wild guess, but Im definitely getting the impression that some poor bastard has currently got his nuts in a vice over this whole farrago.
Uh hes stuttering, I thought it might attract the tourists, Mr Mayor. I thought it might be a nicean impressive culmination to some of the other cultural events weve been staging in the park throughout the summer. I mean the kids loved the visit from the local city-farm, didnt they? All the goats and hens and everything? And then there was that cookery demonstration in the striped marquee. That went swimmingly
The cleaners (lets get down to brass tacks) are absolutely fucking livid (Im not certain if they have the mayoral ear, but if they do, then that fall guys nuts are definitely for the high jump).
Im actually on nodding terms with Georgi (Gee-orgi. Twenty-two. Toothless. Romanian. Angriest man in the world right now).
Georgi already deals with a lot of shit (he sells me dope, the occasional E), because the life of a cleaner on this part of the river is not an easy one. The whole areas paved and enclosed for one thing. And its a huge tourist draw, a landmark (the whole world feels like it already owns this view, and in some ways if affection begets possession it does).
It needs to look good at all times and because of the tons of dodgy marble and smooth cement and dramatic architecture, any stray detritus just kind ofsits there. It stands out. It looks bad. It needs to be dealt with, and quickly (So fuckin jump to it, lad), else all we proud Londoners (okay Ive lived here 10 years, so I think I qualify) start to look shoddy.
And we dont like that.
But with the advent of Blaines box, things have started to go crazy. Is it Blaine himself? The excitement? The fury? The awe? Whatever the root cause, people suddenly seem to feel the powerful need to generate mess. Its Goo-ville. Its Crap-town. Theres old fruit, rotten eggs (British poultry farmers are just loving this situation. Fuck Sky, man. We really need to start seeing the colour of their sponsorship money), and worst of all, theres the human element.
Now dont get me (or Georgi) wrong: people have always pissed in corners (a bridge any bridge almost demands as much from any man with a working penis), but the way things are currently, its like the embankment is a toilet and Blaine is just the scented rim-block dangling in his disposable plastic container from the bowl at the top. Its getting completely degenerate. People are shitting everywhere. Man, its Shit-o-fucking-rama down here. Huge steaming piles of the stuff, in every alcove, every crevice, every corner. And then theres poor Georgi with his broom, his weak hose, his little shovel being expected to clean all this crapyour crap up.
But heres the best part: He doesnt blame you.
Uh-uh.
Not at all.
He blames the hungry (and decidedly shitless) bugger in the box.
Blaine.
Is him, Georgi gesticulates irately towards the pallid New Yorker with his broom, tha stupid, crazy, dirty-fucky-bastar Jew.
Yeah. So where the hell am I supposed to stash my sandwich wrapper?
I have an agenda. You really need to know that. I mean all this isnt just arbitrary.
Uh-uh.
I have an agenda.
So my dads name for the record (and this is pertinent; its the core of the thing, the nub) is Douglas Sinclair MacKenny, and all things being equal, hes a pretty run-of-the mill kind of guy. He enjoys gardening, Inspector Morse, steam trains and Rugby League. Hes into trad-jazz, Michael Crichton, elasticated waists, Joanna Lumley and lychees. When he was nineteen years old he swam the English Channel. But he doesnt swim much any more.
He runs a sub-post office in north Herefordshire (where I was born, 28 long, hard years ago not on the counter, obviously, lets not be that literal, eh? his lone progeny: Adair Graham MacKenny). Hes happily (well, within reason) married to my mum (Miriam), and hes fundamentally a very genial, affable, easy-going creature.
(Fundamentallyso he doesnt like black people or queers, but which underachieving 55-year-old, small-minded, Caucasian, Tory-voting cunt does? Huh? Name me one.)
Nothing bugs him (not even the long and inexorable queue of pensioners at closing). Nothing winds him up.
Wellokay, then. So theres this one thingits a really tiny thingand it bugs him just a little.
Is that a fair representation?
No.
Fine. Fine. So this particular thing bugs him quite a lot.
He doesnt like it, see? It pees him off. It rings his bell. It pulls his chain. It sits it really sits, and it presses, hardon his buzzer.
This thing is (has always been/will always be) a source of unbelievable distress to him. Its a thing which he loathes / fears / distrusts more than any other. This thing (if you refer to it, idly) makes him clam-up, then blanch, then shake uncontrollably. Hes virtually lethally-fucking-allergic to this thing.
Any guesses?
Wheat? Pigeons? Lichen? Jasper Carrott? Dahlias? Lambswool? Beer?
Nope.
Douglas Sinclair MacKenny hates I said he hatesillusionists. And with a passion.
Let me tell you why.
Great Yarmouth. Nineteen fifty-nine. The height of the Summer Season. My dad, still then but a boy, is down on the beach with a large crowd of deliriously rambunctious, candy-floss-speeding, bucket-swinging, spade-waving, snotty-nosed comrades. Hes clutching sixpence which his mother has just given him. He is planning to spend this money on- deep breath now, Dad, deeeep breath- a Magic Show!
The magician or illusionist in question is no less (and no more) a man than The Great Carrazimo. Carrazimo is (by all accounts) fairly competent at the magicianing thing. He does some nifty stuff with doves. He can pretend very effectively to chop off his thumb. He can throw his voice. He even (and Dad still doesnt know how) stole some little girls laugh. Seriously. He nicked it (she was temporarily hoarse) and then found it again inside her sticky bag of Liquorice Allsorts.
The magician or illusionist in question is no less (and no more) a man than The Great Carrazimo. Carrazimo is (by all accounts) fairly competent at the magicianing thing. He does some nifty stuff with doves. He can pretend very effectively to chop off his thumb. He can throw his voice. He even (and Dad still doesnt know how) stole some little girls laugh. Seriously. He nicked it (she was temporarily hoarse) and then found it again inside her sticky bag of Liquorice Allsorts.
This is all good stuff (I know youre thinking) so why the angst?
Heres why: at the end of his show, Carrazimo pulls a stunt which leaves everyone agog. He gets the kids to dig a hole a deep hole in the sand. He climbs into the hole. He then tells the kids to fill it up.
Thats right. The Great Carrazimo is intending to get himself Buried 100 Per Cent Alive.
The kids they arent a bad bunch are slightly nervous at the prospect. I mean its been a good show. The little girls laugh is back. The thumbs on. The doves are cooing. Its very nearly lunchtime.
But Carrazimo insists. Its the climax of his act.
The kids still arent entirely convinced. And heres the thing, one especially responsible (read as: opportunistic) young un pipes up, if you dont come back, whats gonna happen to the rabbit and the doves and all the rest of your stuff?
Carrazimo grins. If I dont come back, he says, then you can divide it among you.
Two seconds later, Carrazimo disappears under a hail of sand.
It takes about ten minutes to bury the illusionist completely. Douglas Sinclair MacKenny has played his part has even taken the precaution of patting the sand neat and flat on top. Hes concerned for the illusionist (yes he is), but he has one (very constant, very careful) eye already firmly affixed on the illusionists grand collection of magic wands. Theres a fat one (the very one he used to fix his thumb back on), and if the worst happens, Douglas Sinclair MacKenny is determined to have it.
When all the work is done, the kids sit down, en masse, and they wait.
And they wait.
Eventually (its now half an hour past lunch), one of the mums happens along.
What on earth are you all up to? she asks.
Were waiting for Carrazimo, they respond.
Well where is he? she asks.
In the sand, the kids boom back.
Pause.
So how longs he been under there? she enquires.
Thirty-seven bloody minutes, Douglas Sinclair MacKenny yells furiously.
Another five minutes pass. By now quite a crowd has formed. One of the fathers has asked the kids to indicate precisely where the illusionist is buried. The kids are still quite cheerful at this stage (if getting a little hungry), and they happily mark out the spot.
The parents start to dig (the poignancy quotient of this scene is presumably dramatically heightened by the fact that all these men and women have borrowed their kids tiny shovels). The atmosphere is grave (on the surface, at least), but then- 32 seconds into the rescue operation- an unholy scrap breaks out.