'Adventures In Self-Esteem'

An Interview With Sir Mole Cleethorpes

"Sir Mole Cleethorpes, may we perhaps get to the crux of the matter?"

"The meat and two vedge.."

"Yes.."

"The cock and balls.."

"I wasn’t about to reference the idea in such prosaic terms."

"Well perhaps you should. It may prove liberating."

"I already feel liberated, Sir Mole."

"You’re an ant.."

"I…pardon?"

"You’re an ant in a circus. You’ve been trained to jump but only as high as an artificial ceiling, upon which you are constantly banging your head. Any higher and – well – you’ve been told you can’t jump any higher than that."

"I’m not sure I understand.."

"You feel free in the world but you aren’t really.."

"Perhaps we should return our focus to you, Sir Mole."

"Yes perhaps we should. This interview is about me. I am its subject and you have deemed me interesting enough to ask me some questions.."

"Sir Mole, why did you dislike your Father to the degree that you did?"

"Largely, I think because there was much to dislike. He was a deeply unhappy man, which he expressed in a number of ways – taunting me with a nuclear button was an early tactic.."

"He…I’m sorry?"

"He installed a button – in my bedroom – just above my bed. Just the old plastic casing of a doorbell – pretty easy to see through now but not at the time – being five years old and he informed me in the strongest possible terms if I press this button it will blow up the world and it will be entirely your fault. Can you imagine the psychological pressure – the fate of the planet – the entire world – billions of human lives resting on whether you manage to eat all your peas or not at dinner.."

"You are not referring of course to an actual incident?"

"Of course i'm referring to an actual incident. The Pea Debacle. I can still picture the stand off – refusing to eat all my peas, my Father saying right there’s only one way to resolve this and marching me upstairs and hovering his finger threateningly over the button, asking if I’d like to be responsible for the deaths of billions and I got back to those peas pretty sharpish I can tell you.."

"And you finished the peas?"

"Every single one. I shovelled them into my mouth at great speed, only to vomit them up again a half hour later. My Father threatened to pursue me through the courts but nothing ever came of it."

"And what did you learn from this – frankly – appalling mistreatment?"

"I learned to shut up. To never say or feel anything. It was very much a case of shove it down like bad medicine and get through it because this chaps a madman…which proved invaluable once I arrived at boarding school.."

"I imagine it must have. Where was your Mother throughout this?"

"Oh - staring at the floor, reading tarot cards but mainly preparing excuses.."

"Excuses?"

"They were very much a double act my Mother and Father – if you can picture it as a stage show – my Father walking onstage shouting like there's a war on – explosions, gunfire, bombs detonating, screaming and at that point my Father would exit and my Mother would make her entrance, in the silence and baldly state that he hadn’t meant a word of it, that his threat to ‘smash my face in’ was a message of love. Even aged five I remember looking at her and thinking you’re a remarkably stupid person aren’t you."

"It sounds the most appallingly awful show."

"Yes - well they’d never have sold out Madison Square Garden."

"And did your father always behave in this way?"

"Fifty per cent of the time."

"What would he do with the remaining fifty per cent?"

"He would write letters.."

"To whom?"

"To public figures, famous people – anyone who’d had any success at all really.."

"Do you know what any of these letters said?"

"I do in fact because he would send me copies – very much trying to say look how I’ve stuck it to this person. My Father was obsessed with his own self-importance – he saw himself as an incredibly important man – the trouble started I think when he realised that no one else did."

"He held a grudge?"

"Against the entire world, yes. For failing to recognise his genius. And so he would write to successful people and tell them they had achieved nothing and that he could have done a better job."

"He obviously derived pleasure from this.."

"Enormous pleasure. He would become animated. Sitting there at the kitchen table, scribbling furiously, his whole being would come alive – I remember him writing to Sir Paul McCartney - after he'd read in the paper he was bringing another new album out. Dear Mr McCartney, you’ve enjoyed tremendous success, why not leave it at that? He wrote to Telly Savalas - Dear Mr Savalas, you’re bald. Do you want Sean Connery’s phone number – I hear he does a nice line in wigs? PS – I can handle a lollipop with greater panache. And he then of course wrote to Sean Connery - Dear Mr Connery, you’ve obviously trained to be an actor but if I’d trained as an actor I’d be a much better actor than you. It was juvenile, idiotic, but the only time I ever saw him happy."

"Did anyone ever respond to a letter?"

"Sean Connery did. He wrote back telling him to fuck off."

"Sir Mole Cleethorpes, thanks ever so."

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