There Was Only Ever Brad Pitt

Posted: June 17, 2018 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

As I write this upon my commute to work, there’s a woman on this train whose whole head looks exactly like a fish.

Not just a fish’s face, but a whole fish.

Tail included.

Now, I’m not classless enough to take a public photograph of this woman to share it over the internet, so I’ll do what I can to tell the tale of her face.

You’ve probably already arrived there already when you read “looks exactly like a fish”; enormous lips.

What can you do? Enormous lips are a mixture of what you think of when you picture a fish-looking-female, add some DNA, a dash of cosmetic surgery and perhaps a whole splodge of poutiness; it’s just a matter of business between your nose and chin that is different for all folk.

I’d love bigger lips, for mine are very mere – thin and the part of me that even the neighbourhood cat wouldn’t start eating if it found me dead (he’d probably start with my cheeks – I’ve got plenty of those).

Although, it’s probably beneficial to have the thin lips I do as I’ve a smile slightly broader than my face and to have lips on a par with this fish-headed woman would result in confused headaches for all who happened to look at me.

Again; what can you do?

Aside from the obvious lip-factor, next come her ears. Her ears are like a fish’s fins and obliques, bejewelled with earrings and make-up like some precious fish’s shining and glittering scales.

Her eyes are bulging and yet fishily-expressionless; shaded with tropical blue and green. I can’t tell what’s nearer to the tip of my nose from ten feet away; her what-can-you-do lips or her ‘are-you-livid/aroused/hungry/bemused/amused//confused/proud/excited-eyes’.

Her hair colour is irrelevant; but the shape was not.

Both blonde and brunette hair, raised in a pony-tail (whilst looking entirely unlike a horse – to her credit…and mine; I’ll take credit for anything) yet dangling out the back and finishing with an upwards jaunty flourish…………………like a tropical fish tail.

Again; her whole head is shaped as though a whole tropical fish. And I’m not finished yet.

The shape of her head.

It was fish shaped.

I’ll leave this description at that point; the point I’ve ran out of things to and enthusiasm with which to describe and am pleased at this.

She looks like a tropical fish, but here’s the rub.

What is she like?

Is she extraordinarily nice, intelligent and funny, self-mocking of her tropical fish shaped head?

Does she hate it, does she laugh at it, does she do both?

It’s a common factor, I feel, that people look a certain way yet are in and of themselves not that certain way but rather another.

Caught her eye just then, shared a moment’s gaze.

Is she delighted at the prospect of an admiring glance, the prospect of someone finding her attractive? Or does she wonder what the fuck this ugly guy is staring at her for, eager to, rather than be stared at, head home to her local pub and grab a handful of the lined-up and dutiful boners awaiting her?

Maybe they think she’s gorgeous and there’s no real sign that she isn’t. Just, also fish-like.

Beauty is in the eye of whomever is going to fuck this fish-headed woman. I’m sure there’s a market for this sort of thing; and if she’s got a clever brain she’ll dip her toes in it.

Perhaps she’s a decade ahead of me in this thinking; she’s been herself for longer than I’ve considered her on this one-hour and 15 minute train journey.

Good for her.

Some folk are born to look a certain way, and we need to deduct that from our perception of their potential personality.

Imagine Brad Pitt growing up, if you weren’t already doing so as you became bored throughout the fish-head description.

Picture Brad trying desperately searching to find self-critical flaws, as is the habit of teenagers’ the world over and through time, yet he encounters a reflection of a chap so handsome he simply realises his life is going to be ok.

Maybe he’ll try acting.

With looks that good, one must presume that at some point you’ll be handed a large sum of money; just on principle. Ever seen a Brad-Pitt-good-looking homeless guy? I’m still looking.

Perhaps that’s because there is no one of Earth that comes close to Brad Pitt good looking.

I considered a young Johnny Depp, and then realised this was folly. The only person who comes close to Brad Pitt as he is now; is Brad Pitt at other points in his life.

He is a standard of good-looking guy that is unattainable for all others.

If you have a baby boy, you might imagine he could become President of the USA, be an astronaut and walk on Mars, maybe even be Bill Gates rich; but you’ll never even for a moment entertain the insane thought that he’ll match Brad Pitt in the face.

If you concentrate on the idea of beautiful women, 10,000 rush into your head, blurring and merging into the basically the same image.

Angelina Jolie looks like Gal Gadot, looks like Natalie Portman, looks like Keira Knightley, looks like Winona Ryder.

The most beautiful woman in the world; and there’s five of them.

When concentrating on a handsome bloke; you think of Brad Pitt. Sometimes you do it just for the enjoyment of it; why not? I do. It’s not gay, it’s human, like watching the Northern Lights.

No one on Earth is better looking than that guy, and he has to live with that.

Face it – there was only ever Brad Pitt.

‘Face-it‘…Brad does.

And here, ‘face-it‘ doesn’t mean confront the situation, it means: do what Brad does.

Insert your extraordinarily-godly-good-looking face into your woes and watch shit get solved.

Brad Pitt got divorced from one of those many most-beautiful-woman-in-the-Hollywood-world, a real high-quality sort of wife that’s worth keeping for the kudos alone. A tricky divorce, kids, money, tabloids, and no-doubt some heartbreak to bitter-sweeten the hurt.

Know how he got over it?

He looked like Brad Pitt, and now all’s well.

It’s much later in the day now, and the fish-headed woman disembarked and went about her London day, and I mine.

I wish her well and hope she looked kindly on my ugly visage.

Here’s to her.

A whole new standard of fish-headedness.

And, honestly, kind of cute.

My beautiful wife has those same lips.

And I’m not Brad Pitt.

But, then again, no one is.

Only Brad Pitt was Brad Pitt and, really, Brad Pitt is all there ever was.

His face; onto the rocket it goes.

See you next time,

Sam

What’s Your Favourite Colour?

Posted: September 7, 2016 | Author: | Filed under: What and Why So?, writing | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

What and Why So? Simple Questions; My Answers (1).

What’s Your Favourite Colour?

Good questions are the simplest.

I’ve always found that when in need of a conversation starter; go back to the old favourites. The classics of “What’s Your Name?”, “How Old Are You?” and “Can You Smell That? GOOD!” are reliable to see you through any introduction and can indeed let blossom a real keeper of a conversation.

In these simple proddings; the complex revelations come forth, and I hope that throughout this series they shall come forth mightily.

What is your favourite colour?

Who, me?

Beige.

Beige.

What?

Now I’m a fan of Billy Connolly and I’m aware of and enthralled by his near-disregard-but-more-like-“I’m-going-to-Scottish-you”-contempt for the colour. I am aware of the focus upon beige as being the sort of colour you’d feel comfortable leaving your children with whilst you went out for a night on the town; painting it Red with Blue language, uploading something Green and Orange by the end of it.

The issue I have with this is that being dependable is not necessarily a bad thing; it merely suffers connotations of dullness.

Not that I’m the hero you can count on; suffering myself as I do with plentiful heaps of flakiness. I’m so flaky you can stick me in an ice-cream; not that I’d keep to that for long before changing my mind.

Beige is also my natural colour; my tint upon this Earth. I was born beige and shall die so; tattoos permitting. I’ve been referred to by every racial slur under the sun; with accusations of Arab ancestry being my most frequent asundering. The unfortunately ill-educated folk of the town in which I was raised found my darker skin colour baffling; though delighted in the chance to call me nigger and (once) tell me to go back to Swaziland.

They weren’t even good at being racist; the colours were too much for them.

I was picked on for being a colour I wasn’t. I dazzled them with beige.

Not that I hold any grudge against beige; only a hope that it should come to succeed its history of dull association and instead reveal itself to be the dependably brave and weird colour you’ve been looking for.

I’d like to go a’peacocking in beige; save only for the problem that the clothing Beige comes in less than flattering cuts.

All those other folk out there yell around about red. The colour of passion and danger, love and blood. Rubies and lips. Not really, guys. Not really. Only firemen live up to this classification; being as they are folk who spend their working hours on fire, kicking down doors, saving dangling damsels, retrieving cats from trees and holding axes.

I have ambition of doing all that, 9 to 5 and as a hobby too, all whilst doused in Beige.

Blue tries to suggest it is the colour of cool and cold. No way funny face. Blue is a damning attempt in ordering the populace to calm down and enjoy your journey through the system. Blue tries to tell me what to do, whilst I’m waiting in a waiting room (that’s what you’re supposed to do in them) and Blue says: “Wait longer; and be more subjugate.”

Someday I shall make red upon them all. I’ll do what I want in waiting rooms. Beige things.

Black. Oooh dear me; Black. Poor little old Black. Nothing wrong with Black in and of itself; but for the pesky Lord of the Rings consistency of making “dark Lord” and “Black lands” the epitome of evil.

Whatever did Black do to you, J.R.R? Aside from that whole spooky night-time-can’t-see-stubbed-toe-can-I-hear-a-growl issue you really should have gotten over by now by now (being deceased and all).

Poor old Black.

In the same vibrant vein, White isn’t so grand a thing either.

A White dress doesn’t make the woman a keeper and a White horse doesn’t make the rider moral.

The White be noteth thee goodeth.

Yellow is like the Plan B of the rainbow.

Only things that are currently Yellow are meant to be Yellow. Naturally I’d prefer my lemons to be Yellow and for my blondes to remain so, but I want nothing else to be Yellow.

Green is a liar. Nuclear-aliens or Mother Nature’s ivy….crikey Green; make up your mind. Just be yourself. Don’t do what the rest of the rainbow tells you to be.

I just come back to Beige, once again.

Beige is a colour one can rely on; I just hope to wear it in adventure enough that people might rely on it for things less dull in the future.

I want to paint the town Beige; the colour of cool and dangerous love you can rely on.

So in what I hope was a more complex answer to the simple question, my colour is Beige.

Next time; how old am I?

Sam