“So, this blog, you write it every day?”
“Yeah. Yeah I do.”
“Ok. Every day no matter what?”
“Yeah, no matter what. I used to set a minimum of 500 words but WordPress introduced blocks and so now I just write until I think there’s enough.”
“Until there’s enough?”
“Well, yeah. I mean sometimes I’ll just stop because I’m tired, and other times I’ll stop because I think I’ve completed whatever thought I was trying to convey.”
“So you’re trying to convey thoughts?*
“No not really. I’m just… I dunno. I’m just writing life. Whatever is there…”
“Ok… So you write everything?”
“Well, yeah. No. Yeah. No yeah ok so no… No I don’t write everything.”
“Aha. So this is interesting now. You keep things back? So you’re trying to craft some sort of a version of yourself?”
“Not so much, no. It’s not a curation exercise. Much of it is to do with friends of mine with boundaries. I’m very respectful of those boundaries. To the extent that I’ll often ignore very deep interactions in order to preserve the privacy of those I love.”
“I see. Ok. So that’s why you aren’t writing about how you shat yourself this evening?”
“I’m sorry?”
“On your way home tonight. Are you preserving somebody else’s privacy by not writing about how you basically shat yourself between Sloane Square and home?”
“That’s an exaggeration. I had it under control. Yes I shat. But my trousers were not involved. I got away with it.”
“Barely. By sheer coincidence your car was parked between Sloane Square and your flat. You got off the tube, got to your car and immediately shat into the gutter by your car with the door open.”
“Exactly. Into the gutter! And I had a big box of excellent tissues on my passenger seat and it was totally fine and as soon as I got home I ran a hot bath. You seem to be very much wrapped up in this whole surprise poo incident.”
“Are you surprised? Listen to yourself. Lovely Lou, and all this filming and collaborating with artists and off to Uruguay soon with your flat in Chelsea. You overprivileged wanker. I’m happy you shat yourself.”
“I didn’t shit myself. You’re making it worse than it is. I contained it all very well. I just had an emergency movement by my car, and took advantage of the fact I’ve got a bunch of free tissue boxes.”
“You’ll never write about it though will you? Too busy curating this ideal version of yourself.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m trying to make a place where I can be flawed. I got caught short and I was lucky. My car was between the station and my home, and I had a free pack of Kleenex giant tissues literally on the passenger seat. First time since Camino that I’ve not made it to a formal place. Bergman provided the necessary infrastructure. It all happened. That’s the way of it. Done.”
“Done?”
“Yeah. Done.”
“Ok. So now you’re out of the bath. You’re clean. You feel great. Tom is in York, you have your own bed. And it’s blogtime.”
“Totally. And I’m going to write about all the art I did and the amazing chats I had as Panda.”
“No. You’re not. You’re gonna write about how you basically improvised an outhouse from a car door. You’re going to tell these idiots who think you’re a glamorous actor that you emergency shat on the street in Chelsea.”
“No, dammit. Nobody will ever know. They can never know. I’m shiny and sexy. That’s me. Shiny Sexy Al. Sparkly Alec. Alec Sparkly. I’m better than real. I can’t let my adoring public know I’m flawed! Watch me work it. I’m perfect. *Hyperventilation*
“It’s too late, mate. I’ve written this whole exchange. And you’re knackered. It’s almost 2am. Bedtime. This is the blog, like it or lump it.”
“So everybody will know?”
“No. Only the people who read this.”
“That could be anyone!”
“It’s your fault if you refuse to read the stats. Who knows how much harm you’re doing, bumfungus streetpoo-man “
“That’s bullying!”
“That’s life. Just be glad there’s no picture, asshole.”
AlBarclay 