I’ve been back at my friend’s weird dad’s, and around that I’ve been looking at the funeral for my mum’s ex boyfriend.
We rarely leave this ship of fools on our own terms. He put a fair amount in order. He didn’t leave a huge mess. But he lived nomadically, finding a partner with property and aligning to their needs. It’s a way of things, and he did it well. I was suspicious from the outset as it was clear he was on the take, but he was terribly charming and my mother seemed mostly happy until the end. His habits were deathwards habits though and I know for sure she would have lived longer if she hadn’t met him. Her direction went with his though. I’m amazed he lived so long considering his habits. Heavy smoking and drinking. Set up a charity, got it rolling and lived off it. A good charity. But where does the money actually go? Hopefully where we want it to.
I struggled massively with him in some ways, but in others we aligned. He gave me my first job, designing the annual reports for his charity. We won awards. He taught me to properly question authority. It’s not enough to know the FACEHOOMS are wrong, we have to relentlessly zero in on their lies and hypocrisies in minutiae. His mate David Monroe took my first headshots, and became my mate, taught me about Rioja and then died so suddenly. David was gonna film Keith’s life. There is a STORY there. If nobody else tells it I’ll tell it here, because mum loved him even if I blame him for the way she went. She made her own decisions.
There was a window that he blew. “I need someone to write my life.” “Ok, mate. I’m busy until June but then we can spend as much time as you need.” “What do you mean?” “To write your life. I’ll need to spend some time with you and get things in order. And even though we have always had this complicated relationship, I’m happy to do it because you’ve made some positive change in the world.” “What… you? No. What are you talking about. You’re not a writer.” “Oh I’m sorry, I thought you were obliquely asking me… I’m… I mean I’m not a known writer, no. But I … I write a blog. I assumed you must have come across it and that was why you were saying you needed a writer to be a biographer.” “A BLOG? GOOD GOD NO. I’m not looking for a blogger. What? No. God no. Why would you think that? Christ. No. I need an actual writer who can write.” Sometimes, my darlings, we are the architects of our own oblivion.
I might do it anyway. I don’t really want to though tbh. There are plenty of people who look like him and feel their story must be told. Back then I thought he was asking me to, and I knew I would try to honour what he thought he was while also taking into account his impact. I thought writing him would be a departure, a challenge, something I didn’t really want to do but within which I was actually positioned to express better anyone else. I didn’t have time though. Life. I juggled it all in my head. “If I start coming to you in two weeks, I can give two weeks, on and off, to me gathering information to get it straight.” I did the maths and made the offer knowing I would be sacrificing dayjobs. His response? He blocked it all immediately, with such hard contempt that it has been tricky since then to be positive towards the old fucker.
He traded off charm for decades, and he was charming. It’s how he found his housing. I’m helping with his funeral now. He lived in this flat a fair few years after mum died cos Max and I let him. I don’t want his legacy to be my experience of him. I resented him for taking mum for what he could and dangling this “maybe” thing. She died sad because she bought his fantasy of a place in the country one day. He was always about to be able to get it. It never happened.
So… I’ve been trying to edit Blake for his funeral. He cared about mischief. But the funeral is trying to be vanilla. And I think it is right to try and carry the man I knew into it, not just obedience. He was a contrarian through and through, and taught me that much as dated mum. But the Blake is being cut to shreds and I’m wondering what is left of – let’s be honest for once – the con man my mother fell for. Feck it, I’m going there, he was a confidence trickster. Good looking, debonair, had a proveable backstory. A bad thing had happened to him. He traded off it until he died. He was a an absolute flashy liar. Me and all my friends knew it and laughed about it. He tried to make out like he knew the managers of every band we ever liked. We made up bands with certainty. We used random bands we met at raves with no managers. “Oh ya, Pascal’s Bongo Massive, I know their manager.” In my friendship group, a “Keith” became synonymous with someone who lied in order to fit in.
It’s complicated. I loved him. He was utterly full of shit. I sat with his body and apologised. Just because I blamed him for my mum’s death doesn’t mean he necessarily caused it. He just contributed. And all those things aside, I can still honour his life, and leave the lies behind. I just don’t trust he ever meant to get that fabled place in the country.
Fare forward, you delightful lying old maniac. I’ll try and represent at your funeral. The only thing I can’t properly represent is your relationship with the truth.
AlBarclay 