The day Elvis died

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I am not gluten free. Far from it. I’m watching a show about a cross-dressing family man, eating white fish, and breathing in Saturday air. I make no plans for the weekends because plans get in the way of doing nothing.

When I was a kid, I had very red cheeks. There’s a photograph on the lounge window sill of me sitting on my mother’s knee with an exceptionally red face.

Some people think I was born old and intolerant, a five year old with the disposition of a jaded London taxi driver. I wasn’t like that when I was a kid, I was an adventurer, the buccaneer of the River Ericht, crashing through rain covered cobwebs on my way to the gorge.

What happened to that spirit? When did I get bogged down in having a career and doing nothing at the weekend? Sometimes I’d like to resurrect that little fucker and get him to take me on an adventure somewhere, anywhere. We’d spend the weekend diving for pearls, create complicated games out of Lego, and finish up tired on Sunday, tunneling through the biggest Shepherd’s Pie ever baked.

“We can only eat fish fingers on dull days”, is what I said to my Grandfather, standing in a Swedish kitchen in 1977. Elvis died that day.

But now it’s windy in Brunswick and the Bloody Marys are cascading down the walls. My feet smell like funky corn chips and I wish I’d at least tried pearl diving as a career. However, regret is one of life’s greatest fallacies and I’m not a kid anymore but I’ve never wanted to be anyone else, and oblivion is sewn into the fabric of morality.

Exit, pursued by a bear.

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About callumrscott

I am a Learning Consultant and writer, who oscillates between being elated and very angry and sometimes both at the same time. I have been studying many forms of masculinity for almost 15 years now, in particular, hyper and protest masculinity. My other main field of research is transgression or the rituals of transgression and the performative nature of this behaviour. Apart from researching and developing eLearning solutions, I enjoy a good pint and I live in a flat in Brunswick, close to my favourite place, Barkly Square. My greatest disappointment in life is that my first memory turned out to be a lie. I didn’t lose a red wellie on a beach in Orkney and now I have no first memory, just a lot of stories about alcohol and bad decisions. Take it. All the best - Callum R. Scott

3 responses to “The day Elvis died”

  1. Drew says :

    I never said you were gluten-free. Far from it.
    I’ve got a boat. It’s only very small, and it leaks, but still, I reckon it will get us tired on a Sunday in front of the remains of a shepherd’s pie that contains traces of genuine shepherd.

  2. Adam Ford says :

    A-fucking-men, sir. Yes indeed.

  3. Brad says :

    I used to think oblivion was just imbibed into the fabric of my family tree and branches from it (and the occasional grizzly bear) would fall, telekinesis like, on anyone that entered into my uninhibited consciousness. But I have learned, as you have so concisely observed, oblivion is in the fabric of morality; the floor, walls, and ceiling variety of fabric that we sew ourselves into the corners of.

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