The Idler

BLISS TO BE ALIVE

Penguin have brought out a collection of journalism from our great friend Gavin Hills, who tragically died in 1997. It’s been brilliantly put together by former Face editor Sheryl Garratt, and contains many of his Idler pieces.

Here is his first My Wonderful Life column, published in Idler 12, November 1995

In the first Instalment of his new column, Gav attempts to join the world of reason.

What Fun, a column. Yet how can I begin to share the immense excitement and joy of my remarkable life? I find it hard to believe that I will be able to convey the astute observations, witty commentaries and complex philosophical debates that fill my waking days, let alone start to record the hectic social whirl that engages me week upon week. Still, I have never been one to shirk challenge and with this magnificent gauntlet slapped firmly against my jowl my whole head has begun to swirl with a heady vapour of creative flow. Thousands upon thousands of martyrs have heroically laid down their lives for people. The path to enlightenment is crimson with their blood. I ask you to hold my hand as I too start the long march on a similar path. Although mine may be a prettier and far more metaphorical path, we still must remain resolute and fear no sacrifice. Together we shall surmount every difficulty. The sound of foot on gravel shall cast fear into the hearts of our enemies. Behold, I write.

They discharged me from hospital the other day. I skipped along the street with a smile on my face and started laughing to myself. I was officially sane and I had a letter to prove it! As with most of life’s good news it was short lived. The drawbacks were soon pointed out by my friends. Sanity had brought with it certain responsibilities. I could no longer murder people at random and claim diminished responsibility. Sympathy would be scant if I went to fed frozen chickens to the Lions at London Zoo. And if/when I next take my clothes off in public, my joy would be hampered by the knowledge that this particular perversion could no longer be discounted under the get-out clause of certifiability. Fuck, rumbled at last. The world of reason is not to my liking.

This tragedy of existence is quelled by the current popular culture. Cantona’s back. Noel and Liam are rocking. Jarvis and Damon are quipping. From Brighton to Blackpool something’s swinging. I saw Vic and Bob on the telly the other night. Isn’t it warming to live in a time of heroes? Things feel real again. We’re ditching the synthetic. People prefer cotton to nylon. If only the cyber saviours could understand this.

I went to a big shop. Apples are back. All sorts of flavours. Not just Golden Delicious, but all sorts; Cox’s, Orange Pippins, Russets, Bramleys, Granny Smiths and some with even older, more mysterious names. I examined the fine array but neglected to buy. I had plenty of apples. My mum had given me a bag of windfalls. Bruised and worm-ridden yet tasty, slightly church, apples.

Harvest was good this year. Although this summer’s drought played havoc with the conker crop, Avalon, the island of apples, was still bountiful with its edible fruits. And the birds didn’t get them all as usual. As I crunched the thin unblemished slices I had cut from these windfalls I took heart that, unlike the ones in the big shop, they were free fruits from the soil of my youth. The garden of my Action Man.

A quick swifty around my flat revealed one unidentifiable plant that seems destined to survive (even if I water it once a month) and a yellowing tuffet of chives that were sprouting from a small black plastic Sainsbury’s fresh herb plot. This was my garden, that and the mould in the bath-room. The rest of the place was full of stereo equipment, TV stuff, computers, Modems, a fax, a CDI and the assorted junk of the technological age – binding with wires my hopes and desires.