A friend told me once that he was holidaying in the remote Hebrides and after a day’s walking stumbled across a single shack. He knocked on the door and was invited in for a cuppa by a wizened old Scotsman. Electric blanket worn as kilt, I’m guessing. Anyway, he told my friend this story:
Back in the mid 70s, the Royal family used to holiday regularly in the far North of Scotland, presumably because it’s the furthest they could get away from their pesky subjects. This old man was sat at his table one day, having a banquet with his invisible friends, when he heard a knocking. ‘That’s funny’ he thought ‘all my friends are here, and there’s no-one else for 2o miles’. He opened the door to be confronted by Prince Charles.
‘The fucker’ he muttered as he slammed the door in his face.
A few seconds later there was a hammering at the door.
“Do you know who I am?” barked the red faced Heir-Apparent, wholly unaccustomed to this sort of treatment.
“YES!” spat the Scotsman and slammed the door again. The Prince went on his way after that.
Apart from a bit of anti-royalism, this story illustrates a certain truth I have found about my identity- I seem to spend a lot of time asking other people who the fuck I am. While I’m sure Princey-boy meant it rhetorically, I do think “Do you know who I am?” is the question of my life. This reminds me, apparently Einstein rang his secretary in the middle of the night;
“Hello Mabel, do you know where I live” Einstein asked breezily.
“Yes sir, of course” she replied
“Well, can you please tell me, I seem to have got a little lost” He replied.
Identity crises seem to be the Gary Glitter 7″ of our time- everyone’s got one, but no-one will admit to it. Perhaps the proof as they say is in the pudding, and do I like puddings! So ‘Who am I?’ = I’m that tragic bloke with the comic blog. Nuff said.