Memoir of a Disco Dancer. Prologue. The Bluebells v Tracey Emin. Sunday

Prologue: The Bluebells v Tracey Emin. Sunday

Good morning. Come on in. Let’s have one of our pointless conversations, again. But I must warn you, I’m very busy, and you are the last thing I need. You really are. Yes, I slept well until about 5 am, then the usual dread came, for the first time in a few days, actually. I must have known you were planning to pay a visit. You have been a bit quieter recently.

When I say I’m very busy, well... At this precise moment, as you can see, I’m alternating between Silk Cut and vaping, but you’ve witnessed this all before. It’s ridiculous behaviour, I know. My mum smoked Silk Cut at the factory gates, and my wife vaped in between stuffing both of our faces with Tunnock’s Tea Cakes and doner meat. They are both gone now. My mum and her gardening fingers to cancer, my soon-to-be ex-wife to debt and bad food leading to me being diagnosed with diabetes, and divorce. The bad food? Well, that’s gone too, and my ‘Type 2’ is receding. It’s salad and sourdough all the way now. I seem to have lost an enormous amount of weight. The doctors thought it was something else, what with the X-rays and blood tests. It’s a shame about the cigarettes. I’ll change that, maybe tomorrow. I’m still here, though, and it’s some kind of miracle. I’ve been very ill, you see, and I still am, I suppose. You know this better than anyone else. I’m not going to mention my dad or my brother, Joseph. They are not options at the moment; however much you tease me, and you don’t seem to stop, do you? Maybe we’ll get to them another time when you’re here because I’ve got to get going now. Oh, you’re coming with me, are you? I’m knew you would be.

Right then. Before we go, I’ll fill you in. This is our current scene. It’s 9.12 am on a Sunday in late April.  It’s 2026. If we look out these big windows, you’ll see a moor with a sun twisting its trees and a train stalled at its bottom, waiting for its green light. Can you see it?  Yes, I know I used the word ‘twisting’ there. You know I like descriptive language. It’s a pretty view, isn’t it? 

This place is called Saltaire. I’ve only been here a few months. It’s a so-called village on the outskirts of Bradford. A middle-class namedropper destination to its newer residents and retirees. There are lifers here too, and I wonder what they think of us. It was once a ghetto of the wool industry, made good and godly by a man named Titus Salt: a religious fanatic, empire builder, and probable wrong’un. Titus built a housing estate for his workers to keep them in check and not to drink or slack, a gun held at the working classes for his profit margins and their warm beds for the night. The houses he built are tiny, but today are mostly beloved by the Birkenstock-sandal-wearing, David Hockney worshipping, “aren’t we lucky to live here” tribes of new Leeds art and commerce money. You know that I have a bit of a spikey attitude towards people and mobility, probably because I am an old school socialist, and you’ll be right. I could tell you more, but you know me backwards, just to tell you again that as well as being left wing, I’m one of them too, an artist, well, a writer if you want to push me, well, a poet if you want to push me even further. Don’t laugh, I’ve had a few books out, and I’ve done other things too in the arts as well as menial jobs. There was the shoe shop and the perfume factory for starters. Also, as you know, I’m not from Leeds. I’m from somewhere entirely different.  But hey! We’ve got to go out, the Bluebells are in bloom, and there is work to do.

Is it Easter Sunday? It’s chilly. I’m wearing trainers, and that might not be right for a walk in the woods, but it will do. That ex-wife of mine still, and probably never will, give me back my walking boots. Those boots are so important to me; they have their own story. 

Let’s pop into the Shell garage for a fresh pack of Silk Cut, a can of Coke and a Mars Bar. Some things I just can't give up, even with diabetes. Do you want anything? I’m not having any of that flapjack and bottled water business that they all carry in their little rucksacks around here and make a show of chewing and gargling slowly with the seriousness of life-saving surgery. Who do you think I am? 

We’ll head down to the canal now. It’s best to avoid the village proper with its bakery, art shops and tourists. It’s a ‘World Heritage’ site, don’t you know? They come from all over to peek through people’s windows, and although it’s early, I know they will be there, hanging about with their iPhones and cameras, intruding into people’s lives. I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone because that makes me short of breath, but I have to; it’s part of the treatment to engage. It’s impossible to avoid humanity, I know, and I’ve tried to avoid it as much as I can for too long, to keep my head down. I now know it’s not right. I’m learning over time to understand my condition, to deal with it. The extremes of love and hate with no middle ground, no grey. Do you want to do a breathing exercise with me? Inhale in and exhale to the count of five. It works and calms you down. Do you not want to do it? I thought that we were going to get along today. Why are you being mean?

This is Hirst Lock, the woods are just over there, and that’s where we are going. Further up the canal, there’s a proper landmark, Bingley Five Rise Locks. Quite something to see when a boat is going through. I’m sounding like a tour guide; I quite like that. I do rant and rave against everyone, but I like living here, even with you on my back all the time; it’s just the people. Everyone seems to be keen to be out even at this hour. It’s the Bluebells, I imagine. I don’t know if we should go into the woods now. There will be tribes of families, all decked out in padded jackets, woollen hats and underused footwear. There will be dogs; there are always wild dogs running at me. I’m going to have a cigarette and a little think. Deep breaths and that.

Look at my phone, it’s an old Apple, running out of its relevance and the will to live. I cannot afford a new one. Do you think I need a new one?  I want to take photos, you see, just to prove I came. There are lots of people here already. Have we got this wrong? Perhaps we should have left earlier. Before you turned up, I sat at my kitchen table for quite a while staring into the middle distance in an attempt at meditation to take the pain away and to confront my feelings. Whatever the reason, it’s conflicted our order of the day. What are we going to have for our tea? I assume you are staying.

We’ve moved in deep here; we’ll sit on this fallen tree. Here are the Bluebells, massed in clumps, sunshine and shadow whoring their freshness, yes, I said whoring. Let me have a little vape, then try to breathe deeply and stare at them for five minutes, as the therapeutic exercise dictates.

For fucks sake! Why are you distracting me with the images of my loneliness? Stop projecting this horrible film in my head. Stop it now! Why are you doing this?  Let me fix my eyes on the Bluebells and think of something pleasant, the beautiful Bluebells, the air shafts of sun. But you won’t let me, will you? Why do I have to tell you the story again and again, with more detail? You always want more! And you want me to tell everyone else about this illness and my shame because you say it’s for the best, that it will do me good to come clean. I haven't done it because when I do, they all walk away, my then friends. 

No. I’m not doing it. Go away.

No chance.

The pain is too much.

I’ll end up having a drink, and then the bad compulsions will take over.

Alright, I’ll try again, just for you and anyone else who will listen. Here goes. You really think it will do me good?

It is called Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD, just to ease its nastiness and terrible stigma. It's a bastard of a thing and has ruined my life, and other lives too. I think I’ve had the condition since birth, but I can’t be sure. There are nine traits to the condition. One in ten of us who have it kill themselves. Have I tried to kill myself? Well, you know, don’t you? 

I’ll try to keep it simple. The nine traits of Borderline Personality are: fear of abandonment, unstable relationships, unstable self-image, impulsivity, self-harm, emotional instability, chronic emptiness, intense anger, and finally, paranoia and dislocation. If you have five of these traits, you are considered to have Borderline Personality Disorder. Guess what? I was diagnosed recently, well, six years ago, with all nine, a full house, bingo! There is no medication for it, and I should know, I’ve been on every antidepressant ever in the previous 20 years since the diagnosis. The only way to treat the condition is with therapy, which I have only recently been allowed to start. Six years. Thank God for the NHS! Did I say I was an old-school socialist?

What do you mean that’s not enough? You want me to tell everything, from the very beginning? I can’t.

What? Even the disco dancing? I won’t! My life is like a Tracey Emin painting. Bloody, smelly and ugly. Did you know that Tracey Emin was a championship disco dancer, just like me? But men tore her apart, just like I was torn apart by men too. I love Tracey Emin. I’m not using distracting tactics. I just can’t do it. Distracting tactics are good for my condition. It’s part of the therapy.

If I do it, tell the story of my life, I want you to go away now and leave me alone, please. But you won’t, will you? You are awful. I am not sure why I'm asking. You turn up every day and night, sabotaging every nerve and thought within me for every single second of my existence. Shall I tell you why you do this?  I can because I’ve worked you out. I bloody have, you know. 

You are Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s always been you. You’ve been here all my life. 

Alright! I’ll tell you and them everything from the beginning. Will you then just fuck off? Forever!

What are we having for our tea, though?