Mind Damaged: Opening chapter

Understand This.

It's not that I'm a serial killer. I'm told that to be a serial killer you need to make a habit of ending people's lives and that's just not something I go in for, not physically anyway.

It's not that I have a psychological disorder recognised by anyone but myself. No, I'm not a raging, babbling mad person with any form of psychotic tendencies.

And it's not that I've had a large bump on the head, nasty accident, or any other incident approximating to, or resulting in brain damage.

But there is something. Something that makes people look at me with a look of bewilderment, blankness, or occasionally with disgust (the disgust looks are always my favourite). It's nothing to do with my face. I have quite a pleasant face- it even smiles sometimes. My dress sense, you'll see, is somewhat incidental, though not entirely unrelated, to the disgust, bewilderment or blankness looks.

My upbringing was, granted, a few miles away from conventional- as much as 1,500 miles at times, but I know it's nothing to do with that either, as exemplified by my painfully normal brother Julian the civil servant-in-a-box who skipped through childhood with impossible social ease. And sorry to disappoint, no, I do not do, nor have ever done drugs any stronger than Anadin Utra.

No, I'm quite pleased to say I can't blame a single person or pinpoint a single incident that's made me the way I am. If I did, that would leave me with someone like me in the world and that's a prospect that is a touch too scary even for me to flirt with.

So, what is it then? Adopt an appropriately grating American accent if you please and push your spectacles to diagnostic level five at the tip of your nose if you have the ability to do so. What is my problem? Where do I fit exactly? What am I doing here? That'll be the sort of thing you're wondering I expect. But if there's one thing I want you to understand before we kick off on this whole route of self-discovery, associated frolics and no doubt the odd shamefully amusing mishap, it's this;

If you want to entertain any hope of understanding me- any whatsoever, you must, where at all possible, try to avoid understanding me. For understanding, as they often don't say, is the breeding ground of all reconciliation and thereby of all conflict.

I can see by the wince of confusion that this is going to be a little tough for you. You'll have to have some boundaries I suspect, perhaps a nice little play pen that you can reach out and touch the plastic coated wires of, should you need a little reassurance along the way? Don't worry sweetheart, I'm on it. See, I know you, you with your comfortable routine, your shiny buckled booties and your Qualified Pet Psychiatrist. Yes, I know that you are a certified success story and I'm sure that I'm very pleased for you. Yep, I know all about you and your sort, because that's all you ever wanted to be- a sort.

So here's your play pen, Tag and all this business. Do you seriously believe I would be here if I wasn't going to take it seriously? Do you think I could stomach such a conventionalist mindnumbist toupee wearing cheese fest if I didn't think it worth my while? Well? What little you know of me surely points to the notion that I wouldn't be here just to please you. So you can stop with the grimace and just accept that for whatever reason we've found ourselves put together and we're not going to manage all this without a few shavings of cooperation. I can endure this if you can, despite what you're already thinking.

So that's that? Agreed. We're in.

And you, peering over his shoulder, that's right you. Don't look so surprised, I can see you there. Just because you think you don't know me doesn't mean I don't know you. You can see me, correct? Well, why would you think I can't see you? Some people are just¦ Look, I'll let you follow this too, just because I'm feeling generous, but you breathe a word of this and I swear, my days of being a non-physical serial killer may be numbered.

Straight to the Norm

'Ladies and gendlemen, you are all here looking for enlightenment'

Cretin.

'And I'm here to show you the way. Let's make the love work.' Cheers went up from around the arena as Tag Waverley, his meticulously greased side-parting, radio mic and royal blue blazer and jeans combo sauntered onto the stage like a new age pirate.

'Together, we can make that change you so desperately need in your life. All you need is my advice and techniques' Yeah, and all you need is my credit card. A flurry of lacily attired dancers bounded in with the grace of a swarm of six year-olds, scattering sparkle dust. A little of the dust found its way up my nasal cavity, forcing it to concede what I'd been pointing out to it all evening- we were sitting far too close to the front.

'Life is a dance with rhythms and beats of its own. Sometimes we're up, sometimes we're down,' I won't test your intelligence with depiction of such choreographic mastery as was before me, it would no doubt be far beyond your grasp to conceive that there is still a place for playground dances in the adult world, 'There are joys and delights, demons to thwart and so far, my friends, you have thwarted all these demons.' Oh really? Then why are you¦ 'But what happens when you hit something you can't handle.'

The dancers abruptly stopped and the lights swung down to pitch black. Suspenseful seconds later (I could hardly contain myself) a shard of silver light hit the levitating figure of Tag Waverley and soft choral ahhhing smoothed its way from the lips of the dancers.

'My friends, don't let yourself go. Everybody cries. Everybody hurts sometimes. Your pain is the pain we're all feeling right now and it's what makes us stronger.' A pseudo-African drumbeat began to thump. Ding ding, next stop, Praise the Lord Central & Happy Clapping Common. 'Take comfort in the stranger sat next to you and know. That we. Can. Make the change.'

The drumming and choral ahhhing reached a frenzied peak as the shard of light exploded across the stage. And Tag Waverley, suspended from above, spread his arms wide to his congregation as (what else?) wings expanded from his back. I only flinched slightly when a multitude of six year old girls, presumably the same ones who the stage dancers had learned their moves from, came prancing through the arena throwing yet more glitter at the awe-inspired, beaming crowd.

I glanced over at Pam. She was looking unusually earnest, clutching her denim notepad and matching pen in anticipation. Pam's stuff never matched. This must be serious.

'Perhaps you're looking for love. Maybe you've found it, but it's the wrong sex,' Jesus, we've walked into an episode of Ricky Lake. 'You could be moving on from an accident, heartbreak, or a monotonous routine. Perhaps you don't even realise you need help.' Bring out the leather couch and esoteric notebook scribbles.

'Whatever your situation, with my unique, tailored approach to self-help you can be the master of your life again. Welcome, ladies and gendlemen to Life School.'

So that was it. That's was where it began, at this concert, gig, sermon, love-in thing. Of course, I was here purely for Pam. She needed it and I'd do anything for her- it was an unwritten agreement between the pair of us since Freddie went. Tag Waverley and his circus of life-help tricks was a phenomenon sweeping Friars' Street, East London and probably the rest of the world if I'd cared to look. Pam had begged me to come with her, so come I did.

'Empowerment¦'
Oh please.
'¦Joyful living¦'
Sure, I can feel the sand between my toes already.
'¦Freedom¦'
That's right hunny, freedom from dumbass showman preachers.

'Who can claim none of those three things appeal to them?' The crowd gushed with adulation as more than a dozen men and women in my proximity silently gave birth to kittens.

This was the very first follow-the-masses thing Pam and I had done in years. Maybe we were getting old. Since teenagedom we'd firmly set ourselves aside from the giggly makeup girls and embarked on a life of alternativism, of refusing to conform, of standing out against the moronic drone of oppressive normality. But hold on, that suggests we were bra-burning hippies or something similarly detestable. No, nothing so simple, you're already falling into the trap of boxing us. Resist, if you will, that temptation and squeeze your mind open just a few millimetres.

When the girls at school had worn high heeled, shagmesandals, we'd gone for fat trainers with an indecipherable Norwegian brand name. When the Punk Kids had labelled themselves as such we'd firmly shrugged off the lure of the "look at how depressed I am lifestyle to focus on providing members of our acquaintance with much lacking non-specific discomfort in our presence. When everyone else was picking neat university careers in medicine or engineering or history, Pam chose Vetenary Econometrics and I went for the Miscellaneous Alternative Science of Russian Folklore and Other Obscure Personality Typecasts (MASORFOOPT to its friends). When everyone else was pairing off into nice little relationships, Pam and I even pretended for a while that men just weren't our bag. And when everyone else was exiting their rebellious stage, we were just getting going.

Yet there I was, sat on a plastic flip-down seat, Row D seat 22 of Wembley arena, watching my £275.89 (don't ask me what the 89 pence was for, or the £275 for that matter) drain into the already heavy pockets of an over-tanned Life Guru. And if that wasn't enough, the whole thing was sponsored by bloomin' Stiles & bloomin' Rob, the world's happiest nicey-nicey mess of an over controlling rip-off corporation.

Ladies and gentlemen, to my left I present the simpering, lipstick-on-teeth, perfect mum club searching for more fulfilling lives than daytime TV and to my right I present the supportive, cleanly manicured couple who are so devoted to Tag Waverly and chums they probably haven't looked at each other in a month. In fact, all around me were young people, old people, pretty people, ugly people, occasionally all four in one, all gazing forwards with awe, gulping down Tag Waverley's every word like a bottle of wine on a bad first date. And even my dear friend Pam, my partner in cynicism, was getting sucked in.

Don't get me wrong, if you walked past us on the street, the word "freak probably wouldn't even have entered your mind, not at that point anyway. Let me assure you that Pam and I don't have nose-rings, we don't meticulously paint ourselves with blue and orange stripy eye makeup and we don't have platted underarm hair. In fact, when people meet us, they tend to trick themselves into thinking we're normal, 'nice, respectable girls.'
'Yes, I never could quite work out why my Stephen didn't manage to hang onto her,' some cooing empty nester would comment.
'Tush, such lovely girls and such a shame¦' others would agree. It's only when, a few months, days, hours, minutes, seconds later when they learn about The Pro-Vice Chancellor Electrolysis Episode, for example, that the smug lady to the left whose son hadn't been involved in the saga felt distinctly content that her Stephen still retained all senses of purity and normality.

And so it was that Pam and I were quite used to the Polite Smile, the Side Step, the Would You Look At The Time and other social wet slaps. We were quite used to being the only ones left cosily sheltered at the sodden barbeque because one of us had mischievously spread a herpes self-rumour. Indeed, we delighted at feigning oblivion to the looks and squeals that only a good old-fashioned saga can generate.
'That Marg over there,' Fanny Bristle would whisper incredulously, gesturing with a sausage roll and scratching herself subconsciously.
'Really? Gosh, I just didn't think she was that kind of person'
That's the point, Pam and I aren't any kind of people, we are Pam Due and Marg Muggleton. Beginning of story.

As Tag invited his third success story on stage to give a drivelly account of how much they've changed, I began to muse how much cash dear Mr Waverley (at least he didn't dare call himself Dr- thankful for small blessings) raked in per night of his tour. I stopped counting at six figures, assuring myself that there must be some hefty overheads I was failing to consider. Bored with conservative maths and the continuing flow of still more words from the success story whose tale must, I presumed, by the laws of averages, have been substantially better than his hair cut, I then turned my problem-solving capabilities to the issue of how many semi-skilled field mice it would take to apply Mr Waverley's all over fake tan, given his expected tolerance level of up to two hours wait time for completion of said tanning chore. Ninety-four. Well there we go, those kinds of extravagancies don't come cheap. Geez, Tag Waverley must be quite the diva. I'll probably insists on trained ferrets to shine his shoes too. Now they're maybe six to eight times larger than field mice, but well known in the trade to be less willing to please, so¦

A sudden silence in the arena brought me back to consciousness.
'Yes, it's you ma'am. Whadayou say?'
What? I squinted into the camera light that very firmly singled me out as the intended filler of aforementioned sudden silence.
'Please ma'am, we're running live on national television.'
'Erm, I squirmed, "Yeah, I agree.'
'With which point ma'am?'
Oh. 'With both I should imagine.' Ha. That'll show 'em.

A pinprick hush fell across the arena. I nervously glanced sideways to the mums and the couple who were staring back at me either with ill concealed disgust or tentative excitement. Probably both.

'I mean¦' Help me out here, '¦huh¦ I mean, of course I don't agree¦ that would be ridiculous. What I was doing was pointing out how ridiculous it would be to¦to¦agree with you¦ and on national television¦' still talking? Jesus, stop moving your mouth, 'to agree in front of so many people¦ because that way¦ erm¦ we learn something more about our reactions and, um¦ societal¦'
Pam was curled up in her seat next to me in the anonymous darkness of row D seat 23, shaking with laughter and dismay, tears streaming down her face.
'¦ societal pressures and the forces of¦ cultural norms, when¦ um¦' what are you talking about? 'when faced with such an important and pressing issue as this one¦' God, just shut up!
'Well¦' Tag Waverley breathed with excited anticipation, elegantly brushing aside my spout of nonsensical jabber, 'I must say that this is quide exceptional ladies and gendlemen. A truly historic moment. Our first volunteer for the Full Effects Programme. Ma'am if you can make your way up onto stage, let's give enormous love for Marg and Norman, our first FFXer couple.' It didn't occur to me at that point that I'd never told him my name.

Now I'm sorry to sound ungrateful, but I hadn't exactly gone to this rally with a view to getting lucky, so the prospect of moving my very round and very lovely bottom from an albeit not so very round or very comfortable seat, up into the arms of a gorky looking success story with a mangled rodent for hair didn't exactly appeal. As the crowd's veneration continued, I stayed put. Tag Waverley's eyes locked on me and I swear they glowed an unusual shade of red. Geez, the predictions of the biblical classic Terminator have finally come true. His brow furrowed and he threw a gesture into the aisle on my left. A second later I felt myself being hoisted from behind by Arnold Schwarzenegger himself and brusquely kicked up the steps to the stage.

I was used to sticking out from the crowd, and normally didn't much mind it, but this one felt personal. I was Nelson on top of his unnecessarily lengthy column and everyone was peering with curiosity at the traffic cone on my head. Convention had let me into its, well, convention, in the most welcoming and unsuspecting manner and all I could contribute was a lukewarm vomit of inattention to gently splatter the crowd. As they picked my semi-digested pieces of social ineptitude out of their hair, not for one moment flickering in their puppy like attention, I tried desperately to judge what I'd just volunteered myself for. Probably, my reasonable side (which, incidentally, is my left side) supposed, just a semi-embarrassing trust exercise or similar feat. Unfortunately, my more tetchy and far more intelligent right side; the side of doom, destruction and cataclysm, was proven the closer shot on this occasion.

The last thing I clearly remember (memory has this fantastic ability to block out traumatic events) is judging which angle to look at Tag Waverley from so I wouldn't be entirely blinded by his pearly teeth.