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Book: Beautiful People: My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints by Simon Doonan
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Authors: Simon Doonan
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the flavor!” begged Terry of his younger brother, but to no avail.
Gobbling food was probably a habit he picked up in the asylum prior to arriving chez nous. Meticulous, refined mastication was doubtless out of the question in such an establishment: there was no shortage of aggressive inmates waiting to swipe your grub off your plate if you did not shovel it down your gullet in record time.
Having wolfed down his lunch in a matter of seconds, Ken retired to a fireside armchair. Here he rolled the first in a long series of handmade cigarettes. He performed this skill without watching his hands. He just stared into the middle distance.
Uncle Ken did not make eye contact easily. He had a strange habit, when addressed, of focusing his gaze on one’s upper forehead. If you wanted to look him in the eyes, you were obliged to stand on tiptoes. This worked for only so long. After a while his gaze would ascend once more, obliging one to fetch a stepladder or throw in the towel.
“How was lunch?” said my mum, little knowing that an incomprehensibly dreadful and unforgettably nasty series of events was about to take place. Straining to get into his field of vision, she stood on tiptoes and repeated the question.
“Hello. . . . Yes. . . . Betty. . . . Thanksverymuch,” Ken replied incomprehensibly and raised his gaze.
From my vantage point, everything then seemed to go into slow motion and to cut, cut, cut in a cinematic frenzy. It was all very reminiscent of that scene in The Birds when Tippi Hedren observes the unfolding mayhem from a phone booth. I was Tippi.
Scene one: Uncle Ken takes a long drag on his hand-rolled ciggie and exhales in a wheezy rush. Cut.
Just at that moment, Hawo, the ailing cat, walks into the frame. Cut.
Betty rises from the dining room table and heads toward the kitchen with an armload of dishes, addressing the cat on the way with a “Hello, Hawo!” Cut.
Close-up on Uncle Ken’s feet. Cut.
Soundtrack builds.
Hawo looks at Uncle Ken.
Close-up on dilating cat’s pupil.
Hawo walks calmly toward Uncle Ken.
Hawo stares malevolently at Uncle Ken’s shoes.
Hawo vomits on Uncle Ken’s shoes.
The actual vomiting takes several seconds, but Uncle Ken is too out of it on horse pill tranquilizers to do anything other than stare blankly and continue to enjoy his raggedy homemade cigarette.
Cut to Betty who, oblivious to the unfolding drama, lights a fag, pours herself another glass of Château Doonan, and sets about washing the dishes.
Cut back to Ken. Maybe it’s that hastily gobbled lunch, ormaybe it’s the fact that his feet are now covered in foul-smelling cat vomit, or both, but Uncle Ken starts to go a bit green. He stares at the vomit, and the vomit stares back.
Uncle Ken suddenly stands bolt upright (handheld camera). He has a wild, confused look about him. He lurches out of the dining room and into the kitchen, toward the sink. He elbows Betty out of the way and vomits into the sink full of dishes.
Holding her fag in her bright-orange-rubber-glove-covered right hand, Betty stares out the window. It’s hard to read her expression. Cigarette ash falls.
“The almond tree needs pruning. The branches are hitting the buses again. Better be getting back to work,” says Terry and departs.
Fade to black.
* * *
It was then, after the cat vomit episode, that I became utterly convinced I would end up just like Ken, doomed to a life of deranged misery. I knew that schizophrenia was hereditary. I had read all about it in one of the moderately glossy current-affairs magazines which came gratis with our Sunday newspapers. Now I could clearly see my future unspooling before me in a grim montage of hallucinations, electric shock treatments, and nicotine.
My life was already beginning to unravel, just like one of Ken’s horrible-smelling cigarettes. I had failed the entry examination for the grammar school. Even Biddie had managed to get into the bloody grammar school! It was
Gobbling food was probably a habit he picked up in the asylum prior to arriving chez nous. Meticulous, refined mastication was doubtless out of the question in such an establishment: there was no shortage of aggressive inmates waiting to swipe your grub off your plate if you did not shovel it down your gullet in record time.
Having wolfed down his lunch in a matter of seconds, Ken retired to a fireside armchair. Here he rolled the first in a long series of handmade cigarettes. He performed this skill without watching his hands. He just stared into the middle distance.
Uncle Ken did not make eye contact easily. He had a strange habit, when addressed, of focusing his gaze on one’s upper forehead. If you wanted to look him in the eyes, you were obliged to stand on tiptoes. This worked for only so long. After a while his gaze would ascend once more, obliging one to fetch a stepladder or throw in the towel.
“How was lunch?” said my mum, little knowing that an incomprehensibly dreadful and unforgettably nasty series of events was about to take place. Straining to get into his field of vision, she stood on tiptoes and repeated the question.
“Hello. . . . Yes. . . . Betty. . . . Thanksverymuch,” Ken replied incomprehensibly and raised his gaze.
From my vantage point, everything then seemed to go into slow motion and to cut, cut, cut in a cinematic frenzy. It was all very reminiscent of that scene in The Birds when Tippi Hedren observes the unfolding mayhem from a phone booth. I was Tippi.
Scene one: Uncle Ken takes a long drag on his hand-rolled ciggie and exhales in a wheezy rush. Cut.
Just at that moment, Hawo, the ailing cat, walks into the frame. Cut.
Betty rises from the dining room table and heads toward the kitchen with an armload of dishes, addressing the cat on the way with a “Hello, Hawo!” Cut.
Close-up on Uncle Ken’s feet. Cut.
Soundtrack builds.
Hawo looks at Uncle Ken.
Close-up on dilating cat’s pupil.
Hawo walks calmly toward Uncle Ken.
Hawo stares malevolently at Uncle Ken’s shoes.
Hawo vomits on Uncle Ken’s shoes.
The actual vomiting takes several seconds, but Uncle Ken is too out of it on horse pill tranquilizers to do anything other than stare blankly and continue to enjoy his raggedy homemade cigarette.
Cut to Betty who, oblivious to the unfolding drama, lights a fag, pours herself another glass of Château Doonan, and sets about washing the dishes.
Cut back to Ken. Maybe it’s that hastily gobbled lunch, ormaybe it’s the fact that his feet are now covered in foul-smelling cat vomit, or both, but Uncle Ken starts to go a bit green. He stares at the vomit, and the vomit stares back.
Uncle Ken suddenly stands bolt upright (handheld camera). He has a wild, confused look about him. He lurches out of the dining room and into the kitchen, toward the sink. He elbows Betty out of the way and vomits into the sink full of dishes.
Holding her fag in her bright-orange-rubber-glove-covered right hand, Betty stares out the window. It’s hard to read her expression. Cigarette ash falls.
“The almond tree needs pruning. The branches are hitting the buses again. Better be getting back to work,” says Terry and departs.
Fade to black.
* * *
It was then, after the cat vomit episode, that I became utterly convinced I would end up just like Ken, doomed to a life of deranged misery. I knew that schizophrenia was hereditary. I had read all about it in one of the moderately glossy current-affairs magazines which came gratis with our Sunday newspapers. Now I could clearly see my future unspooling before me in a grim montage of hallucinations, electric shock treatments, and nicotine.
My life was already beginning to unravel, just like one of Ken’s horrible-smelling cigarettes. I had failed the entry examination for the grammar school. Even Biddie had managed to get into the bloody grammar school! It was
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