This is a picture of the infamous Earl of Rochester with a monkey. We’ll just ignore the monkey for the moment, he’s not really relevant. The Earl of Rochester is the chap I’m interested in – libertine, rebel, irreverent poet and renowned wit of the Restoration period. Pals with Charles II and veracious lover to many, Rochester was, well, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit of a bastard. But this is probably why the monkey (and lots and lots of ladies (and gentlemen)) loved him so much. So, question of the month is, why do we love a bastard?
Because we do you know. Years ago, my grandfather had this REALLY grumpy scotty dog. No wonder it was grumpy really, my grandfather spent most of his time kicking it and setting about it with a shovel. But before you phone the RSPCA, it was a bloodthirsty little bugger, had some pretty unsavoury habits involving cow shit, and growled and bit everyone. Everyone that is apart from my grandfather. He was nothing but openly hostile to the little furry Satan but no matter how many times he rubbed its nose in its own poo or booted it out in the snow for the night, that dog LOVED my grandfather and followed him patiently around the place like a love-struck teenager. So is it true that the more badly we treat someone, the more they love us for it? Admittedly it shouldn’t really work like this but, more often than not, I fear it does.
A pal of mine is currently having a bit of a, what shall we call it, sexual epiphany? After years of carrying girls’ bags, opening doors and buying expensive dinners, he has discovered that the path to sexual nirvana does not necessarily lie on the traffic side of the pavement. No, these days you’re better off dumping the luggage on her, pushing her in the path of an oncoming vehicle then taking her home for a good rough shag (and no, NOT the haircut, just to be clear).
My unnamed friend is enjoying a hitherto unknown purple patch because, so he tells me, he has recently developed the ability to approach total strangers with a more offhand manner. None of this, can I carry that for you? Would you like me to walk you to your door? No, no, let me. With more front than Blackpool he casually unleashes his new “how’s about it then love? Take it or leave it sweetcheeks” confidence on unsuspecting female marks of varying levels of inebriation (one of them was even sober I believe). And, I’m ashamed to say, it appears to be working. He even actually declined a girl’s number the other day. Not something his more gentlemanly alter-ego ever had to deal with.
However, although I do admit there is something magnetic about confidence and, yes, even a little arrogance, I don’t actually believe it’s the way to go in the long run. Why? Because I learnt a valuable lesson the other day. If you aren’t nice to people then, no matter how charismatic you think you are, it’ll catch up with you in the end. The world has an uncanny ability to even the score up. I can even put an exact price on it actually. It will cost you (best case scenario) £145 and a bottle of good red wine.
You see, I have been monitoring this situation for a while. Life is Yin and Yang and for every bad thing you do, punishment will find you in the end. Equally, if something bad happens, something good is round the corner. I really do believe this and it’s a surprisingly uplifting way to look at life.
Here’s what happened. I found myself on a train to Glasgow with a reasonably well-known Scottish actor who is currently appearing in Confessions of a Justified Sinner at Edinburgh’s Lyceum theatre (don’t ask, I just did). We had had a few by the time we got on the train and to keep the good times rolling I had invested in a rather nice bottle of red wine. Unfortunately for me, at that exact point in time I should have been at a friends’ house, enjoying a meal she had been preparing. So, I’m pissed and I’m about 2 hours late and have already told some pretty extensive white lies on the phone to exonerate myself from any blame.
So, when we reach our stop, we’re in a hurry and I leap off the train with my pal, leaving the aforementioned thesp and waving a hasty, and rather guilty, goodbye. The train pulls away.
BUGGER BUGGER BUGGER.
WHERE is my nice bottle of wine? The answer of course is on the bloody train. GRRRRR.
Meanwhile, on said train:
Random slightly depressed looking man: “Hi, you’re the actor Ian Robertson aren’t you?”
Iain: “Yes, yes I am.”
Random depressed man: “Thought so. I used to do a bit of acting myself.”
Iain: (all upbeat like) “Oh really? So, what you up to these days?”
Random depressed man: (looking even more depressed) “Well actually I’ve just been made redundant today.”
AWKWARD PAUSE
Iain: “…don’t suppose you like red wine do you?”
You see? It reaffirms your faith in life. I do something bad and get punished and some other, far more worthy, soul reaps the benefits (it really was a VERY nice bottle of wine).
Still don’t believe me? OK then. Here’s case study no. 2. I’m in a rush. I have just bought some new winter boots. I am guilty of pride. The boots make me think I am a glamorous super-bitch of some kind. I’m a bit late so I’m strutting quickly through the tube station trying to catch a glimpse of my bitch boots in passing windows. I see the woman and the buggy. I see the steps. I know what I ought to do is stop and help her but, hey, I’m a super bitch, I’m in a hurry and did I REALLY see her early enough? I mean I was half way past her and someone else will help. Sod ‘er. Come on bitch boots, we’re off.
I stop off quickly to grab a sandwich. I pocket the loose change because I’m in a hurry. I’m struggling with my bags in the door. A charity bod approaches me with a tin (please remember that at this point in time I have loose change in my pocket).
“Help for disabled children?”
Nope. Move it Grandad, the little cherubs’ll just have to wheel their own wasted limbs about the place. I’M in a hurry. And MY legs are just fine thanks. Especially in these boots. Like ‘em? They were a steal.
PING goes the Universal Yin Yang alert system.
“What was that?” shouts Chaos Theory.
“Just a girl in Clapham not giving to charity, and earlier on she didn’t help a woman with a buggy… her legs look fat in those boots, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, they do. Right. Roger that Yang. We’re on it.”
So, everything goes swimmingly until Friday when I find myself sitting in the pouring rain at Kings Cross. My travel buddy is stuck in Canary Wharf somewhere. There is no way he’s going to make our train. I can’t collect the tickets as he booked them on his card. I watch my train pull away after a protracted and rather heated argument with the train guard who insists that “computer says no”. So, as well as the £61 of my original ticket, I now have to pay an additional £84, I’m soaking wet, I’m hungry and I’m bloody grumpy. At this point my delayed travel buddy arrives just in time for us to miss the 8 o’ clock train because he was having a fag. OK universe, this isn’t funny anymore.
To cheer us up (albeit in a rather high-end fashion) my pal orders a bottle of white and a platter of oysters. Yes, oysters. Odd choice but the indulgence seemed necessary at the time.
So, I’m now £145 down and have consumed 5 oysters and half a bottle of white. We manage (somehow) to get the 9 o’clock train. We then consume another 2 bottles of red on the train and a packet of percy pigs (the dinner of champions).
I awake (if you can call it that) some time late on Saturday with the most HORRIBLE oyster-flavoured hangover I have ever had the misfortune to moan through. I spent all day throwing up and my only constructive contribution was to make a guy for the impending bonfire – a very lifelike replica of my friend's ex-wife as it happens (slightly sinister).
So, still don’t believe in poetic justice? Well I definitely do! The universe will catch up with you and dole out retribution, so you better watch out. My advice to any would-be bastards out there? Either Kevlar the fuck up or start being nicer, because universal forces that are greater than you or I are at work here. Be kind to children and animals, always hold the door open and insist on paying. Seriously, in the long run it’ll be worth it.
And if you don’t believe me, just ask old Rochester. He died swollen and spent writhing in his own discharge – an alcoholic riddled with syphilis and gonorrhea and begging the heavens for forgiveness. I’d think on if I were you Jude Law!
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