A hot topic

Wow, I was on a full-on whinge last time, wasn’t I? Sorry about that. Blame the weather. Go on, blame it. I intend to.

It’s hot here. As in, Tarmac-melting hot. 38 degrees. Certainly way hotter than my body temperature. Now, at this time of year, it’s usually safe for me to come out of my hidey-hole and embrace the autumnal lusciousness.

Only there’s very little autumn about, and even less lusciousness.

As I’ve said before, clothing is an issue for an everyday vampire. There are two choices: Cover up/overheat or wear less/burn. There is a third option: Hide. Guess which one I opt for.

Of course, there are occasions when I do have to leave the house, so wearing pale colours is my only option. And when I say pale colours, of course I mean white. I. am. not. going. to. wear. pink. Ever.

I’ve had people inform me that goths shouldn’t wear white. You know the types… So I just smile and let them carry on with their rant. Because that’s what you humans do, isn’t it (present company excepted)? They see this metaphorical snapshot of you and launch into a judgment based on that fleeting glimpse.

It’s like, the other day, someone slapped my wrist for making a joke about something that has, in the past beleaguered me and caused me a lot of personal anguish. ‘You can’t make jokes about that.’ he said, ‘You don’t know their story. You don’t know what they’ve been through.’ And you don’t know what I’ve been through, so shut up.

So, because I’m ‘so obviously a goth’, I’m not allowed to wear white. Okay, mate, whatever you say. But it’s not like I can tell them the truth, is it? I bet you’d like to be a fly on the wall if I did that?

So I’ll wear what I want. It’s quite sweet, because when small children see me, they’re convinced they’ve just seen an angel.

But conveying your personality to the world via the medium of fabric (and ink) is such a human thing, isn’t it?

How often have you seen some poor teen out there, swelteringly encased coffin-like in black leather despite hot weather warnings, with so much melted black eyeliner on that they’ve stopped looking gorgeously waifish and now just look like an anxious Alice Cooper?

To all the gothlings  out there:

You are allowed to forego the black leather, you know.

Gothling: No, I must wear head-to-toe tight black leather. How else will ordinary people know what I am?
Ordinary people: You’re an idiot. We just guessed.

See you in A&E. Heatstroke.

Oh, and going off at a tangent (so what’s new?) There is that one staple that the snapshot-judgement-jumpers always pounce on me for.

Tattoos.

I don’t have any. Nope, not one. Oh, I mean, I love getting the odd henna tattoo when I go on holiday. Like memories, they fade…

Well, I made an interesting discovery the other day. I can’t actually have them. They won’t take.

Yep.

You read that right.

They won’t take.

I know, crazy, eh? Now, before I get started, Tattoo 101, as they say. In much the same way that some believe that chips (=fries) come from plastic bags in the freezer, many people believe that the only way to get a tattoo is to visit a tattoo parlour. Which means if you were a sailor living 400 years ago, you were screwed. Let’s get the principle straight. sharp object+ink, piercing skin= tattoo. I know. My mates used to do it in class. Usually Maths (compasses!).

One guy I know was trying to do “Unforgettable Annie” (his current girlfriend’s name; seriously, he should have just had a ‘fill-in-the-blank’). Unfortunately, the poor lad’s pain threshold wasn’t that high, so he got as far as ‘Unforget‘ and passed out. She dumped him. But he never did forget her, so…

Anyway, this is why I (and probably anyone born a vampire) can’t have tattoos. Again, please let me know if you happen to be the exception to the rule. I was drawing with one of those lovely free-running ink pens (sharp object+ink: still with me?) and, distracted by someone talking to me, I rammed the pen into the lid with a little more force than usual. Of course, it wasn’t the lid, it was my thumb.

It bled like a pig. And then stopped. And a couple of hours later, it was healed. As usual. But I had a black spot there. Oh great, I thought. An accidental tattoo. And it looks like a blackhead. Wonderful.

Until the next day. To cut a long story short (too late), my thumb spontaneously opened up, spat the ink out, and closed up again. I wish I’d filmed it now.

And that’s why vampires (well, born ones, anyway) don’t have tattoos.

Do you want a moral-of-the-story? Ych. It’s the same as ever. Don’t judge people when you look at them. Or, actually, just don’t judge. Full stop.

“I have that within which passeth show. These but the trappings and the suits of woe.”

Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2, Page 4


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Go on…

Where’ere thou art…

“Where’ere thou art, act well thy part.”

I have acted. Many people are surprised by this – that I can be on stage, watched by hundreds of people, being any one of a thousand possible characters, when offstage I find it difficult to make eye contact… It’s not so incredible, actually. I wear people like some folks hide behind make-up or loud clothes. You can go on holiday to escape home, work, family, friends, routine, but nowhere on earth will you ever escape yourself. 

That’s why I took to acting with such enthusiasm- the only way to escape yourself is to become (temporarily) someone else. 

I believe an actor has 100% to give. It is their choice how much of it they use on stage. The more you use off stage, the less you have to offer when the lights go down. I prefer to reserve my hundred percent for when I’m on stage. Although I do borrow from it from time to time to help me deal with the more awkward moments in life, like… Well, life really.

I was out the other day and heard such a wailing and caterwauling that I wasn’t sure if some disaster had happened. It turns out it was merely a local act-or out for a few moments of quiet reflection, as he hugged and ‘mwah-mwah-dahling’ed everyone within arm’s reach. And not all of them particularly wanted to be mwah-mwah’ed either.

Loudness of every kind appals me. It’s not snobbery. It hurts. Literally hurts. And when I say ‘literally’, I genuinely do mean literally. It causes me actual physical pain.

I’m sat on a train, escaping to the sea for the day to recharge the emotional batteries, when in swagger a gang of students. They swarm and mewl and raise the rafters to contain their wonderfulness. And I look at them, shutting off my ears and see their self-presumed omnipotence as nothing but a matrix of statistics: height, weight, age, IQ, EQ, life expectancy…

And each generation leapfrogs each other in outrage. One minute you’re one of the caterwaulers… The next, you’re disgruntled at the wailing and the next, you’re considering whether you should just report them to the police at 3am and finally get back to sleep. And of course, when I say ‘minute’, what I actually mean is ‘couple of decades’. That’s what time feels like to me. In a twinkling of an eye you go from the Angry Young Thing who’ll save the world with your Mixed Arts degree to being Outraged of Redhill.

Choose who you want to be. Change your choice every day if you have to. After all, you can always take holidays from yourself if need be.

And me? I’ll just keep away from Redhill for now…


Follow me on Twitter @EverydayVampire

Fang you very much.