Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Mindsweeper: An Introduction By My Polish Cleaner
How To Eat Shit
How To Forgive A Bad Father
How To Disrespect A Good Mother
How To Envy Your Brothers
How To Live With Scrooge
How To Talk To People Nobody Talks To
How To Think Inside The Box
How To Do It Till You Go Blind
How To Misplace Loyalty
How To Bottom Feed
How To Plan Spontaneity
How To Become Progressively More Embarrassing
How To Excel In What You’re Not Good At
How To Be A Tour Guide With No Sense Of Direction
How To Get Into The Closet
How To Google Yourself Silly
How To Marry Vocation And Desperation With Best Man Balls
How To Be A Bass Player With No Sense Of Rhythm
How To Dine Out On A Beating
How To Write A Summer Smash In A Cold, Damp Bed-Sit
How To Pleasure Humanity Inappropriately
How To Make A Tit Of Yourself
How To Tarnish The Dog’s Bollocks
How To Make NME Your Enemy
How To Lock Yourself In Prison
How To Learn What You Really Think
How To Enjoy Hangovers More Than Getting Drunk
How To Bring A Bad Joke To Life
How To Blow The Dream Gig
How To Invent Bad Karma
How To Look A Gift Horse In The Mouth
How To Teach Someone a Lesson You’ll Never Forget
How To Present An Award To A Band You Don’t Like
How To Crash In Tinsel Town
How To Clone The Gene Of Misfortune
How To Lose Sight Of Yourself
How To Go From Chateau To Shit-hole
How To Dance in the Darkness
Conclusion: Everything The World Has To Offer Is Best Experienced With An Inappropriate Mindset
How To Take Happiness Lightly
How To Pick A Fight With A Word
How to Tell the Truth Badly
Epilogue: How To Clean Up Shit
Copyright
Mindsweeper: An Introduction By My Polish Cleaner
My name is Ania and I clean flats and brains. I met this Frankie guy when I went to clean a nightclub in France. One of the irregular customers – Alfonso Art Dealer told me he knows this Scottish genitalman who needs cleaning.
I took on this job as I wanted to work in many places in order to save money for non-terrorist airplane-driving course and sexy cat suit for special occasions.
I was very positively surprised with this Scotty Frankie guy as he had 60% good manners and was not super gay. He told me he was in famous band in England once but to me he didn’t look anything like Spice Grill or Take That.
I began doing secret scribbles about him. When he discovered them I think he got a bit overexcited since he got possessed by a desire to write a book. I looked at him like at elephant claiming for benefit and said, ‘Anything is possible in your English land of comfort and joy. You try your best and I will correct it if it’s wrong.’
To be super honest, at first I thought Señor Frank was typical League of Gentlemen type but soon I figured out that his brain is a good mix and he indeed had lots of adventures.
It is true that sometimes he uses words that even Queen would not understand, but then I clean it up with the speed of light with the bright questions of simplicity: ‘What is this story about?’ ‘Do you want to entertain the humans or feed your post-fame case?’ ‘Do you want to do heritage for humanity or the manuscript for new series of Big Brother?’
Of course, I also corrected grammar sometimes – best English teachers in Aberdeen are Polish. I’m the brains behind this whole masterpiece.
‘The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable man persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.’
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
No one wants to be a runt, but sometimes being a runt can work out better than not being a runt.
It’s fair to say that I was the runt of the litter. It wasn’t just that I was frail and not quite all there, I also suffered from severe mood swings. Even as a baby. At least, that’s what I’m told – I’d be gleefully happy for brief, sunshine-filled moments, then the merest trifle would send me spiralling into a black hole. Perhaps it was the sherry that did it.
Or it could have been my ultra-competitive ‘alpha male’ brothers, born a year either side of me. They were hungrier, stronger, noisier and cuter than me for a start. It wasn’t a state of affairs I was over the moon about, if you want me to be frank. Mum would confiscate my comfort blanket and strip the crib for my own safety. When I look back, it must have been tough on her having a baby boy on suicide watch at barely 18 months old.
Once I even ate my own shit. The Belgian au pair, Antoinette, was too busy varnishing her nails to notice. I could have grabbed a handful from the potty and smeared it over the kitchen floor, spelling out the words HELP-ME-I-AM-ABOUT-TO-EAT-MY-OWN-SHIT-YOU-DOPEY-BELGIAN-COW, for all the good it would have done. But being a curious toddler, and half-French to boot, the inclination was to stick it in my mouth. I’ve tasted worse. It’s probably on a par with undercooked liver or stewed tripe.
It should have been my first life lesson: if you don’t concentrate and pay attention, you’ll soon find yourself eating shit. But if you don’t concentrate and pay attention, how are you supposed to learn lessons anyway? They say I was a spaced-out kid. I like to call it ‘deep thinking’. It’s hard to tell the two apart sometimes, so let’s just split the difference and call it ‘growing pains’.
The upshot was that as the years rolled by I just got used to the taste. And the funny thing is, almost 40 years later, I still fantasise – from time to time – about Antoinette scooping up my waste with those immaculately manicured fingernails. Of course, she never did, but that’s not the point. Why absorb a boring life lesson when you can dream the light fandango?