whistle day

Why don’t you whistle? – asked me Josh.

Why should I? – I said.

Because today is Whistle Day, he said.

What? – I said.

Whistle Day, he said. The day everybody whistles. No one speaks. All whistle.

This is what I thought, I said. All whistle. But I thought it was a local phenomenon. I thought it was because of some football game or something. I thought it was some new kind of support. A football chant.

No, it’s not, said Josh. It’s not local. The entire country whistles today. The entire world, in fact.

God, I said. Why?

Because of Jay Gerbrich, said Josh

Who is Jay Gerbrich? – I said.

Don’t you know? – said Josh. Jay Gerbrich is the ten-year-old boy who was able to overcome his severe coprolalia entirely on his own, without any help. He is an American, a son of a TV host and a music teacher. He had the disorder since he was four. It was one of the most publicised cases in the history of this syndrome; the boy became a national celebrity. All the doctors gave up on him: all the psychologists, all the psychotherapists. At some point his parents literally ran out of money and lost any hope. And then he started to whistle. Have you seen the boy on YouTube? No? The Whistling Boy. He opened an account and posted his videos, and he asked everyone to whistle with him to help him overcome his problem. At first the service took him down repeatedly and he had a lot of problems with the administration because in the beginning his videos were mostly coprolalia, very severe. But he also received a lot of support. After months of struggle he decided to sue the company and eventually they settled out of court, reportedly for millions of dollars, and the company made some changes to their rules allowing those who have the disorder to upload their material. At that time he had already had quite a following and there appeared hundreds of thousands of such videos. A lot of people suffering from this disorder came out and tried to overcome their condition in public, like he did. In the end he was able to whistle for hours without ever saying a word. It took him about a year and the day it happened was later adopted as International Whistling Day. The UN supported the initiative, and many celebrities and other international organisations. The boy received a lot of awards. On the first Whistle Day they invited him to the White House and whistled all together and recently he was invited to Oxford to promote his case, and they all whistled there too. Do you know that they debate a law in Parliament now, which would make the Queen and the entire Royal Family whistle on this day?

Why don’t you whistle? – I asked Josh.

I whistle, he said and started whistling. Will you whistle? – he asked.

Oh, no, I said, I’d rather have coprolalia.

Nietzsche blogs

Do you know Elysium? – asked Josh.

You mean the tantra massage parlour in Mayfair? – I asked.

No, he said. The blog. Where all those famous people from the past blog about current affairs. Aristotle, Nietzsche, Elvis Presley …

Nietzsche blogs? – I said.

Well, not in person, obviously, said Josh, but yes, he does, through the psychic.

This is your blog, said Sebastian grimly.

It’s not mine, said Josh.

It’s yours, said Sebastian. Who’re you trying to fool?

No, said Josh, it’s not.

Do you seriously think you can fool me like that? – asked Sebastian. Look, he said, we’ve been together for how long now? Sixteen years? Every morning you bitch about politics. For hours.

I don’t bitch, said Josh, I discuss. I try to discuss it with you. And if you don’t like it …

I know all your opinions, said Sebastian, I know all your exact wording, all your specific turns of phrase. I know it well enough to spot it anywhere. I know it all by heart. And I bloody know that after you unload all those layers of political garbage on me you, in the afternoon, in your best spirits retire to your study and then, shortly after that, I can find all those very same words and phrases used on me in the morning – tried out on me in the morning – I can find them all posted to your blog as if spoken by some famous politician or philosopher, or writer, or whomever your mad fancy chooses to channel what you call your ‘ideas’. I know you well enough to recognise you, my dear, even if you think you’re talking like Alexander the Great.

… If you don’t like it, said Josh, why don’t you tell me? You could have told me long ago and I’d have only been too happy to oblige you and to release you from this oppressive bond.

Do you really think Nietzsche would support Ed Miliband? – said Sebastian. Seriously?

I don’t know about Nietzsche, I said opening my laptop, but I think that Kierkegaard actually …

If he were alive now he would do just that, said Josh. Do you think he would support your bloody toffs?

No sane person would support your raving lunatics, said Sebastian.

Aristotle would, said Josh.

In your dreams, said Sebastian.

Elvis Presley would, said Josh.

In your dreams, said Sebastian.

God, I said.

What? – asked Sebastian.

I pointed at the screen.

Here, I said. Look.

What? – asked Sebastian.

This is the blog, I said. Here is this discussion about Nietzsche and Ed Miliband and who would support whom. It has almost a thousand comments. Oh, no, more than a thousand. Look. It has a thousand comments a day. Three thousand two hundred and sixty two in three days.

Goodness gracious, said Sebastian.

Oh, yes, said Josh. And a sidebar banner is now five hundred pounds a month.

Trolls in the family

My father is a troll, said Doug Desmond gloomily.

My wife is a troll, said Richard Trestle.

My daughter is a troll, said Sarah Desmond.

What? – I said. Are you guys all blogging?

Well, yes, said Sarah, once in a while. Not regularly, but from time to time, yes, I do blog. I do. Once a month on average, I’d say, or even less. When I have a minute. Which is not always the case. Sometimes I don’t open my computer for months.

Occasionally, said Doug. Occasionally I blog too. Once in three months on average, I’d say. I just, you know … Share some, well … opinions, I guess.

My blog is all but dysfunctional, said Richard. I do it once a year, maybe twice. Hardly more.

Good to know, I said cagily. Good to know.

I blog sometimes for my younger one, said Doug. She’s almost four now so she can’t do it properly yet. She can post a picture or a comment, of course, but sometimes she just needs assistance, you know. She wants to be a top blogger though. So I help her.

What does she sell? – asked Sarah.

Well, said Doug, experience, primarily, for the time being. But what she really wants, eventually, is to, probably, run weekly webinars for three-year-olds on the basics of audience building. Or, maybe, a motivational website. But the problem is, my father … Well, I think sometimes … I can’t say it, I guess, but sometimes I think … I think, he hates me. God, it sounds delusional, doesn’t it? But I think he does. I think he holds quite a grudge against me ever since we named our daughter Lutetia Victoria. He wanted us to name her after my mother but we just wanted something different. We didn’t want to name her Rose. I mean, I love my mother and all but … Long story short, he started trolling her blog. Not mine, hers.

This is the most perverse thing I’ve ever heard, said Sarah.

It is, said Doug. It is perverse. He knows that I don’t really blog and that it doesn’t make any sense to troll me so he started trolling her instead. How about that? He is mad at me, I guess, but he tries to sabotage her blog. I think he is generally opposed to her ideas about her future … Or our ideas … He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t understand it. He is seventy five, you know. And he mocks her. Online. In the comments. He mocks her. He calls himself sweetgrand1940 and thinks that no one would know that it’s him but I had him all nicely worked out. And I asked him – why on Earth would you do such thing? Mock your own granddaughter online? I know that it’s you. No one else would ever do such things. And he said – I don’t. I just post my opinions, that’s all. What’s wrong with that? She must learn, he said. Or you, he said, for that matter. He thinks, he got me. Old bloody pervert.

What does he post? – asked Richard.

He posts something absolutely inappropriate for a blog called Eensy Weensy, said Doug.

Like what? – asked Sarah.

Like a link to a YouTube Sex Pistols video.

This is gross, said Sarah.

Or something like ‘You’re in for a huge disappointment, my dear. Let’s look how your pretentious parents will teach you not to overreach’, said Doug. Something along these lines.

This is gross, said Sarah.

My wife, said Richard, she decided, apparently, that I was having an affair. That I was texting someone. Like all those politicians, you know, who send their naked pics to their constituents. I think, she hacked my computer. Which wasn’t all that difficult, I reckon, considering that my password is her name pretty much everywhere. And all she discovered was that I blogged, as far as I can see. I guess, she decided to stick it to me just to justify her jealousy somehow, not to waste it just like that. She discovered my blog and she started trolling me …

She didn’t know? – asked Sarah.

Eh, well, said Richard. You know, even in the family … You need some private space. I mean, your own place, totally … Do you know what I mean?

No, said Sarah. I think I don’t. It kind of justifies her jealousy, doesn’t it? I don’t have any secrets from Doug and I don’t expect him to have any secrets from me. Do you have any secrets from me, sweetie? – she asked Doug.

Not that I’m aware of, said Doug.

Well, said Richard, then, I guess, this one was a secret even from me.

Was it erotic? – asked Sarah.

To some extent it was, said Richard. It was about cars, mostly. And some politics. There was no frivolity however, if this is what you mean. I just linked some content from around the net and discussed it with some people, that’s all. And she started trolling me. For the most part, she tried to provoke me into some sort of infidelity. She made herself quite a revealing avatar, not quite x-rated, you know, but pretty suggestive, I’d say. I didn’t know that she was capable of such looks, to tell you the truth. She even started her own blog and this was erotic, to put it mildly. Not obscene, I grant her that, but provocative in the extreme.

Like what? – asked Sarah.

Like blogging about her sexual fantasies, said Richard, under the name of Princess.

How do you know all that? – asked Sarah.

I hacked her computer, said Richard. It was all there.

My daughter, said Sarah. She looked at Doug. Our daughter, she said. She started trolling me because, I guess, she thinks that we are pretentious little snobs.

How old is she now? – asked Richard.

She is fifteen, said Sarah. And she apparently thinks that she is the most progressive, the most enlightened, the most open-minded and participating member of society for miles and miles around. At least a lot more than I am with my blogging about cakes and such. About muffins. She trolls my posts about muffins, no less. Because I support Nick Clegg, I understand. She maliciously shares bogus recipes on my cooking blog just to scare off my followers. Can you imagine that? And she doesn’t even bother to hide it. She posts her sick comments from her smartphone right at the dinner table. And she was so outraged when I caught her doing that! I invaded her privacy, no less! Right at the dinner table, between the soup and the mutton leg she posts offensive comments on my blog and she is outraged! And I said, you either stop it right now and right here, my dear, or I whack your blog, or Facebook, or Twitter, or whatever you have these days with such material you’ll beg me to write about muffins. You don’t know what I am capable of, I said.

What about you? – asked Richard.

They all turned to me.

Me? – I said. I don’t even have a blog.

All right, said Sarah. All right.

Minnie

Listen, said Jeremy, I don’t know how to tell you, but …

What? – I said.

This is wrong, he said.

What’s wrong? – I said.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, he said.

What? – I said. What? What do you mean?

You, he said, you wrote about my wife in your blog.

What are you talking about? – I said. When?

Last week, he said.

No, I didn’t, I said.

Yes, you did, he said.

No, I didn’t, I said.

You wrote about the woman you saw in your dream.

Oh, I said. Come on. The woman I saw in my dream was a six feet tall Swedish blonde.

Jeremy gave me a look.

All right, he said. You described that woman as a six feet tall Swedish blonde. I do such things in my own blog all the time when I write about someone I know. I change the appearance. And the name. When I write about you, for example, I call you Winston and I describe you as a short, bald, fat filmmaker.

You write about me? – I said.

Why, yes, of course, he said. Everyone writes about everyone else. You write about me, I write about you.

No, I don’t, I said. I’ve never written about you in my entire life.

Come on, he said. That post two weeks ago about a retired graphomaniac accountant, that was about me.

No, it wasn’t, I said.

Yes, It was, he said.

You are out of your freaking mind, I said.

There is nothing wrong about that, he said. We all do that. I don’t mind, really. As I said: we all write about people we know. Who else should we write about? You write about me, I write about you.

I don’t write about you, I said.

It doesn’t matter if you do it or not, said Jeremy, but my wife, it’s different. I mean, she’s … You know, I wouldn’t blog about your wife.

Why wouldn’t you blog about my wife? – I asked.

Because I don’t fancy her! – said Jeremy. As simple as that! Look, he said. This is not the most wonderful time of my life, to put it mildly. All those problems … My job … I’ve lost my job … It wasn’t easy for us. I mean, it wasn’t easy for her in the first place … To adapt. She is used to some specific way of life, to some protection in her life. She is an artist, for God’s sake. She needs some, you know, comfort to create her art. And I am out of my freaking mind, to tell you the truth, I totally am. I haven’t been out of our house in months. I just sit on the couch and wait for God knows what. And play Call of Duty all the day long. There are no jobs in investment banking now, none at all. Less than zero, I’d say. I tried for years, for crying out loud! A friend of mine, we had been fired together, he suggested to open a click farm, to sell mailing lists … I don’t know. And she is … she is vulnerable now. This much I can tell. She is pretty much near her snapping point. Not quite, but … And this is what … this is the problem. She may not look like a hot babe, you know, but she is hot. She is hot like hell. Trust me. And she knows that. She always had this interaction with men, you know … when they all know that she’s hot, and she knows that they know. Do you think, she’s hot?

God, I said. Stop it.

Do you?

Oh, God, I said. I don’t know. I never thought of your wife in such terms.

Come on, he said. Tell me. She is hot, isn’t she?

She may be hot, I said, but it’s certainly none of my business.

You see? – he said. This is why I’d like to ask you to do me a favour, all right? Just once. I’ve never asked you to do me a favour, have I?

What? – I said.

Could you, please, stop thinking about her? – he said.

I am not thinking about her, I said.

We are friends, he said. I can’t imagine you leaving your family and living with my wife.

Neither can I, I said.

I hate to imagine that, said Jeremy. Think about someone else, he said.

I will, I said.

She has enough male friends for me to worry about, he said. More than enough. All those artsy types I don’t know the first thing about. She is always somewhere discussing her art with some bloody sponger … Sometimes I think she can leave me any moment.

No, I said, she can’t and she won’t. It may seem strange to an independent observer, but she loves you. You may be a retired graphomaniac accountant at heart but she loves you all the same. This is one of the greatest mysteries of my life, actually: how is it possible that a girl like Minnie could love someone like you so much for so many years?

You see, he said. This is what I am talking about. Stop thinking about her, mate. Just stop, will you?

But I can’t now. He left and very soon I found out that I can’t stop thinking about Minnie. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t. I forgot my six feet tall Swedish blonde fantasy. I think about Minnie all the time now. She is a very well tanned, small, clever woman with speckled nose and a head of chestnut hair cut gamine style, and with brown, bright, slightly provocative eyes. She always dresses in some formless expensive clothes as if to protect her delicate beauty from the less discerning eye. But underneath these clothes she must be amazing. I can imagine her in her lingerie. I can imagine her … My, is she hot.