mousehands : ask philip

It’s an amazing thing, yet sometimes the care and devotion people have for the gubbins experience, their gubbins experience*, brings a salty tear to my most hard-boiled of eyes.

You’ll no doubt be over-joyed to hear that the whole of the site is cleaned of the demon Olivier. Secretly, underhandedly and in the most devious of fashions, his memory and visage have been stricken from the collective gubbins-memory. Some may call this censorship of the worst kind, but ask yourself this: Is it so terrible to rewrite history to wipe the memory of things the current regime would rather be buried?

The chronicles of times-past are my personal play-thing: what I abhor from antiquity will be denied the luxury of record, what I wish to promote will be treated as truth.

* Actually, it’s mine.

Yes! State secret! Yes!

As unlikely as it may seem, one person’s Frenchness does not directly affect another’s, except in terms of a parental passing on of the Gaulish Gene. Like the selfish gene, it has an almost uncanny desire to survive. Come rain or shine; come archery or collaboration; come even pain rustique or brioche, the ideals of Paris will never fall. Our accents define us, we may never escape them.

As patriotic and hand-stuffy-in as it is, does that make me French?

Yes, yes it does. Take me away to the land of our fathers, Ms Joubert! Bring final and eternal peace in our time, that is all the world asks of you.

Can’t?! Can’t!?

Hush your mouth, sir. I could, if I so chose do to so, put a halt to those pesky Irish swines and their colour-thievery. Did it not occur to you that the hue-loss could be part of a greater scheme involving not only the leprechauns, but also Bono’s over-inflated ego?

As your friendly local smack retailer knows, purple is something which has even the strongest-willed man (and, increasingly, woman) a blubbering wreck if they’ve tasted that most immaculate of shades once, but not again for several days.

Without them knowing, the elfenfolk are acting as my agents of colour-dispersal: a rag-tag bunch of ignorant disciples of pigmentation; foolhardy dispensers of tint; some may even say unwitting brethren of iridescence.

Patience, being virtuous, is recommended for you at this juncture.

I have MSN. I have it all, compressed into the world’s most faceted diamond.

Confusion is the only reality we will ever know, my dear Joe.

I am Philip, lord of all gubbins!

Would it help you if my last name was Olivier?
Would it help you if my last name was Schofield?
Would it help you if my last name was Prince?

Wait, that last one doesn’t quite work.

But if you think about it a little, aren’t we all Philip Olivier, deep down inside? Try this for me, Joe*: Turn off your computer, turn off all the lights (or if it’s daytime, crawl under your quilt or a heavy blanket) and really focus your mind on what it means to be a foppish, shirtless, inane faux-reality-programme-appearing minor celebrity. Soon, you will reach the core of all Oliviers everywhere and your mind will known suffering.

* In fact, I would like every gubbins experience reader to do the same. Maybe our combined efforts could shift the Earth’s orbit and make the year a couple of days shorter so we can do without “be kind to squirrels day” and Julia Roberts.

I enjoy your name, Philip Olivier. I enjoy how it feels as it sloshes around inside of me as I prance around being, to all intents and purposes, your very self. Let me make this very clear: I am more you than you could ever imagine. To the viewing public, I am you. Nothing more would do for my fans. Yes, mine.

Everything you hold dear I have now consumed.

I am a very attractive man, thank you for giving me this brand of attention that has been sadly lacking in the realms of AP over the years. My physical attributes have been cause of much ceremony lately, with various people seeking my out in such guises as, but not limited to: shirtless, naked and dressed as an Elizabethan merchant.

But I must crush your heart in my exquisitely manicured hand. You are not my favourite lover. There are many. Bernie, who may or may not be my girlfriend (though you’re all invited for a weekend at her abode), Nik is also high on my list.

I’d love to go out “wif” you. But you didn’t leave any details! An email address, mobile number, PO box. This is your chance to finally make it as my favourite lover, don’t let it fall through your fingers like a lot of damp sand.

If I told you I am 36, would that answer your questions? If I told you her name is Bernie, would that answer your questions? Let there be no doubt that my juices are for the taking.