Peter and Paul were both born, quite independently of one another, on the fifteenth of May, 1959. Peter was born to Frederik and Katarina (née Åkerman) Øresund in Plymouth, his parents having emigrated several years prior for work in travel infrastructure, which Plymouth was in sore need of. Peter was a child who often cried, but found respite from his unhappiness in watching ducks. No other animals had such a calming effect on him.
Paul grew up under the care of Dennis and Della (Paul never remembered her maiden name and wasn't entirely interested) Darrowby. Their home (in which Paul was born) was around the corner from St Mary's Church in Thirsk, Yorkshire. They were not want for attending church, which upset Della who had grown up in a devout Protestant home. Within the first six years of his life, Paul watched his father, who was much older than his mother, retire from his career as a member of the North Yorkshire Police, become an avid impossible-bottle collector and then quickly die from an undiagnosed liver problem.
Both suffered rather ordinary high school lives, though if you were to hear them speak of those days, you'd come away with a far more elevated opinion. Both succeeded in their O-Levels, qualifying them for their A-Levels. Peter was more well rounded intellectually, whilst Paul had a greater affinity for physics and mathematics. Peter was also more skilled at sports, showing a natural aptitude for the fullback position in field hockey, but sadly lacking the physical ability to succeed fully.
Their paths first crossed at the exact age of 21. Both had crossed the Atlantic for study and were attending courses at MIT. Peter's family were more than able to take those substantial bills off his hands. Paul was at the mercy of scholarships and bar work. They met at a social organised for Native Irish persons, which neither of them were, but both were dating someone that would vaguely meet that description. We shall call them Girlfriend Pa and Girlfriend Pe to protect their identities (Peter and Paul do not need such measures of course, on their account of being fictitious).
Peter and Girlfriend Pe had the sort of relationship that many public political figures would do well to aspire to. Missionary sex once a month and frequent fraught conversations, but counterbalanced by many public and conservative dates and events. Both were active in several societies and committees, however, Girlfriend Pe was far more interested in leading such bodies and often quite viciously at that. Peter was quite happy to let her do so, even in their relationship. She had been conceived in Ireland, but born right there in Massachusetts. Though she tore into anyone who claimed so, she was torn up inside by what she perceived to make her an inauthentic Irish lady. Fittingly then, most aspects of her personage seem designed to compensate for this - her name had far too many vowels and accents, her light blonde hair was forever scorched, her favourite book was Ulysses, she was thoroughly unpleasant to those seem deemed as frauds to her heritage and though she had never visited her beloved homeland, she frequently told fantastically detailed and imaginative stories suggesting otherwise.
While Peter and Pe were at the start of what would prove a lengthy but ultimately loveless endeavour, Paul and Pa were no more than blimps on each other's timelines. There were no grand declarations of attachment, no intricate plans for romantic adventures at the zoo. No feelings were ultimately hurt, well, none that lasted the test of time. They had met in a student bar and taken things as they had come. Pa was already becoming disillusioned with the prospect of Paul. His mother had not taken another partner after his father's death and accordingly, his imagination for romance had been stunted. They would remain an item for another few weeks and, although they would not remain within the same close sphere of friends, they would grant each other the satisfaction of brief conversations in passing, discussing what the other had been filling their time with as of late.
The Irish Association of MIT were hosting a charity ball on the fifteenth of May, 1980. Long after the speeches and the dances and the meals and the loosening of the bow ties, Paul went and sat at the bar. He disliked many of Pa's friends and savoured some time alone. They were talking about some dead leftie leader behind the Iron Curtin that he had no interest in. She'd pick him up before she wanted to head home, he mistakenly thought. He ordered a scotch and laughed at what he thought was an incredibly witty drink request. Don't judge him too harshly, it was well past his usual bed time and he had already ingested a great deal of various other liquors. Peter was frequently worried about the manner in which he was perceived and as such, tried not to drink heavily at such events. His tux was still as finely pressed as when it was donned at the start of the evening, give or take a few creases. At his fine lady's request, he was bringing in a bottle of champagne for the guests at his table, which contained at least one future faculty member, one future S&P 500 board member and one current junkie.
Peter approached the far left of the bar. At this point in the evening, there were no queues or crowds and there were only a handful of people dotted along the oak plank; mainly dejected loners. Paul stood, unknowingly to the left of Paul, who at this time was enjoying his laughter-inducing scotch while simultaneously lighting a cigarette from a half full pack he'd found earlier on beside a pay phone. Paul leaned over to alert the barman of his presence and gave his order in a manner betraying his fatigue.
"That's not an Irish accent."
Of course, to Peter, this sounded more like "Dat not ffffffuddle gah." Peter turned to the source of this gabble and saw Paul. After sizing him up, Peter noted that his tux was looking quite lived in and the sweat on his brow beginning to make an escape to his neck.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, that's not an Irish accent," Paul repeated and gave a wink to his compatriot of the British Isles.
"Haha, yes, guilty, I'm not..."
"And you're not American neither." Peter had now attracted Paul's full attention. He pivoted on his bar stool, spilling some of that side-rippingly funny whiskey in the process. "That means you must be like me!"
"No, sorry, I think you're mistaken, I'm Swed..." Peter's protest had begun, but it was too late. With the speed of a sloth and weight of a juggernaut, Paul had risen and grabbed Peter around the shoulders.
"Look at us, English...boys in the States," Paul emphasised the pause by tapping his fist on his chest and then Peter's during its length. "But we don't get societies and songs and jigs to celebrate it. Let's order some English drinks! No, we can't. We don't have any."
The barman reappeared with champagne on ice. He enquired as to the number of glasses required and informed Peter of the price. He was very professional.
"Oh old chum," Paul spitted with venom, "I didn't know you were a toff. Forgive me, I was not to know, I shall stopeth besmirching and bequeathing thousth's personage." He slumped back to his seat, giving the fanciest hand movement his booze-addled mind could muster and turned back to face the bar. The barman reappeared with the glasses, but Peter was far too taken back by Paul's behaviour to notice.
"Say, are you ok here?" Peter slowly placed his hand on Paul's shoulder, but it was shrugged off. It was at this point the barman caught Peter's attention. Peter handed him several bills, collected his glasses and returned to table, as triumphantly as one can while balancing champagne flutes in one hand and a spruced up bucket in the other. Paul's head slowly lowered to the bar and he began to drift off.
The next day, Paul's hangover was the least of his worries. He'd managed to lose $400 betting Miss Arizona in the Miss USA competition during the early part of last evening's festivities, a fact that was only dawning on him now.
Peter didn't think much of the strange man he met that night until he and Pe made a very public date to see the Empire Strikes Back. They queued around the block like so many other lovebirds. It was when Han Solo appeared that he remember the very drunk and quite possibly racist student at the bar. He could no longer focus on the intricacies of the film and instead spent the rest of the running time intensely questioning what this subconscious comparison said about him.
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Other musings
All film talk has been focused on the summer behemoth that is the Dark Knight Rises. As always, covered much better else where.
I've been sidelined recently by two illness which obviously accounts for the above. 1) Viral infection - this was nifty - vomiting, awful headaches, breathing pains. And then as soon as that had cleared up... 2) Tonsillitis. Having never had tonsillitis before, the novelty of legitimately being able to eat ice cream for a meal was endearing, but that soon passed.
After returning from the Wirral, my brother and my mum travelled with me and spent a week in London prior to the Olympic deluge. As I was working, I couldn't do much with them, but I did find time to visit the British Museum with them. I found the Japan exhibition wistfully nostalgic.
Not many new films seen, but plenty of older ones. Blogging has been slow due to the illnesses described above and because I'm writing an article presently about an older movie lady.
Now if you'll forgive me, it's late, I'm hungry and I have the odd compulsion to eat fish fingers and chips before retiring to bed with Hemingway. Night all.
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