W. and I are watching the new Scout Niblett video, the one where Will Oldham is dressed as a skeleton. ‘She’s from Nottingham’, says W. proudly. Nottingham! Imagine that! Not so far from here! Will Oldham does a handstand in the video. I’m impressed, and say so. W. likes to watch me watching Will Oldham being physical. ‘You’re impressed by his physicality’, he says, and he’s right.
W. say him Will Oldham a dance machine at ATP, where you have to put your feet onto these pads that light up in time to the music. ‘He was fantastic’, says W. The next year, he paid for me to do the same. ‘You were useless. You’re not a physical man. That’s why you admire Will Oldham’s physicality, isn’t it?’ I say it is. ‘Of course, Will Oldham’s a surfer’, says W. ‘He’s surprisingly buff. But you’re not buff, are you? Except for your arms. But they’re just grotesquely big’.
W. remarks on how small Will Oldham is. ‘He’s tiny’. So is David Pajo, I say. ‘Oh yes, he’s small’. For his part, W. has always considered himself a small man. Once, our friend X. a nightclub bouncer, picked up W. and twirled him round over his head like a cheerleader’s baton. W. didn’t mind. He always feels safe with X., he says. X. makes him feel secure and safe. We both pause to think about X., whom we haven’t seen for a while. Ah, X.!
Do make him feel safe?, I ask W. ‘No’, he says. ‘Just thin’. W. says I’m, getting fatter. ‘You’re not going to last long’, he says. ‘You haven’t got too many years left. Look at you. When you die, I’m going to be your literary executor. Delete, delete, delete that’s what I’m going to do’.
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