Right, let’s play Twister, let’s play Risk. I’ve got Richard Pryor and Bill Hicks on me brain, so inevitably the four-letter words will be all over the place, my apologies. 

 

(Richard Pryor, Live in Concert 1979, most magically funny of them all, part 1 to 4 is lost, but 5 to 8 is on youtube)

 

And Andy Kaufman. 

 

But Andy would hardly eva swear, would he? At least not too often as Andy Kaufman. Bless his too white, clean cotton Elvis socks. You see, I have been needing a serious dose of humour lately. Locked in the punch. It’s what Italy and A. is still doing to me system. 

 

A.

 

Her awful illness and medicines made the love of my life gain 3 stone in 3 months. Her pretty face so puffed up, her hips doubled in size, her lovely long legs, gorgeous thighs have … oh well … I still love them. Always will. And I want to comfort her. Especially because she is taking it really bad. At 19, who wouldn’t?

 

But she won’t let me.

 

Though Hicks outbursts at his audience à la “Hitler had the right ideas, he was just an underachiever … in the beginning there was the Word - ‘Free Bird.’” After being heckled with ’free bird’ for the umpteenth time don’t really help to alleviate the mood. 

 

You reckon Andy Kaufman would have laughed with Hicks? Like I did? Don’t think, do you? Laughed at it, maybe? You reckon he is still among us? I’d like to believe so. Keeps me happy, somehow. The idea of Andy still being alive, having his death all faked, you know, making sure his family and friends would toe the line. 

 

To emerge again on one glorious frosty winter Wednesday in Kansas. In 2024.

 

Milena. 

 

I know she is dead for sure. But ideas keep you alive. Me and her. My idea at first. Then hers also. What a brilliant idea that was. And so still is.

 

So was our baby. Her idea at first. Then mine also. To be just but a brilliant idea. Became a bit more, then drowned in a filthy, dirty ditch, a car crash near Berlin. Conceived after Milena had been working for 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, for 4 years since she was 14. Before we met. When she was 18. Pleasing men. Pleasing me. Pleasing Agnes and Piotr of whom she had become their mum, their mum/her sister being locked up in a mental home, ’cause of Tanya’s drug addiction and psychiatric problems. Only 14 when she took her sister’s children on full board. And men. Before we met. When she was 18. Only 29 I was, when we talked babies. When I anarchistically agreed. When I said I couldn’t possibly think of a better mother for our/my child. Looking at Piotr and Agnes. How she was raising them. When she shagged my brains out. 

 

Now A. At least, it’s not life-threatening.

 

I wanted a daughter. Milena, a-tough-as-nails son. “With a tight-leather jacket” (how she was East-European). To protect her. And Agnes and Piotr. 

 

And me.

 

I’m angry all right.

 

Are we losing touch?

 

Are you having fun?

 

Mr Kaufman’s gone wrestling. In a proper wrestling match. Arranged and agreed on our pleasure’s behalf in advance. To be defeated. Like all our wrestling matches. Final result fixed from the moment we enter the ring.

 

On God’s pleasure’s behalf.