David Mitchell: Back Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

thinking of a specific boy in my class). For people like that, the fact that they have no single place of allegiance is part of what defines them – it’s interesting and glamorous. Being definitely British but with your loyalties split between various unremarkable parts – Oxford, Swansea, Salisbury, the Scottish Borders – has no exotic upside to compensate for the absence of a one-word answer to the question: ‘Where are you from?’
    The Danish-Trinidadian boy had real candles on his Christmas tree, which necessitated having a fire extinguisher on stand-by. And he was called Sigurd Yokumsen. I bet no one ever mistakes him for a fucking novelist.

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    Light-houses, My Boy!
    I cross Quex Road to avoid a small crowd of people around the bus shelter. It’s too cramped a bit of pavement to have a bus shelter really, and weaving through all the people standing there feels intimate and inappropriate, like stomping through a cocktail party with a bag of tools.
    It’s also quite a likely and awkward place to get recognised. I get recognised from the television quite a bit these days. It’s increased gradually over the years from the very occasional occurrence, when I first did a TV show called Bruiser and then the first series of Peep Show , to the point where now it happens most times I leave the house. So I’ve been able to get used to it gradually, which I’m grateful for. It must be very difficult for people who have to cope with suddenly becoming famous, like Big Brother contestants or people the tabloids decide have done a murder.
    I’m not complaining, by the way. I’m well aware that people knowing who I am helps me get work and God knows I’m grateful for that, so the loss of my ability to potter around unobserved is a side effect of a good thing. My feelings about it are complicated. In lots of ways, I like it. Most people who approach me say something nice or, at worst, neutral. The feeling that a stranger might be pleased to see you is a warming one. Also, like most performers, I have an unhealthy streak of megalomania and being recognised makes me feel important. Even at times when I’m embarrassed or annoyed about being spotted, there’s still a nasty spiky joy underneath which a dark and hungry part of my soul is feasting on.
    And there are times when it’s not so nice. Places like this bus stop or a Tube train, where there are other people standing or sitting around observing the encounter – and, I always feel, resenting it – are among the worst. I can’t escape the feeling that these observers think I’ve actively done something to make a stir or scene. It’s as if they think that recognition in others’ eyes is something that emanates from me, that I’m deliberately beaming it out. Essentially that, just by being there, I’m showing off.
    I was once walking back down my road from the supermarket, carrying several heavy bags of shopping and therefore feeling slightly exposed – like a squirrel looking for somewhere to bury a huge nut. There’s definitely something about carrying food that, on a deep evolutionary level, makes me feel defensive. I’m sure I’m not alone. Try catching the eye of someone returning from a buffet with a heaped plate: you’ll see the shade of a Neanderthal, furtively dragging a mammoth carcass into his cave.
    There was a small group of blokes on a corner. I think maybe they were builders or decorators, or perhaps they were planning a robbery. I’d be surprised to discover they were opposing counsel in a fraud case having a discreet chat during a recess, but who knows. Anyway, one of them said something like:
    ‘Oi, there’s that bloke off the telly!’
    They all turned to look at me and I turned to look at them. We weren’t that close to each other but I smiled and, as far as was possible with an arm weighed down by beer and ready meals, I waved. A beat passed.
    ‘Twat!’ one of them shouted.
    I carried on walking home, feeling very much like a