Stalking Charlie Brooker

Once upon a time, when you were, oh, let’s say, about 13 or so for sake of argument, you probably had your very first crush. Not that you knew then what a crush was as such, or remotely why you had it. No. All that happened was that one day you were the proud owner of a whole range of feelings and sensations that you had never had before. Upon that day, everything about you changed irrevocably irreversibly and forever. You didn’t know that then either; you just thought there was something strangely compelling about Adam Ant. Especially the way he swung through the stained glass window in the video for Stand and Deliver.

As you gradually accommodated to these new sensations, your brain started to refine them. Thus you could conjure, at will, all of the words to Ant Rap without once tripping over your tongue or repeating a chorus out of rotation. You knew whether it was Marco, Merrick, Terry-Lee, Gary Tibbs or yours-tru-ly behind the painted white face stripe and gold-braided frock coat. As the young you mastered the art of adoration from a distance (even if you sat eye-bogglingly close to your TV set), your brain had a new trick up its sleeve. It unveiled it the day you went to the church youth club feeling mighty cool wearing your new three quarter length green denims and mustard granddad shirt. Then Andrew walked in and you instantly morphed into a sweaty-palmed cerise-faced version of yourself, where the lead role was played by a gibbering gibbery thing that couldn’t speak and who was trapped in an endless loop of engraving his name on your pencil case.

And so on it went for years; each time you grew accustomed to one phase of your dawning adolescence, your brain would unleash another volley of feelings and sensations for you to try out afresh. Eventually – and admittedly the detail of this next section may vary according to your own historical contents - the chances are you probably tried on a few objects of desire for size and (much like your favourite jeans) selected the one that seemed the best fit; possibly you married; possibly you didn’t; possibly you had a child or two; possibly you didn’t; possibly you bought a house or flat together; possibly a car too, or one each even. And so your life bobbed serenely along in its little ship of adultness upon the river of grown-up-hood.

Then, just when you thought your brain had long got over the dealing out of new feelings and sensations, something happened. You might have got divorced; perhaps you and your partner went your separate ways for whatever reason; possibly a crisis of some sort hit you. Maybe you cried; perhaps you howled; possibly you were relieved or elated; sometimes you were sad and then you got angry, upset, whatever. Then you got better again and started to breathe out once more.

And you found to your great surprise that you were forty, give or take. And so were your friends. And their friends. You noticed that someone had come along and put a few lines on your forehead and inches on your hips whilst you weren’t looking. You started to enjoy things you’d have turned your nose up at a few years before; doing yoga say, or bird watching. In fact, you observed that some of your tastes had changed in all the shades of meaning of that phrase; that wearing black from head to foot maybe made you look older not cooler; that brown was not really so hideous after all; that wearing stilettos, no coat and a short skirt in a snow storm was just silly; that - in spite of what your mother told you - swearing could indeed pack a huge punch but only if you rarely did it.

And you noticed something else odd too, something that was long forgotten; that your brain had circled right back to the beginning and was making you have crushes all over again. As always, the object of your crush affection is randomly selected in a Darwinian manner. It could be a friend. It might be a work colleague or a travelling sales rep whose monthly calls make your heart race. In the time honoured tradition of the world it could be your boss or your secretary. Maybe it’s a film star or three, a politician, vicar, doctor, vet, teacher at your child’s school, the guy in the park who walks the standard poodle.

Mine is Charlie Brooker.

At least be happy for me that I no longer gibber or own a pencil case.