Brilliant, Brilliant, Brilliant Brilliant Brilliant
A collection of full-throated appreciations, withering assessments, and hard-won lessons by the popular journalist.There are a few things you need to know about Joel Golby. Both his parents are dead. His dad was an alcoholic. He himself has a complicated relationship with alcohol. He once went to karaoke three times in five days. He will always beat you at Monopoly, and he will always cheat.Joel makes a name for himself as a journalist who brings us distinguished articles such as ‘A Man Shits On A Plane So Hard It Has To Turn Around And Come Back Again’, but that says more about us than him. In his first book, Brilliant, Brilliant, Brilliant Brilliant Brilliant Joel writes about important stuff (death, alcohol, loss, friendship) and unimportant stuff (Saudi Arabian Camel Pageants, a watertight ranking of the Rocky films, Monopoly), always with the soft punch of a lesson tucked within.Golby’s sharp, evocative prose thrives on reality and honesty that is gut-wrenchingly close to the bone, and laced with a copious dose of dark humour. Who is this book for? It is for everyone, but mainly people who are as lost and confused as Joel and just want to have a good laugh about it.
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Mudlark
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published by Mudlark 2019
FIRST EDITION
Text © Joel Golby 2019
Cover and chapter illustrations © Bill Bragg 2019
Cover layout design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Joel Golby asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008265403
Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008265434
Version 2019-01-31
This book is dedicated to Sacha Fernando,
who gave me an iPad once. This is the deal.
We are even now.
CONTENTS
THINGS YOU ONLY KNOW IF BOTH YOUR PARENTS ARE DEAD
24 STORIES FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT
WAYNE ROONEY IS THE MAIN ANTAGONIST OF MY LIFE
THAT TIME I INVENTED SITTING DOWN
I WILL NEVER BE AS TOUGH AS PITBULL
I WENT TO BARCELONA AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS HANDJOB FROM A SEX ROBOT
My parents are dead and all I can think about is how to sell this house that they left behind. It’s me and my sister in a room without curtains – we had to take down the curtains to decorate, so the sunlight is pooling in, and nothing looks more naked than a house stripped and moved around when the person who lived in it died, and no more is that so than in the cold, white light of the day – and we are painting every wall in this fucking place white, because my mother went decoratively insane before she died and discovered the Dulux colour-match service and went absolutely ham on that thing. And we’ve had three separate estate agents come in, with blazers that bunch around the buttons and a clipboard or iPad, and a special laser tool to measure the size of every room, surveying the corpse with cool detachment and weighing each pound of flesh for gold, and they say – all of them, in turn – they say:
‘It’s going to be very hard,’ they say, ‘to sell a house with a pink kitchen.’ Which I admit is true.
My parents are dead and the kitchen is pink and the dining room, where she always used to sit, each morning, with a pale cup of tea and some cigarettes, is a sort of terracotta orange, with a gold line of paint stencilled around it at approximately head height. The front room is a looming maroon, a deep dark red the kind you haven’t seen since a Twin Peaks hell scene, and upstairs the spare room is brown with bronze swirls crawling up the wall in the vague approximation of a plant. The house was always her project: whenever I would go home, she would explain with extravagant hand gestures, not moving from that dining room chair, smoke spiralling through the air, what the hallway would look like when she was done, and what she’d really like to do with my room – now a spare room – and what to do with the spare room that wasn’t my room, if she had the money, and then ideally the garden, and then of course the kitchen, but—
And then she was dead and we had to paint over it all white to sell it.
My parents are dead and now I don’t know where to spend Christmas. Like, can I go to Dad’s? No. Dad’s is out because Dad now resides on a golf course in Wolverhampton, a golf course that has no official idea about this because when we sprinkled him – a grey, dreary day in February, the first of his birthdays without him – the family neglected entirely to go through any legitimate ash-sprinkling channels, which is why we had to take two cars and kind of sneak down this side road and park nearby, hop through thick grass on a hill, then crouch among thin, leafless trees, passing around the big ice cream tub that had Dad in it, sprinkling that, and so of course he went everywhere, big billowing clouds of Dad all around us, sticking to boots and trousers, clots of grey Dad on the ground. So: can’t go there.
Mum’s is out, because Mum is a slick of grey dust long since lost to the waves who was last seen poured into a shallow hole on a beach in Filey. This is another thing they never tell you about death: how, logistically, getting rid of two-and-a-half kilos of ground Mum is a nightmare. Firstly it is never in an urn: the crematorium always presents it to you in a practical-looking if grey-around-the-edges plastic tub, with a plastic bag inside it as a rudimentary spill insurance. Then you have to get the old band together again, i.e. get all of the family to one chosen place to reverently pour dust on the ground. My sister did the hard work of organising this one, getting my two cousins, aunt, my cousin’s two children and his dog, my cousin’s son’s girlfriend who I don’t think ever met my mum so why she’d want to come to a beach in Filey to dispose of her I don’t know but by then we really needed to up the numbers, a couple of Mum’s old friends and also me to a beach in eastern England, the sky so white it was grey, not a scrap of sun, not a scrap of it, and we spent two hours in Filey slowly walking down to the beach, digging a small hole, dumping the ashes, finding a bin for the ashes urn (someone had to carry that thing for half a mile, swear to god), then fish and chips and home. Trying to think if I had an emotion that day. Don’t think I had an emotion.
