Gráinne's Dream Boy
Do you want to know how exhausting temping full time, gigging every night and trying to support myself on minimum wage when I first moved to London was?
You know how some animals develop destructive coping mechanisms under stress: picking at their fur, pecking their arms...well I found the temping grind so bleak, the only way I got through it was to dissociate and disappear to an alternative fantasy life where I was a married to Jim Davidson in a small village in Kent.
This wasn't a one-off flight of fantasy, this was a regular branch of the multiverse I checked into at random times of the day, for months.
Listen folks, you can't shame shame.
For those who don't know, Jim Davidson is a “stand up” “comedian” “broadcaster” and the charges have been “dropped”. He was a star of light entertainment until the 90s when his cheeky chappie persona finally imploded. He and his racist, misogynistic, jingoistic, smug, arrogant stupidity represents everything I hate in this world and my moral compass is defined in opposition to it. And yet, and yet, in my weakest moments, it sang to me, it called out to me, like a siren's song over waves of anxiety and late rent payments.
A man of many talents.
I should be clear that in my daydreams, Jim was very much a shadowy peripheral figure always out of sight. But make no mistake, in my mind we were always happily married. We were always making it work.
Let me explain.
It’s 11am and I am so tired I can see sparkly things in front of my eyes. I have three hours of data entry ahead of me and I also have to figure out a way to leave work early to be in Swindon at 7pm for a gig I’m not being paid for. I’m not allowed to listen to any music and all I can think of is the comedian who was really rude to me on the train back from Brighton who now has a Netflix Special. Do I really sit with that knowledge or...magically am I...
...in a kitchen in Kent. Jim’s just left. We watched Good Morning Britain together and Jim was angry because the female newsreader was wearing trousers again. Now he’s off at the golf course and I’m alone in my entirely cream house. It just smells so good. Everything is so clean. And bright. It smells of the 60s: Old Spice, hair spray and a total lack of boundaries. I’m wiping over the kitchen counter. I feel like I’m in Bewitched, but instead of keeping my magic powers a secret from my husband like Samantha had to, it’s my ability to read that’s the secret. Sshhhh! Don't tell anyone!
I’m in the staff canteen staring at the same chickpea pasta I’ve had for lunch every day for the past month. The woman next to me is loudly reading from the Sharon Osbourne book to her friend who is going through boyfriend problems. “Like Sharon said to Kelly, sometimes you just have to love yourself.” They look over at me and scowl, furious that I’m stealing this unearned wisdom. It's then I notice a huge dollop of pasta sauce on my shirt. I should be embarrassed but...
...I'm on my way into the village in my Range Rover. I sometimes volunteer at a charity shop. Heads turn of course, they know who I am but I’m very humble about it and the other ladies respect me for it. They say “It must be a riot living with him” and I just sigh “he keeps me on my toes!” I am adorable, everyone likes me. Today I’m picking up my sequinned cocktail dress from a local boutique. Sue, the owner, puts aside jazzy outfits with shoulder pads for me because of all the functions Jim and I go to. “Jim is a lucky man to have someone like you,” Sue winks, handing me my bag.“If I had your figure…!” I shake my perfectly blonde 90s Anthea Turner hair and laugh.
I’ve given myself the target of writing ten abortion jokes before 3pm. In between updating the spreadsheets, I sneakily jot ideas down in my notebook when no one is looking. I need to have ten new minutes of material, email twenty agents and promote the work in progress gig I’m doing tomorrow that I’ve currently sold no tickets for. And get to Swindon by 7pm. If I could just focus for 15 minutes I could probably get everything done but then...
...I mean life with Jim isn't all fun and games.
I have to get to know and keep tabs on his various children, keep on friendly terms with all his ex-wives and know the minutiae of the legal loopholes when it comes to alimony and paternity payments.
I need to keep Jim constantly aware about what is and isn't appropriate for him to say to female co-workers, up to date on harassment in the workplace legislation, how to cheat lie detector tests and any ongoing Operation Yew Tree cases that could have implications for him going forward. I also have to make sure he is never alone with the cleaner.
Has Joe Pasquale returned the hedge cutter he borrowed? Has anyone heard from Bradley Walsh?
I’m in a WhatsApp group with the other trophy wives but they're no use. Jim is talking about retiring - help! Melania Trump just sends the sunglasses emoji. What is that supposed to mean??? We have to use emojis, we can't read!
It’s 7pm and I’m backstage at my gig. I’m so tired I feel like I’m underwater. I’m the only woman on the bill and the other male comedians are loudly referring to each other by their surnames like we’re all in a gang in prison. I’m still in my work clothes, there is a stink in the room and I’m 98% sure it’s coming from me. I should be going through my setlist but instead...
...I’m at a charity do at the local Foreign Legion. I arrive with Jim, a few steps behind of course, I know who they're here to see. I’ll be sitting beside Coleen Nolan, we get on great. She squeezes my shoulder and says how glad she is that Jim finally found someone nice. We’re on the rosé bubbles. No one asks my thoughts on anything. No one asks what I think about Brexit. I don’t have to find a way to make abortion funny for stag dos. I don't have to speak all evening except to say “Oh Jim” every now and then. Everything I own is rose gold.
Legends only.
Now I’m in a healthier place. I have a real boyfriend, I don't have to temp and never have to go to Swindon ever again. So I can let Jim go. My life is good enough that I don't sometimes space out and imagine I’m at a marina in Portsmouth with Jethro and Jim looking for somewhere that does steaks. I never thought I’d say that.
Sometimes though, at night, in my dreams, I return. I go back...
...I’m at one of his gigs in a Corn Exchange in Essex. He doesn't know I’m coming. I sneak in, he’s on stage doing what he does best, insulting the women in the front row. We’re all having a laugh, but then he spots me, his voice cracks and the persona breaks.
“It’s my little Irish Rose, she's come to say goodbye, my lucky heather. Who knew the biggest break of all would be my heart? Now I know how The Belgrano felt.”
“Goodbye Jim” I say, standing up, “goodbye.”
I toss a single rose at the stage and then disappear back into the darkness.
I wake up with a start. I look over at my sleeping boyfriend and jolt him awake.
“Listen, there’s something you need to know. There might be times when the printer isn't working, or I’ve lost my bank card or I'm hungry and there’s nothing in the fridge I like...I might accidentally call you Piers Morgan. If I do, please just ignore it.”
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