Admirers can be embarrassing

Press, 7 August 1989, Page 32

Admirers can be embarrassing

“I know a lady who fancies you,” said our friend, not catching the steely look which suddenly crossed my wife’s face. Look inscrutable, I thought. You can panic later. “Really?” I replied, trying not to make the reply sound like the gargle it was. “Oh yes,” he continued. “She fancies you something awful. Says she’ll grab you if you get divorced.” “Yes?” said my wife, that single question sounding like steam escaping. She shot me a look that spoke volumes. “Do tell,” she added, inching closer to the knife drawer. “She looks forward to you every Monday,” he said, doing little to extricate me from the bog. “Just before I die,” I asked him, “it would be nice to know who this distant admirer is.” He named a lady whom I have never met. “I don’t know her,” I said, looking towards my wife with my best “Boy Scout telling the truth look.” She gave me her “You better be telling the truth” look and so I replied with my “I am, honest!” look. “Oh yes,” continued our friend.

"She never misses ‘Wilson’s Week’ every Monday.”

I looked for something to throw at him. Unfortunately the cat was outdoors and the children have become too heavy.

Anyway, apart from the fact that I didn’t know what he was going on about, and the confusion must have showed on my face, it’s a fact that overweight . 39-year-old bearded males don’t usually have a harem of passionate admirers queuing in the drive. Mind you, I did look down the drive later, just in case.

Nevertheless, in the two years that these columns have appeared in “The Press” they do seem to have brightened Mondays for some ladies.

A pretty young teenager accosted me a few days after this other incident. “My Mum loves your column. Grandma does too,” she said. Great, I thought. Must include some knitting patterns and fruit preserving hints next week.

“How did you recognise me?” I asked, intrigued. “That was easy. You look just like your cartoon.”

It would have been more diplomatic to say Al Nisbet’s cartoons resembled me, but that thought

was shoved on the back burner because something else clicked into place.

This was not the first time I had been identified through Al’s wicked cartoons and now I realised what had happened. In best “Twilight Zone” fashion I had become a living cartoon. Roger Rabbit and me.

Being recognisable might flatter some people but, frankly, it’s all a bit embarrassing. You see many years ago I was much bigger than you see me today. How big? Well, in the days before he underwent his special weight reduction surgery David Lange and I could have traded suits.

In those days when I set off down the street people looked. Actually they looked as though they had just seen a tidal wave, but I digress. The embarrassing point was that they noticed me, for all the wrong reasons. I mean I didn’t commit public outrages, not during the hours of daylight anyway, but people tended to stare and if I was moving downhill the wise ones moved to the edge of the footpath. The memory of those times never fades and you had to develop a sharp line in riposte if you were to survive on the streets.

“Why doncha go on a diet?” some pukes had once yelled at me. “Spell the word and I will.” I was on safe ground. So you will appreciate that I was thoroughly trained for the gentleman who collared me while I was ambling through Cathedral Square the other day. "Here, I know you,” he demanded. “You’re that bloke, aren’t you?” “Which bloke?” “Oh y’know. That bloke, thing, the bloke that does that thing in the paper.” “Actually old chap there are many blokes, and blokesses, who do many things in the paper.” “Ah y’know, you write that thing on Mondays don’t ya?” “If you mean ‘Wilson’s Week,’ yes.” “Thought so, the wife loves it.” Attempting to help his

grammar I suggested: “You mean my wife loves it.” “She probably does mate, so does mine. Me, I think it’s a loada crap!” I attempted to salvage some dignity, levelled him with a malevolent look and replied.

“Next week I shall avoid the use of big words, just for you!” Actually I also threw a few Anglo-Saxon words into the conversation. It didn’t matter if anyone recognised me. Cartoons can get away with anything.—DAVE WILSON.

Wilsons Week...