I like my sofa. In Hong Kong other people have hard leather
things. Their basic style seems to come from corporate hotel accommodation packs,
or S& M dungeons. I’m not sure which. Either way people in Hong Kong like
to sit on hard chairs and suffer.
How can one slob around in your underpants, with a glass of
wine and a packet of crisps watching the entire series of “WEEDS” in one
sitting, when you’re stuck to the leather with your legs hanging over the edge? No
wonder everyone eats out, never watches television, and are always falling
asleep on trains and waking up in Shenzhen with their kidneys removed. It might keep your weight down but it
plays havoc with things like sanity.
The sofa has to be soft for you to get the benefits of slobbery. It has to have big cushions that soak
up sweat and tea, and show no signs of oily wear and tear, at least not for the
first five years. It must also be as
big as an American’s liposucked fat packs, or at least enough for two of you to
slob around in.
I have often toyed with the idea of making a movie about my
life on my sofa. By far the most interesting parts of my life have happened
there. This may come as a shock to all those who have received the benefit of
my wit, wisdom, company and thought me a character, but the truth is my life is
on the sofa and the rest is work. And so a million years ago, when Kennedy was
shot, I was on a sofa. It was not mine, and not as soft, but sofa it was. The
arms were pecked thredbare by our pet budgie. And down the back I often found
coins as well as biscuits. And at Christmas time it was covered in toys. Thus
history, culture, identity and a dose of chlamydopholosis can all be acquired
from the sofa.
When man landed on the moon I watched it lying down on a
sofa. It was a much bigger and better sofa then, as my parents had finally
become affluentish and invested in comfort: one small step for mankind and one
big sofa for me. If heaven was a
sofa, this was heaven with sex.
When Harold Wilson, of whom nobody reading this has heard
of, resigned as the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland – here
ends the history lesson - it was during a period of austerity for me. Sofas were not available. Life was hell.
I watched the resignation and the appointment of James Wot Crisis Callaghan lying
on my bed in a bedsit, with no sofa in sight and the TV balanced precariously
on a wooden box removed from the dustbins at the back of a garage. I vowed
never to be in the presence of history without a sofa ever again. The world
must pass by viewed from a comfortable perch, otherwise it has no right in
doing so. Imagine being obliged to recall dismal British politicians without a
single fond thought other than the pleasure of all that being long behind one.
I can hear you shuddering. And shudder you should.
The first sex I ever had was on a sofa. It was there I
triumphantly got the pants off a girl and necessitated turning the cushions
over. In fact one turned the
cushions over in several people’s homes, which does make one wary of sitting in
any friends homes where teenagers frequent. All of which makes having a sofa to
call one’s own all the more important. You want them big, luxurious, completely
unable to show dirt and stains, and L-shaped. Forget the armchairs. Those are
for grandparents to knit and fart in. And having reached a grandparental age I
have become deeply depressed in the presence of armchairs for fear they will
embrace me and glue me to an antimacassar with a pendulum clock ticking in the
background. You may not know what those things are. But trust me, don’t have
anything to do with them. They are evil and will shorten your life. Mine is all
the shorter for being able to recall them.
I saw my first snow kneeling on a sofa looking out of the
window. I knew that if it “settled” I’d be able to go and play in it. And so I
watched and hoped it would settle. Very exciting stuff, is snow for a three
year old. Come to think of it, I still find it exciting stuff. But now I watch
the typhoons sweep across Tolo Harbour from my sofa. Lightning bounces off the
surrounding hills and cracks across the sky. Clouds roll down the hillsides.
Swathes of grey rain sweep over the water and then dump onto my balcony like an
Air France jet, whipping the odd pot plant over the ground.
Most of all though, Television has accompanied the pleasures
of the sofa. I was brought up by a TV and no doubt have been ruined for life by
it, but more than anything else it has been an inspiration: turn on, tune in,
slob out! Nowadays I guess the youth of the world tend towards more interactive
time wasters, and will be eulogizing their “gaming chairs” with built in
surround sound and motion transfer technology. I can’t help feeling it is
missing the point, which is pure slobbery. All this nervous energy and a-social
interactive electronic socializing work flow virtuality, can’t compete with
carbohydrates, alcohol, cheap undemanding TV shows, and another body to entwine
with and nudge when it’s time for a glass re-fill. Thus all is well on a soft
sofa and all else is just filling in the time until you can slob out again. Why
go out when you can slob out?
