There are friends, there is family and then there are friends that become
family- Source unknown.
Burty has a secret admirer and it’s not who you think, it’s probably worse.
When it comes to Burty and my family, there’s a mixed bag ofresponses. Burty’s work to live, carpe diem mantra where all that reallymatters is having a bass strapped to your back and having a good timelooks romantic on paper, but it’s not necessarily to everyone’s tastes.Starting at the head of the family and from an entirely different generation, Teddy senior is fascinated with Burty. Although he admires Burty’s principals and overall finds him to be a very ‘Quiet, polite young man’. There’s a muted bewilderment at the lack of interest in joining the ‘Rat
Race’ or going to a ‘Red-brick university.’ Like looking at an exhibit at the museum of the future, Teddy senior stares into it, longing to understand its subtle complicities and nuances. For gone are the days where going to university really made you stand out; I’ve never been asked about my time at university from any employer, unless its filler elevator conversation.
But I suppose they don’t really care, and I don’t blame them. I also couldn’t
give a s**t if they went to university.
In the past, like most siblings, mine showed zero interest in my friends whilst growing up. I was branded as the ‘irritating, annoying little sh*t’, and told to ‘go away and hang out with your own weird friends’.
Fair comment…
But to give a bit of perspective…
If we were in a class of PE at school; playing football, rugby, or whatever excuse, they gave to get us all into tiny shorts. Rather than be on the ‘top pitch’ or normal playing pitch equivalent, a small group of us were tossed an assortment of kit or weapons (Depending on how you look at it) and told to go to the ‘bottom pitch.’ Left to our own devises, we’d assemble our own special game which by the end, resembled something similar to Lord of the Flies and Squid Games. This is all while everyone else is participating as expected, on the normal pitch with supervision. My friends are primarily bottom pitch kind of people and with that, I’m confident that’s all cleared that up.
Moving onto the middle sibling; Our very own Dark Lord looks at Burty like he’s a Martian. She prods and circles the specimen for any signs of knowledge or similarities, but the high-strung, live to work stormtrooper quickly moves on and has no interest conversing with muggles or other species. Although equally baffled by Burty’s ‘Fonzie’ strut to life, she recognises there is very little common ground, and thus regresses back to calling my friends ‘weird’ with a complementary look of distain.
Then you have the eldest, let’s call him… Dickie. Dickie is in love with Burty.
I’m not entirely sure when this started, but it’s becoming more of a sexy elephant in the room whenever Dickie visits. But the more I scratch the back of my elderly mind, the more I’m convinced this may have been the case from the very beginning. A love struck, slow motion, jaw dropping first meeting that you see in the movies.
A tale as old as time and a love story for the ages.
Let me paint a picture…
Cue time ripple effect…
It was 2018, and I was in London for one of those family events where a shirt’s required. Afterwards, Dickie and I found ourselves rushing to the train station where unbeknown to Dickie, I’d arranged to meet Burty so we could catch the same, forever delayed, Southern service back home together. I remember Dickie and I politely rushing through our sibling rituals of fond farewells in favour of making the train, and not suffering the terrible fate a Sunday train timetable had to offer.
But then, Burty appeared from around the corner and time stood still… With his towering, tree like view over everyone in the station, he spotted me almost immediately. He smiled warmly, boisterously waved, and began approaching. Although as custom for the time, Burty’s pace soon began to pick up speed and I was eventually met with the obligatory crushing bear/tree hug. But that bear hug had echoing repercussions and would apparently awaken something in Dickie that day, that wasn’t just in his pants. In that bear-hug, Dickie was transformed and saw a future worth twiddling his hair and awkwardly shuffling around for. This was the first time Dickie and Burty laid eyes on each other, and it was the start of a very flirtatious quiproquo.
I could almost hear the faint jazz building with the Bogart style internal monologue.
“He was all legs; all tree with branches and a look that could kill…”
However, as years passed and as the house of Scurvy mark I folded into memory, Dickie lost hope and longed for another impromptu ‘What are the odds? chance encounter to gush over Burty and potentially see me. Then, with the re-launch of the House of Scurvy sequel, Dickie dusted off his glad rags, donned his finest jewels and prepared to come out of mourning like Miss Haversham with burning loins. This isn’t to say that Burty isn’t an attractive specimen, but looking comparatively with Dickie’s side effects, his powers of lust have as much effect on me as well…a tree. I’m too close to the source to see anything over than Captain Cat-Hair. Though when a visit from the siblings is on the cards, Dickie will promptly, (yet casually) attempt to nonchalantly enquire about whether Burty will be joining us; as if he’s going to start fasting days before..
But I’ve spoken to Burty about this and to my surprise, I leant that not only is Burty aware of this effect, but it’s a common occurrence. To Burty, this penance comes from the combination of his unnatural height and piercing blue eyes which subsequently, causes Dickie to melt like butter.
However, with birthday celebrations on the horizon, it provides the perfect venue and
opportunity Dickie needed to allow their love to rekindle and blossom. Although I hope these emotions of passion have subsided over time, I’m quickly corrected when Dickie arrives early morning to ‘make the most of the trip.’
We go out, catch-up, hold hands and Dickie buy’s me a plant.
Winner!
We drive back home, and it begins…
We enter the house of Scurvy, and I can see Dickie taking it all in. Although he intends to ask, he already knows the answer to his own question. Burty’s not in.
Devastated.
Nevertheless, I watch as Dickie scans the house like a bloodhound trying to detect and somehow contain the irresistible scent of Burty. We eventually sit, have a drink, and continue our conversation, and barrage of complimentary sibling insults.
‘Burty will be in later, he works most weekends after all.’ I say reassuringly.
But as it always does here, it’s rains. Ordinarily I’d offer to pick Burty up, but with the Scurvy wagon out of action, and due to the fact that we’d had one too many adult milkshakes during the day to consider driving Dickie’s car, Burty would undoubtedly be delayed even further.
I’ll admit, I wasn’t too phased by this. If anything, a delay to the inevitable reunion of these star-crossed lovers was preferable. But these were simply the ingredients for the perfect storm…
I then watched Dickie pick up a small mini doughnut, provide by the hostess with the mostest (moi!)
He brought it closer, ready to consume, and then.. he paused and began curiously inspecting it with a melancholy glint of longing in his eye. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was somehow imagining it with Burty in some other fantastical way; Perhaps in some sort of Lady and The Tramp homage scenario or worse…But before I could finish the thought, lightning struck, and thunder roared to announce Burty’s arrival. The front door snapped open, and the sound of squelching footsteps approaching sirened the beginning of an inevitable flirt fest.
Then… Moist, potent, and damp from his travels and day’s labour in the shop, Burty stepped around the corner and the world stopped spinning. He lazily removed his wet jacket and hat, tossed them aside like James Bond and carelessly wiped the excess rain and drooping hair out of his face. He was glistening, taut and sweaty from his travels and his deep breathes from the climb to the house pulled Dickie even further down the thirsty rabbit hole.
It was like the f***ing Lynx effect.
It was like a watching the real-life Gold Blend couple. You could have cut the tension with a blunt spoon. So, I expertly went to intervene. Although significantly de-robed from his wet garments, it’s not enough; as he planted himself (like a tree) in an armchair, I could already see his remaining damp garb expanding its cold touch into the fabric of the armchair.
You’re my burning bush Burty... But nevertheless, I jumped in try and dial back the heat and bring the slow-motion sequence to a record scratching end.
‘Can I get you a drink Burty?’ I asked with the usual pleasantries.
*Burty grunts.
‘Coffee it is! That’ll warm your branches…’
Not only would this hopefully, if not momentarily subdue or diffuse any sexiness, but it’ll also gave Burty a chance to get changed and avoid the prospect of a sodden chair…I’m aware I need to work on my priorities.
I went to the kitchen to make the coffee; I didn’t hear any conversation of molesting coming from the other room, and so naturally, I assume my genius has prevailed. As such, I arrogantly stirred the coffee and allowed myself to momentarily bask in my brilliance before swiftly returning.
However, as I return, Burty is on his phone, sat dripping on a chair like an open faucet… Brilliant…
But while Burty carelessly continues to sodden my chair, Dickie respectively soddened his pants; His jaw remaining nailed to the floor at the glistening, sweaty Olympian. I passed Burty his coffee, who made short work of it, and I strategically took a seat next to Dickie on the sofa. I then casually and most definitely accidently, knock and jab Dickie several times in the ribs in an attempt to wake him from his saucy hypnosis. But it’s no use, Dickie watched Burty slurp his coffee like he’s in a 1990s Coke Ad.
I was just grateful he wasn’t wearing denim…
But for all of you rugrats reading, this is what I mean.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmVexzzVfDA
But as the night went on, the set-up looked more like an intervention than a social gathering
reminiscent of school discos where you’d be as far away from your crush as possible whilst averting direct eye contact at all costs. I watched Dickie’s overthinking, bashful looks to the floor, swooning heel lifts and desperate spluttering to quickly get to the punch line of a joke. Although I pressed on with games, food, drinks, drinks more drinks and Netflix, the presence of a third wheel was becoming a growing shadow, and the telltale signs and symptoms began creeping out of the woodwork.
- Dickie snapping his head back whilst giggling.
- Dickie laughing boisterously at anything that leaves Burty’s lips.
- Dickie twirling his hair between his fingers and regimentally checking the mirror when Burty leaves the room for any quick-dashed touch-ups.
As the night continued, Dickie and Burty continued launching fast talking quips back and forth in a taunt, no nonsense, film noir level of wise cracking flirting that I’ve ever seen. Though on occasion when feeling bold, Dickie would move in for a playful cuddle, but to only recoil moments later in extasy as if Burty’s skin tickled to the touch.
Not to rain on Burty’s sex appeal parade, but I think a lot of the attraction must be down to his mantra and devil may care approach to life. When you’re surrounded by people whose main objective is to have a corner office, run a team and reach a point where they can wear a shirt where the collar and body are different colours, it must be refreshing to see someone who hasn’t been brainwashed or bought into the propaganda of ‘Get a job, have kids and join the long march of life’.
Although Burty has experience and the ability to achieve these things, he chooses not to; Burty does it his own way, and I rather admire that. I understand the natural attraction to someone who has the ambition and drive to be the next Howard Hughes. But conversely, I can also understand the attraction when someone is immune to the usual fanfare or flexing and by extension, I understand how this can be seen as rousing.
‘But why not succumb and reach for the high-rise office salary?’ Dickie chimed to Burty curiously as he swilled his drink.
‘Why would I? It won’t change how coffee tastes.’ Burty nonchalantly quipped back.
I could see Dickie swooning through the corner of my eye; to the point where Burty could fling faeces across the room, and I doubt it would hold any lasting effect.
Although when alone, Dickie and I often jest at the idea of him and Burty sitting in a tree; K-I-S-S-I-N-G. I can’t be entirely sure whether Dickie’s visits to the house of Scurvy are to see me or get his Burty fix. Some may call me paranoid, but I can’t be paranoid when every
invite is met with the customary ‘Will Burty be there?’ and when, on occasion the prospect is assured and unexpectedly taken away, Dickie is left with the blue-balls equivalent of wondering where his fair maiden could be and wistfully stares out the windows to the distant coastline like a Scottish widow.
But I can’t say I’m that phased by the flirting and stolen glances, if anything I find it bewilderedly amusing, and this tends to be the common consensus within the family. Although Dickie will jest and prod me as siblings do best to try and find my tantrum button, it’s in vain.
On the contrary, I feel like it nurtures and provides me with a genuine sense of fulfilment. Let me try and sell it to you from my perspective; Personally, I think if you do anything enough, you’ll more than likely at some point, loose enthusiasm for what you’re doing.
There are of course exceptions to this; For example, if your job is to run your hands through David Tennant’s hair. Then that would be pretty swell…Or to berate Borris Johnson every morning with a kick to the crotch…Or to wet-willy Jacob Rees-Mogg.
I digress, but a man can dream.
But the novelty and cherishing feeling you get for doing something can arguably recede to the point where you’re unable to see how good you’ve got it. What you have, see, or do throughout the day– somewhere, someone would kick a child into the sun for the opportunity. By extension, someone out there wants to see Burty glistening as he walks out the shower whilst he lazily allows his Magnum, P.I chest hair to peak through his loose-fitting dressing gown.
However, in my case, it might as well be my Nan… I’m as flaccid for it as I am for slow walkers.
I hope that’s clear, but it’s all very self-perspective.
For what I see on a daily basis, some would argue I take it for granted. Some people (Dickie) would chew through their feet for such cinematic opportunity. The morning encounters coming out the shower, the slow-motion hair flops, or having my face smooshed against Burty’s chest during a warm, spontaneous embrace.
Another point is I know fundamentally Dickie doesn’t know Burty like I do… I’m convinced this is the fact with anyone you live with for long periods of time, including siblings or couples. You see them in every light and every shadow, every good and bad moment. You know their ticks, buttons to press, and you see through the veiled deception filters. What’s endearing and sweet on weekend visits, is a totally different ballgame in the everyday. I feel somewhat wiser, and in on a silly joke that others simply wouldn’t understand.
But I do love Burty, and I can understand it from his point of view. They’re both playful, consenting adults; and who doesn’t enjoy a flirty compliment or feeling that someone appreciates you? Besides, if Captain Cat hair were ever tamed, he could move into Dickie’s house in the countryside. Dickie loves the countryside and its well suited to him. He’s always been an old soul who enjoys gardening, agriculture, and long walks, even as a child. Growing up, whilst I was shoving inanimate objects up my nose, Dickie would peruse the countryside collecting flowers and talking to farmers. With Burty, maybe he can find a nice, sunny patch in his garden to plant him and watch him bloom. Or maybe Burty could be an overgrown, musical scarecrow with chronic back pain. He could scare the crows away with the might of his bass. I suppose he’d take either option, so long as he had his bass.
I think Burty would quite like that…
I’d personally go with the latter; if you can’t hoover, fat-chance he’s going to bloom dear brother... Although this conversation seems to be taking a perverted turn as I picture Dickie bartering for Burty like I’m selling a camel; Closely inspecting the creature and scrutinising the orifices and pedigree like a judge at Crufts. So– I’ll wrap this up.
The world’s a vast place filled with the strange and wonderful. Put it down to an individual’s personal taste, preference, appetite, cup of tea or what have you. But I find it strangely sweet and peculiarly self- affirming. The only thing I can compare it to, is when you see your cat or dog getting along with a close friend or sibling. It’s heartwarming to see.
Teddy senior finds it all hilarious, although he reins it back at the prospect of Burty becoming a permanent part of the clang. I would never assume to speak on behalf of the one known as ‘The Dark Lord’ *lightning strikes. But I can only assume by her gut-busting cackling, that she shares an accord with Teddy senior.
Nowadays, we tend to not talk about it. Burty is family whether he shacks up with Dickie (Please don’t) or marries Minion and moves to Mexico. Burty became an obligatory family member after the countless Christmas’s or family events we’ve shared together. But I do wonder if Burty would show the same grudge or vexation to the same common, re-occurring skirmishes I face if he lived with Dickie. Would Dickie be allowed to hum or whistle? I wonder… I like to think it’s something more universal.
Nevertheless, if Dickie is going to continue trying to hide under Burty’s bed like a perverted Pennywise, be my guest. In the meantime, see you if you have any more luck trying to get him to run a hoover around.
But more importantly, try and find someone that looks at you the way Dickie looks at Burty, and you’ll be sorted. It’s nice to know that if I haphazardly meet my end or get hit by a bus, someone will look after Burty when I’m gone.
How to care for your Burty guide to follow….
