It was an auspicious year. Residents of Miami awoke, and wandered the white blanketed streets mystified at the strange drifting flakes cascading from the grey skies. For the only time in history Miami was goddamn freezing. An omen, maybe. For the world was changing, especially for one young woman who found herself up the duff.
My parents coupled and copulated at exactly the same time as the Rings of Uranus were discovered. Coincidence? I think not. My embryonic being began to flourish, and though my memory is hazy I do recollect listening to the debut album of The Clash interspersed with frequent bursts of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumors’ which formed the soundtrack to my fetus stage. On a diet of Star Wars and Smokey & the Bandit I began to develop neurons and basic human understanding. A love of thrifty Jawas, big mustaches and ‘Making Of’ outtakes in end credits, quickly added to my growing tastes.
I was now capable of physical movement and, as this was the year of the true birth of Disco, it was very quickly clear to the doctors on the Ultra-scan screen that I was mightily adept at cavorting, doing the Tango Hustle and wearing lurid polyester. Studio 54 opened in New York and despite my protestations the frowning Doctors ignored my requests for immediate travel and dancing escapades. Too many sequins, apparently. ‘I only want to adjust Elton John’s wig’ I lied. They didn’t believe me.
I coughed amid the amniotic fluids and spluttered in awe when the very first Apple computer went on sale, and decided there and then that I must have it and that, for the rest of my life, I would spend amassing huge debts and spending way over the top for products that other companies make just as well. ‘Apple is the future’ I declared, and for some reason decided not to invest in shares (This was before my Patrick Bateman 80’s stockbroker, ‘greed is good’, let’s kill people with chainsaws stage).
I was now a fetus/baby hybrid, a wee blob of purple quivering flesh the size of a wrinkled walnut floating resolute in a foul, syrupy fluid and change was beckoning me like ZZ Top’s thumbs. My lungs were already developing and for this I was grateful, as I planned to spend the next 35 years killing them with Rothmans.
Life was pointing onwards and upwards. The old ways were dying. Pelé retired and Kanye was born. In the same way as the railway effectively killed the Wild West, transformation was happening, both inside my hosts cavernous body and outside where, shortly after Elvis sat on his toilet, farted, ate some burgers, then left the building permanently, a new sound emerged and it was really bloody angry.
The Sex Pistols burst onto my scene and as they kicked and sneered, so did I. My Mother was soon confined permanently to a hospital bed as her blood pressure rose and constipation kicked in and the concerned physicians held their chins and ‘hmm’ed a lot as her health deteriorated. Punk had arrived, and like my dear Mom, it was taking no shit.
Fortunately at the eight month stage I stopped stomping, biting and spitting in imaginary people’s faces and instead began to strut. Saturday Night Fever was upon us. Ah, the Bee Gees. I quickly discovered a talent for beard growing and high-pitched whining, attributes that have blossomed with age. ‘Why stop at a beard?’ I thought, and lo and behold, I’m now covered entirely in a fine downy hair. Like A.L.F. without the quiff, I too have hair in places you didn’t even realise was possible to have hair in. Happy days.
And so, yes, it was snowing in Miami. Unfortunate if you are dressed in swimming trunks and slowly freezing sun cream, but not as unfortunate as Hamida Djandoubi who not only had just the one leg, but also, as my unveiling grew close, become the last person to be guillotined in France (surprising, huh?).
I now had an identity. After eight and a half months of gastric turbulence, eating bicycle tires with marshmallow fluff and elaborate scheming, my parents had finally given me a name. ‘Military All-Terrain Triceratops, Equipped During Wildly Ambitious Richard Dreyfuss Snatching’. A little long-winded perhaps, so I settled for the acronym – M.A.T.T. E.D.W.A.R.D.S.
An auspicious year. A year of importance. A time of great change. An 18-letter word was needed at this point. ‘Transmogrification!’ I shrieked in a high-pitched whine as my mother prepared herself upon on the operating table and spread her legs wide for the surgeon (come to think of it, that’s strange considering I was a Caesarean Section).
The year was 1977…
And it was the year that I escaped the womb. Oh, and then I become an artist.
Stealing your clothes since 1985,
The Lecherous Bandit
aka El Lecheroso Bandito
‘Making Of’ Outtakes
Playing air guitar with my umbilical cord to Led Zeppelin.
Embroiled in a car chase in my Pontiac Trans-Am, hunted by Jackie Gleason as I journey along the
Watching Charlie’s Angels with the Placenta.
Decorating the Uterus with posters of Farrah Fawcett.
Complimenting the Placenta on its similarity to Farrah Fawcett.
Serenading the Placenta Farrah Fawcett with Barry Manilow’s ‘Looks Like We Made It’.
Cuddling up with the Placenta Farrah Fawcett.
Nibbling on the Placenta Farrah Fawcett playfully.
Smoking a cigarette together with the Placenta Farrah Fawcett.
Proposing to the Placenta Farrah Fawcett.
Skiing in Switzerland with the Placenta Farrah Fawcett.
Turning the thermostat up when the Placenta Farrah Fawcett complains of feeling cold.
The Placenta Farrah Fawcett frowning when it looks at its lovingly wrapped Ironing Board-shaped
Arguing with the Placenta Farrah Fawcett over its outrageous flirting with other babies.
Ripping down posters of Farrah Fawcett after she leaves Charlie’s Angels.
Asking the Placenta whether it knows it has an uncanny likeness to Jane Fonda.
Puts arm around Placenta Jane Fonda.