Me: I bought a book by an American, I can’t remember its name. It had dirty bits in it, that’s why I bought it. It was very funny. A man was in a psychiatrist’s waiting room with other people, the main man. The inner door opened and a pretty girl of eighteen came out, a blonde. The psychiatrist was beating her around the head, saying get out, get out! You dirty thing. Dreaming of having sex with your father! Get out! Get out of my office and never come back! This in a psychiatrist’s office.
It wasn’t porn. It was very funny.
Michael: Sex is funny.
Me: I don’t know if they made a film of it, they’d have to leave out some bits.
Michael: They’d be the main bits.
Me: It wasn’t the sort of book you’d give your mother.
Michael: My mother would have liked it.
From Fact to Fiction And Back:
In the seventies I sat in our kitchen with a physicist friend and fifteen-year-old Paddy who worked in our metalworks. Paddy came from what used to be called an orphanage. He was the happiest kid I ever met. I said something about psychiatrists.
Paddy: What are psychiatrists?
Me: They are people who want to talk to you about your past to tell you what’s wrong with you when there’s nothing wrong with you at all.
Paddy: We had people like that in our school. I told them to fuck off.
Physicist: You were right.
Those were the days.
Note: I don’t know the difference between psychiatrists, psychoanalysts and psychologists. They’re all the wan to me.
Nor can I tell the difference between lawyers, conmen, police and gangsters. Ditto.
All children of psychoanalysts and psychiatrists are nuts. They bring them up in wacky ways. End of story.
24th December, 2016