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The only downside of that time of his life was the fact that he was being fattened like a pig for slaughter.īord does not like thinking about that, so he doesn’t. Then, the several years of being pampered by said mighty noble were pretty good. From his childhood as the son of a poor family to being chosen by a mighty noble. Sitting on his mighty throne, he muses on the long and winding trail that got him where he is today.
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Kayvan Novak’s new show Asylum starts on Monday 9 February at 9pm on BBC4.Bord is intensely happy. (And the Pakistani man on Dragons’ Den who played Marlon Brando’s son in The Godfather.) Zayn and that very funny Indian actor on EastEnders who looks like a shortsighted, gay, Asian blow-up doll. That’s the only famous brown person in this country I can think of.
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I’ve been doing it all my life.īut is it right that that I had to? Is it because there aren’t enough famous brown role models in this country for young brown people to look up to and be inspired by? Zayn from One Direction. I have fooled so many people over the years. My idols were all white or black, for a start, and working class, and northern, or American, drug addicts, rock stars, the same as anyone’s. I didn’t seem to fit the mould of my idols. I had to fool the world into accepting me. That the odds were stacked against me somehow, that the world was not about to adapt to me, but that I needed to adapt to the world. That simply “being myself” was never going to satisfy me or get the job done. I think I decided, about the time I picked up my mum’s Bic razor, that I was not prepared to have my identity dictated to me. My own speaking voice is in fact a mixture of how my two best mates speak, because they are cool and I am not. I have been “absorbing” people – their voices, their mannerisms – all my life, to the point where I am a sort of Frankenstein of different people. Their head is sitting perfectly inside mine, helping me project a false self out on to the world. When I do an impression of someone, or when I am pretending to be someone else, something freaky happens: I feel the person I am mimicking behind my eyeballs. Liam made me walk like an ape, wear Clarks shoes and stand in my bedroom, hands behind my back, snarling into an imaginary microphone for hours and hours. But from his cold, white, northern ashes had sprouted a new guiding light, giving me strength, self-belief, identity his name was Liam. The Robbie from Take That in me was dead. Once my hairline had grown back, I was nearly 16. Right, focus: identity – that’s the topic that got me this gig. It’s time I was given a shot at the title. I’ve been jealous of the opportunities other comedians have been given to write thought-provoking, insightful, intelligent and hilarious articles in various newspapers. Let’s get down to it: I want my own column in this paper. OK, enough of this confiding-in-Guardian-readers bullshit.
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This identity crisis quick fix was one of a thousand more to come during the next 20 years of my life … and music score swells aaand CUT! I looked like an upside-down Desperate Dan. I also had a bad case of five o’clock shadow on my forehead. Excitedly, I combed my hair into a middle parting a la Robbie my curtains fell perfectly down on to my new higher, roomier forehead, ending effortlessly on my eyebrows. Suddenly I had the forehead of my dreams. So I got creative and did what any London-born, Iranian, teenage, low-hairlined kid might do to emulate their Stoke-on-Trent-born, high-hairlined, Caucasian idol: I lathered up my forehead and Bic razored my hairline into the desired shape. Which meant that having a middle parting and a curtains hairdo like Robbie, and being popular with girls, was out of the question. Mine, on the other hand, was low and made a hairy “m” shape about half an inch above my eyebrows. His forehead was large and roomy and an almost perfect rectangle. I was more into making my hairline resemble Robbie Williams’s from Take That. Or whatever, I was never really that into biology at school. If I close my eyes, I can see it burned into the backs of my eyelids. God, I never get tired of seeing that word in print. I know it’s a hot topic, along with the topic of terror. What is it? Where is it? And how does it survive? A few of the many questions that shan’t be answered in this column by me over the next 831 words.