The story of my life in four chapters.
These days I often get asked about my youth. In fact, it’s pretty much all people have wanted to talk to me about lately. But I guess it’s the same for any person becomes famous in strange circumstances. Or for anyone who manages to penetrate the public sphere by curious means. From where I stand, I can see fame for what it really is- and it follows a miserable trajectory. At first, people are enthralled by your discovery and achievement; but objective interest inevitably runs dry. Within a few years of professional success, you find yourself on exactly the same television talk shows as the other B-listers. So there I am sitting on the celebrity couch. The interviewer cranes their neck with feigned charisma, and starts prying into my early years, as yet unaccounted for by wiki-links or Instagram throw-back-Thursdays. And the worst part is that the questions are always infuriatingly unoriginal.
Were you are a popular child? At what age did you realise you were special? And your relationship with your father? How was that?
I look straight into the camera and deliver my unsatisfactory answers with a bored stare. To my disdain, the results are never as disastrous as I hope. The interviewer will invariably overcompensate for my profound lack of show-business with their own abundance of it. And so, any cynicism or sarcastic nuance on my part is perfectly ironed out by the trusty laughter of the studio audience. Naturally, I take the inane interviews as a bad omen for my professional life. These incessant enquiries about my early biography. A sign that confirms my most intimate fear: that the initial impact of actual work has now completely subsided. Because it is hard, nay, impossible to stay relevant in the social-media driven age; people constantly expect more from you. The problem with millennials is that they always want fresh content. No, it wasn’t enough that I was the first to discover the Cheese Plant. The only tree that produces naturally occurring plant-based cheese. The only tree aesthetic tasteful enough for your depop pics and lifestyle blogs. No, it wasn’t enough that I brought them the Cheese Plant. Now people want me to be a fucking storyteller too.
So, if my story must be told, I think its best that I am the one who tells it. And that I choose my own way to go about it, rather than submit to the measly format offered by talk show hosts and 3 minutes YouTube clips. Perhaps there was a time in my life where I had many stories to tell, but now there is only one. The one that I am about to begin is the only one that will ever matter.
Chapter one: The Oldest Tree in an Ancient Forest
Without wanting to go full-on Charles Dickens, it makes the most sense if I start from the beginning. Let me get the basics out the way first. I come from a really big family, so big that we referred to the place we lived as The Commune. There were so many of us, and so many mouths to feed by extension, that our childhood was simple and old-fashioned. We had no internet, electricity, or running water in The Commune (be that for lack of funds or our fathers’ ideological justifications). Even though we were home-schooled kids, there were thirty of us in my year at school- yeah: I wasn’t joking when I said really big family. During the winter I would actually lose count of how many people shared our residence, but the number would always decrease during the warmer months.
Like any other commune, we followed a doctrine that was headed by our resident patriarch, my father. Only in hindsight can I say that this doctrine was pretty draconian, but no one ever does recognise the cult leader as the cult leader when it’s your father we are talking about. Our access to the Outside was limited only to the ones old enough to travel, those who had already come of age. Naturally, some never came back, and if we had not heard from them for a couple consecutive nights, we had reason to believe they wouldn’t be heard from ever again. Either they had started a rival commune of their own on the outside, or else assumed missing in action. Writing this down now, it all sounds so strange, but you must understand that was just the rhythm of our life, the only one we knew.
Before I came of age and was let out by myself, like everyone else, I lived vicariously through the adventures of those who did travel to the Outside. As I said, we had no electricity or means to cook meals in the Commune- so our livelihood depended on what the older ones brought back from their journeys. All joy and excitement derived primarily from the exotic food that was brought back. It is only in recent years that I realise why my father selected that exact location he did for The Commune; because of its relative situation to such delectable goods. Of course, I have since known financial success, and have led a more luxurious lifestyle, including having in my possession a private celebrity chef and nutritionist, I proudly tell my celebrity friends that I ate better as a child. Because honestly, as kids in the commune we were always surprised by the incredible treats that arrived at our door. More often than not, it would take three or four of the older ones to carry the haul through the passage. I have vivid memories of a time, where within the space of a week, we ate a whole piece of salted plantain, big enough to fit our long table, the next day we ate kimchi, and the day after that, an entire frozen date filled with peanut butter. It was a veritable feast- all my siblings were scrambling over one another to get at it.
I could go on and on about the nostalgic meals, indulge in the memories. And, fuck it, why shouldn’t I?, at least for another paragraph or so, because this next bit is relevant to my story. Even though I had illusions of grandeur from a young age, and always perceived myself as different from the others, my personal tastes were admittedly pretty standard. My absolute favourite thing of all to eat, like every other member of The Commune, was cheese. Not only because cheese was sanctified by our community, but because it was a matter of pride amongst the young. “How many grams of cheese can you eat?” was a sure way to gage how mature someone was, and was always the choice of conversation amongst teenage boys. “ I can eat 5 grams in one sitting,” Someone would pipe up
“Yeah of mild cheddar,”
“What strength are we talking?”
“Strength 4”
“Pipe down mate, I saw you after you ate 2 mouthfuls of philadelphia last weekend- it destroyed you, you were slurring your speech.” And the discussions went on like this.
The most revered member of the Commune was my father, he fought for his own position as patriarch after proving that he could tolerate aged blue stilton in his youth. Not only could he withstand a higher grade of cheese than the others, he had also cultivated the most superior cheese-related vocabulary I have ever heard before (or since). During cheese festivals, he would be invited into our class and publicly reminisce over his halcyon days, regaling us with stories of the stilton, and how he came out of the cheese contest victorious:
“The panel was enticed by the pungent and complex aroma of the cheese. Oaky, farmy notes gave it a mesmerising umami aroma that was made richer by its creaminess. When I first came to try it, I was blown away by its woody palate, a delicious tang and a lovely silkiness for balance. I managed to cut through the salt, which the other contestants found too sharp. The cheese melted in my mouth initially but, after a while it started to burn, leaving me high as a kite for the next few days. I hadn’t a care in the world, I knew that I had won the contest. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I still believe I can sense the subtle graininess of the stilton that came towards the end of the comedown. An aftertaste so evocative of that elusive faraway land of Lidl. What beauty.”
Before long, it was my turn to grow up. I came of age during the week of cheese festival. How can I forget? I had been meticulously planning my debutante outfit of tinfoil tunic and rice-paper trousers. But no was giving me enough attention, all they were talking about was cheese, this cheese and that cheese, all the cheese they had stored up in their own nooks and were fermenting for this very week of feasting. Out of nowhere I was called into my father’s office, he sat me down, and for a moment I thought I was actually going to get a birthday present- pretty incredulous considering how many birthdays he had to keep track of. He started up:
“Dear son of mine, I am so proud of you that you have reached this fine age. This ripe age, this mature age.” As I mentioned before, my father had developed his own way of speaking,, “Son, the reason I call you in here today is that I have a quest for you. Within the next few days, you will be preparing to make your first journey to the Outside. Of all the others I am summoning you to partake in a ritual that is passed on through the generations. Amongst our elders there has been talk as of late about a certain kind of exotic plant that supposedly has magical properties. As you understand, my place is here, in the family hearth where I can stay and inspire the young, but your place now is on the Outside. Because what I am hoping you will find is the oldest tree in an ancient forest. The fruits of which you will recognise once you see it.”
I was taken aback by. I wondered if all the others had been tasked with similar quests or if I really was the chosen one. I tuned in again to my father and my question were answered.
“You are the chosen one. I will bestow you a map, which has been approximated by other travellers for generations. As you will soon discover, there are obstacles you shall encounter on your journey. But if you are victorious then you shall bring fortune to our community. Your task is to find the oldest tree in the ancient forest.”
Chapter two: The Journey
Looking back now, it was not such a surprise to hear that I was the chosen one. I always had my suspicions that I stood out from the masses. So my father’s request that evening wasn’t so much of a shock but rather an affirmation of my previous held beliefs. Deep down I kind of always knew I would end up famous some way or another. Well actually, to be honest, I assumed it would be my iconic style that would get me famous- I was heavily into experimental fashion at the time and I vividly remember the outfit I chose for my formal departure from The Commune. It was a huge black Casio Quartz wristwatch that I wore round my toned midriff. My older sister had found it on the Outside and given it me as a birthday gift. It cinched me in rather nicely when I paraded around saying my goodbyes. I was pleasantly surprised later on, to discover the watch was also water-resistant.
Suitably iced out for the big the day ahead, I was finally prepared to leave when me father pulled me to one side, next to the entrance of The Commune, and handed me the map.
“Never keep your eyes off the prize son, do not become distracted by all the worldly goods, here you have the collated diagrams and maps that we have amassed through the generations of everything we know about the tree. Keep this with you at all times and have faith, as we do in you, when you come back, I am sure you will have found it. Protect yourself from the obstacles that lay ahead. The oldest tree in an ancient forest. You will know the fruits when you see it."
And with that I was off. The journey that stretched before me would last for an indefinite period. I had no sense of space or time once I left home (ironic considering I was wearing a giant time-piece, but obviously I didn’t know how to read the time back then). The first thing that struck me was how bright and sparse the Outside was. So bright it burned my eyes, because I had become accustomed to the relative darkness of The Commune. And so empty. And that sense of isolation was one that I would eventually come to be comforted by. Peaceful, tranquil.
Of course, there were new things to get used to, which I had been forewarned about, mind. I soon learned the Outside was a world of extremes. For starters, the furniture was fucking huge, like I'm talking between 80- 100 times bigger than anything I was used to before. The ceilings were so high, the doors were like properly giant, incredibly impractical. I never knew when they would be open. It took me what felt like years to get past the first door I encountered because of the cloth bags that had been systematically shoved underneath. And don’t get me started on the abuse of tin foil on the Outside- shoved and scrunched into all of the windows and doors that I would otherwise have actually called a decent size. But once I resigned to the fact that I was not in The Commune anymore, and accepted that nothing here made logical sense, I started to enjoy myself.
The loud music, the sweet smell of giant fires contained in a pink/red glass basin (I have since learned these are called ‘candles’), the giant cookery books, the fresh food- oh my gosh the fresh food. Whole blueberries behind the bin, juicy grains of rice underneath the microwave. The warmth of the oven- so many wholesome cosy winter evenings I spent there pondering my journey and future.
Yeah, the first time I saw a giant I shat myself. More than fear, I can only describe my sensation as awestruck. Yeah, I initially believed their physical bodies were grotesque (their hairlessness and lack of tail, their humongous features and towering limbs, etc). But once I saw past their hideousness, what I was most blown away at was their sense of style. Really impressive outfits: checked jackets, high waisted trousers, thick soled leather boots, beautiful jewellery and on their hands, decorated varnished claws. The attention to detail was there, and I appreciated that. The more I observed the giants, the more I learned about millennial fashion and how their clothes, be it jogging bottoms or dancing dresses, fitted in with their own lifestyle. I realised that they lived in a kind of commune too. It was fascinating, they feasted together at the high table just like we did, groomed each other just like we did, some days they dressed themselves head-toe in all white. It was best to avoid them during those days, for they were more prone to screaming and hysteria (with propensity towards violence).
Chapter three: The Dream
Once on the outside, I had to keep reminding myself of my mission, and not get distracted by the obstacles in my path. By the time I first set eyes on the ancient forest, I was beginning to doubt whether it actually existed. Up to that point, I had considered the possibility that the myth of the ancient forest was nothing more than a cheese-induced hallucination, my father ate a lot of gorgonzola, after all.
But it was real alright, The forest stood at a height, elevated from the ground by a giant wooden structure. It struck me how hard it would be to get up there. I rummaged for my map, and looked to consult the index of notes at the back.
“The ancient forest consists of trees and plants each of which considered beautiful by the giants. It is located on an enormous table in the direct sunlight and of full view of the window. In order to access the forest, mount the table by running at acceleration. Have faith, the fruits of your labour will soon be revealed”.
All my initial attempts to climb the giant table up to the forest were pathetic. Only after I regained some strength by eating half a granola chunk I had stashed away in my Casio watch/belt. The granola obviously unlocked some kind of mental block, and within no time I was up on the ground amongst the giant plants. Wow, they were beautiful. The light was so intense up there, but I found dappled shade under the leaves. It was time to consult the map again when something truly terrible started to happen.
A giant wa s approaching the ancient forest, with a humongous receptacle of liquid and proceeded to empty the contents of said bottle all over the trees. I shat a brick. It was an intense rain storm and all there was to do was slow my breath and stay as still as possible so as not to be seen. I recalled everything I had learned from Yoga with Adrienne. Inhale, exhale. It was at this juncture that I discovered the Casio watch was in fact, water resistant, and my map was not destroyed at all. Once the trauma was officially carried out and the giant retreated back out of my field of vision, I whipped out the map.
“The oldest tree in the ancient forest is the largest of all the other plants, its leaves are distinguished by the swiss- cheese like holes and dark green colour. Its fruits are at once recognisable to any member of The Commune.”
Hours passed, I wasted hours looking at all the other trees before I could be certain which one was the oldest. The latest clue on the map was rather cryptic, I thought. All the plants were enormous and spectacular, almost all were dark green, almost all were fruitless. When I was just about ready to call it a night and set up camp on the soft soil of one plant pot, I caught a cheesy whiff that woke me up. I followed my nose as my whiskers twitched uncontrollably. Within a few moments, I was stood before the largest, most impressive, sweet smelling plant I had ever seen. The oldest tree in the ancient forest, the swiss-cheese like leaves, the height, the dark colour. It had to be it. I took a hungry bite out of the minuscule fruits that were growing underneath the base of the leaves. Way too small for the giants to have noticed them- and my gosh they were delicious. These fruits were insanely delicious- what the actual fuck. I finally got what the note on the map meant when it said “Its fruits are at once recognisable to any member of The Commune.”
That night I ate so much of the naturally occurring fruit that I was pushed into the most lucid and unusual dreams. Most of which were about life back at the commune, how I imagined life would be when I returned victorious, an image of me sitting on my dad’s swivel chair and giving talks to all the school children during cheese week. Wow! I had discovered the oldest tree in the ancient forest. My most vivid and bizarre dream was the following: I was present for the birth of the surrealist art movement in 1920s Paris. I overheard a conversation in a café between Dali and Margritte. It was fucking odd- I had no idea where Paris was, who Dali or Margritte were, but I liked it. I felt that the fruit of the tree was making me close to these characters. We were connected through the magical power of what we were eating- it was a different state of mind, a different place, a different time, the fruit of the oldest tree was revealing to me its powers.
Chapter Four: Fame
We are approaching the end of the story. And as you would have guessed, I never did return to The Commune. After I discovered the Cheese Plant, because that is what I decided to call it, I was so self-assured and contented within myself that I stopped being scared of the giants. They no longer frightened me whatsoever. Instead of planning my journey back to that hole in the skirting board, I decided I would stay on the base of the cheese plant until one of them came close enough to hear me. Frankly off my tits on the cheese, very emboldened, I barked in my pubescent squeal until I got their attention:
“Oi over here! You got to see this- you are gonna love it. You have got an unlimited supply of cheese right here. You never have to go to Lidl again. Come here, you are not going to believe it!”
The first giant who saw me, let out a scream, proceeded to swear before fainting dramatically on the carpet. Alarmed, the others rushed to see what the commotion was about. I repeated my speech “Oi come over here,” and the brave one, the one with blue eyes and a fringe, knelt down and came close enough to hear me properly.
Hours passed, I wasted hours looking at all the other trees before I could be certain which one was the oldest. The latest clue on the map was rather cryptic, I thought. All the plants were enormous and spectacular, almost all were dark green, almost all were fruitless. When I was just about ready to call it a night and set up camp on the soft soil of one plant pot, I caught a cheesy whiff that woke me up. I followed my nose as my whiskers twitched uncontrollably. Within a few moments, I was stood before the largest, most impressive, sweet smelling plant I had ever seen. The oldest tree in the ancient forest, the swiss-cheese like leaves, the height, the dark colour. It had to be it. I took a hungry bite out of the miniscule fruits that were growing underneath the base of the leaves. Way too small for the giants to have noticed them- and my gosh they were delicious. These fruits were insanely delicious- what the actual fuck. I finally got what the note on the map meant when it said “
Once they had recovered from the initial shock of me, we settle
d down over handfuls of cheese, the four of them, laughing and joking about the situation. I had lots to explain, and lots to apologise for, apparently. I had to give back my Casio watch to the red-haired giant. It was the peace-offering, that and all the delicious cheese. By the end of that night, they had made an Instagram account for me @MouseInATrenchCoat and set up an online business selling the naturally occurring cheese from their lifestyle blog. They marketed it as the world’s first organic plant-based cheese, and within a few hours we had broken the internet. “Millennials will love this shit.” They assured me.
And the rest is history. So yeah, I am the mouse that discovered the cheese plant. I am famous, mainly for being an extremely cock-sure mouse, but also for reinvigorating the vegan food market. That’s my story. And I swear to fucking god, the next time I get asked to prepare an anecdote for The Graham Norton Show- just know they are getting sent a link to this article, okay?
The prompts given to me for this story were.....
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