Evil Beard Syndrome

The other night I was busy procrastinating over something or other whilst my flatmates were carrying out a conversation in the background about the contents of the fridge. Something like: "Is it ok to throw away this rice?" "Yeah, but don't throw away the pasta that's in there, I know you and you're a bit chuck-happy" . . .etc etc. Somewhere between their conversation and my procrastination, I turned this into there being a small person called Chuck Happy who sneaks into your fridge at night, and throws away that yoghurt you'd been saving, or, you know, that milk that is only just at its sell by date and totally fine, and sell by dates are all hooey anyway . . . well, unless it's actually turned green and has started moving of course . . .

ANYWAY, I lay on my bed that evening trying to brainstorm ideas for stories and drawings (I didn't really get much further than "The Adventures of Chuck Happy - he, um, sneaks into your fridge and, like, steals some yoghurt"?? Riveting stuff I'm sure you'll agree, J.K. Rowling had better just WATCH OUT!). I usually keep a pad and pen by my bed in case some brilliant idea occurs to me in the middle of the night, otherwise I'll have completely forgotten it by morning. If I'd been Pharaoh having those seven cow dreams foretelling the famine in Egypt (see Genesis), the next morning I'd have been like "Well, there were these . . . .  big dogs, and something to do with water, and then, um, something happened, and then I realised I was taking my exams and hadn't done ANY REVISION WHATSOEVER! Do you think it means something?? Nah, probably not . . . .Oh well, what's for breakfast?"

Back to the 21st century, and as I'm lying in bed having turned out the light, waiting for sleep to happen, I occasionally jot the odd thing down on the pad by the light of my phone - thoughts on spirituality, embarrassing stories, stuff like that. I must have been a bit more asleep and doolally that I thought I was, because when I woke up the next morning I'd scrawled "EVIL BEARD - DIAGRAM" diagonally across the whole of the pad. I distinctly remember this making perfect sense at the time of writing, and thinking "What ho, Emsy! This is IT! You will revolutionise the theological debate with this one!" But obviously, by the clear light of day I have no idea what this means whatsoever.

I must admit, I'm not a massive fan of beards. Stubble and a few days growth is fine, in a 'hey I'm so devil-may-care and rock n'roll that I haven't had any time to shave' kind of way (wink). But full on beards, despite their popularity amongst both indie band members and World of Warcraft gamers, are really only a good look if you are one of the following: Santa Claus, Dumbledore, or Brian Blessed in Flash Gordon.

Maybe it's a childhood thing. When I was 13 I went on holiday with a school friend and her family to Centre Parcs in Belgium. After a week of playing badminton and messing around in hot tubs with added jasmine scented oils (SOOO classy, thinks 13 year old me!) we all arrive back at my house, only for the front door to be answered by a strange man who greets me with a hearty "Hello!" and gives me a big hug. Completely bugging out, it takes me a full minute to realise it's my DAD who, formerly a card carrying member of the beard club, had shaved it all off! WTF!

Not realising anything is wrong, my Mum invites the other family in for a cup of tea and post holiday analysis. We're all sat there on the sofa, tea has been brewed, but it soon becomes clear that something is not quite right here. "Did you have a nice time"? my mum asks me. "'Mm" I whisper, intently keeping my eyes on my shoes. People look around, not quite sure what to make of my mood. "What did you get up to"? she tries again . . . . . "Hmk!" I manage, as a lump has been building up steadily in my throat for the past ten minutes now and is threatening to explode all over the living room. My mum is looking worried and pissed off. The atmosphere is awkward. I excuse myself and flee to my room, where my Mum promptly follows, considering whether to give me a right ding-dong about being rude in front of guests, or gently ask whether I'd been, you know, abused or something.

The volcano of tears erupts: "He's not my daddy anymore!!" I wail, "He doesn't look like my daddy anymore! Without the beard, it's all wroooooooooonggggg!!!!" I throw myself onto my bed and do that attractive crying so hard you can't breathe and start hyperventilating thing, quickly turning my pillow into a soggy flannel.

Nineteen years later I am pleased to say that I am now fully recovered. I am totally used to having a beard- free dad, and can't imagine his face any other way. But maybe there's a lingering resentment at beards for having abandoned me so suddenly at 13. I just don't know.

Anyway, here's a picture of what I imagine Chuck Happy and his arch nemesis, Evil Beard, look like. Chuck Happy is massively influenced by the illustrations of Brian Froud and Alan Lee (so nobody sue me!) although I have also been told that he strongly resembles Mick Jagger.