a broad brit abroad
“I’m hyper–intelligent, I drive a TGV or fly my A380 with golden bath taps to work, I’ve won 17 nobel prizes under 18 different pseudonyms, I rule 2 countries and I’m world champion at conkers. As you can see, I’m really rather a modest chap.”
I posted that on a contact site. I thought it nicely suited all those beautiful Alaskan models temporarily residing in Nigeria. But it’s not absolutely perfectly 100% spot–on accurate. That’s this page’s purpose, to present the actual me—the actual I’d like to believe, not what I admit to myself, let alone the real.
So, hello, I’m dylan harris, an English in the Republic, proud to be a technogeek, born just before Sputnik flew.
“Are you the Dylan who brontosaured me and some goats during those heady days of spring ’24 in Ulaanbaator?”, or “I once met a preacher called Dylan who convinced me of the transcendental joy of darning socks—are you he?”, ask occasional emails. If you seek such a he, and ask ‘might he be me’, read on. And, er, no to both.
Anyway, dull details first: I was born in 1957, am sartorial black, and take strong coffee and cheese for breakfast.
You have reached the obligatory list paragraph. Likes: belgian beer, english beer, french red, german white, italian rosé, village pubs, good food especially Michelin–starred, science–fiction, Citroëns, current affairs, self–conducted travel. Preferred composers and performers: Stockhausen, Birtwhistle, Xenakis, Beethoven, Reich, Schnittke, Pãrt, Adams, Peter Brötzmann, and many more. Ironically, despite enjoying electronica, I detest clubs. You want another list? Alright, story tellers: Iain (M) Banks, Samuel R Delany, Vernor Vinge, William Shakespeare, ….
I was born in Burton–on–Trent, that town of six breweries and the Marmite factory ….
I remember peeking through the crack
My father died in 1964, when I was six. He’d made some money, which my mother used to put her three kids through public school. I don’t know, and I’ll never know, whether that was the right thing, but I do appreciate it. I was a difficult child. She died in the early 1990s.
I was bought up in rural Bedfordshire. Like most village kids, I fancied the big city, so I studied at Thames Poly (now Greenwich University) in Woolwich. I soon found expectation was unmet by real, but it took me eleven years to leave—completing my Computing Science course, failing to complete a postgrad, and a few years in Runnymede under the M25.
But, here’s another contradiction, I’ve now chosen to foreign conurbation.
moonshine fire cathedral
I used to adore politics, I was very active in the Young Liberals. I ran their internal elections, I led the Young Liberal team in the merger negotiations with the Young Social Democrats. Now, though, I’m an inactive member of Open VLD. I really ought to join MR, so not to be seen to take sides.
I became vegetarian in 1979. Stereotypes suggest vegetarians are thin, dogs mistake them for lamp–posts. I’m 18 stone, Norwegian whalers mistake me for commercial opportunity.
I’ve greying brown hair, curly and long, and brown eyes.
I used to suffer such a dreadful clothing sense my mother alternated between being in despair and being in stitches. I’ve resorted to that old male device, a one colour wardrobe.
Fate has cursed me a nasty heterosexuality, quite opposite to my vegetarianism.
My lust, a violating fire of force,
You are what you are; accept it or go loopy.
Current projects include:
Well, that’s that, then. I hope you’re suitably impressed? :-) Oh.
Anyone who wants to contact me after this little one–sided chat should visit my feedback page.
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© 1978–2020 dylan harris