. . . 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 x–land princesses who’ve temporarily fallen on hard times, following the unfortunate death in an air crash of their father. But it’s not absolutely perfectly 100% spot–on accurate. That’s this page’s purpose, to present the actual me—well, the me I’d like you to read, not the one I let myself believe, nor the one I don’t admit to myself, let alone the one I can’t admit, and never never the real.
So, hello, I’m Dylan Harris, an Englander in Luxembourg, proud to be a technogeek.
“Are you the Dylan who brontosaurused 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. And … er … no to both.
You have reached the obligatory list paragraph. Likes: belgian beer, english beer, french red, german white, italian rosé, village pubs, good food especially the Michelin–starred, science–fiction, eccentric cars, 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, China Miéville, Vernor Vinge, William Shakespeare, ….
I was bought up in a rural shire. Like most village kids, I fancied the big city, so I studied in the smoke. I found expectation was unmet by real, but it took me years to leave—completing my Computing Science course, then living under the M25.
But here’s another contradiction, I’ve chosen foreign conurbation.
moonshine fire cathedral
Stereotypes suggest vegetarians are thin, dogs mistake them for lamp–posts. I’m not at all, indeed, Norwegian whalers mistake me for commercial opportunity.
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 male device, a one colour wardrobe.
Well, that’s that, then. I hope you’re suitably impressed? :-) Oh.
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© 1978–2020 dylan harris