I have that. Colour blindness. I have trouble distinguishing different colours from each other and it’s a fucking nuisance. I can’t tell the food colours apart.
The food colours. The ones spoken of by women. You know, the colours that have the name of edible substances. Aubergine. Claret. Salmon.
Do you ever listen to women talking?
Jesus that’s a lovely burgundy dress.
Thanks very much. Do you like it?
I do. It goes really well with your peach knickers.
What is this? Men have no idea what all this talk is about. What the fuck is chartreuse? Bisque? Almond?
Now, admittedly, I do happen to have a colour deficiency, diagnosed and everything, officially, by a qualified specialist testing-person, qualified and specialising and everything. You see, once, as a student on the summer holidays, I tried to become a train driver on the London Underground. They sent me for an IQ test or something like that, which was designed, as far as I could tell, to make sure I wasn’t an orang-utan, and after I convinced them I’d really finished filling out the exam paper in five minutes, they sent me for a medical, which went just fine until they showed me all those little colouredy things involving pictures of shovels and devils and tractors and numbers all jumbled together in a pointilliste hell, specially for me.
You’re fucking colour-blind you drunken Paddy bastard!! they screamed at me. Fuck off and don’t be crashing our wonderful London Transport trains.
That’s not true. I just made it up. They didn’t say anything of the sort. They just said Fuck off, you drunken, colour-blind, terrorist Paddy student-fucking-bastard fucker.
It was a long time ago.
That wasn’t my first indication that I might possibly have a colour problem. Maps are a difficulty, and were a big trouble to me in school, especially the colours that tell you how high on a mountain you are. Let’s see. That looks like a light, brownish type of a colour. Let’s have a look at the little chart at the side. Yup. Just as I thought. That light brownish colour could be any one of a hundred different colours on the chart. I can definitely tell you that we’re between zero and twenty–eight thousand feet above sea level. How’s that? Any help?
I can never be a pilot, or a doctor, or a train driver, or an army officer. For fucksake. Isn’t it terrible?
But we were talking about women and their names for colours. Tangerine. Apple. Orange. Lemon. Sangria. Mint. Raspberry. Chocolate. Asparagus. Latte. Apricot. Marzipan. Plum.
This baffles me, and not only because I’m blind. Do you think two men would have that conversation?
Jesus, Tommy, I love your outfit.
Do you really? You don’t think it makes my arse look big?
Not at all! You were a fat bastard anyway, and that mashed potato colour really suits you.
But what about the tie?
No. That’s fine too. I like that subtle shade of fried egg.
Sorry. You’d need to ask someone else.