Jo Fuller: Narcissism, hope and football

Jo Fuller
Jo Fuller

May, my favourite month of the year is over and I am as usual a tad bereft.

It kicked off with a Bank Holiday which was swiftly followed by my birthday.

This inspired me to spend the first week of the month singing my own version of Slade’s Christmas anthem “Oh I wish it could be my birthday every day.” see what I did there?

And I really do wish it could be my birthday every day.

I love the attention, I love the presents, I love the cards, I love the celebrations with family and friends. I love the Facebook messages, I love the texts. I love to tell everyone it’s my birthday, it makes strangers smile and say nice things to you and some people give you free stuff when they know it’s your birthday.

It’s all about me and my inner narcissist. What is there not to love?

I also love that my birthday happens to be International Star Wars Day, “May The Fourth Be With You.”

Even if I say so myself it is quite possibly the coolest day of the year to have a birthday, so much so that my heavily pregnant friend texted me excitedly on May 3rd to announce that I could possibly expect to have another Star Wars twin. Her little baby girl was on her way.

Baby Hope, who by name alone is so deserving of a Star Wars birthday, the title of the first ever Star Wars film in 1977 was Episode IV A New Hope, (it is also her mum’s maiden name, the real reason she is called Hope, but we’ll gloss over that) sadly didn’t have Chewie and Han at the controls to boot up the light speed of her mums’ contractions or clear a bed in the maternity ward at Shepherds Bush hospital.

This meant she arrived on the fifth of May at 02.56 in the morning.

Temporarily forgetting my Jedi roots I briefly channelled the Dark Side (my inner narcissist?) and suggested that perhaps for Hope’s benefit the date and time of her arrival could be ‘tweaked’ when she is officially registered.

Or even better still, don’t bother to register her and set her free to zip around the galaxy without the constraints of being in the system.

Neither idea went down too well with Mr and Mrs Hope and it’s back to Jedi school for me to learn about the importance of integrity.

Once I had stopped pretending I was Princess Leia and reluctantly put away my gold bikini I went, as I do every May, decidedly high brow and flung myself with gay abandon into the wonderful world of the Brighton Festival.

A total of twelve events this year ranging from musicality and ghosts at the Theatre Royal to a circus in a cemetery, and the most wonderful Adam Buxton paying homage to David Bowie.

I tweeted Mr Buxton and told him I loved him, he didn’t respond, but I bet he would have done if I’d have told him it was my birthday.

May was also a massive month for my beloved hometown as our awesome football team Brighton and Hove Albion, aka the Seagulls, flew their way into the mighty Premier League.

The town united, the sun shone and we celebrated their glory with a huge parade along the seafront.

As proud as I was to be part of the celebrations, my real happiness was for so many of my dear friends who have supported the Seagulls since we were kids.

They have memories and emotions tied up with every match of every season.

They have supported their home team through more downs than ups, and at last, they could relish in the glory of their blue and white heroes.

And on that day I left my inner narcissist at home,it was their day, their triumph, their team and it was all about them, not me.

In loving memory of Enrique Martin-González, who would celebrated his 85th birthday on the day of the parade. He was, I’m sure, there in spirit.