I was reading an interesting article on-line in New York Magazine last week. It said that neuroscientists had scanned Sting’s brain. It certainly got me thinking.
“I wonder what they saw?” I said to Guido as I coiled a piece of his super rich and creamy spaghetti sauce around my fork at dinner tonight.
Here’s another one of my insider tips for you guys on the spaghetti front. Guido fries his lardons first until they’re really crispy, whisks and tosses free-range egg yolk into the hot pasta and then, lastly, parmesan – the cheese is sliced. I defy you not to grate it.
“I expect they saw Fields Of Gold,” said Guido cracking black pepper liberally without a hint of sarcasm.
There was a point to Sting’s brain being scanned, it wasn’t just some random cranial nose around. It was to do with trying to identify what creativity looked like.
“I reckon neuroscientists might be interested in screwing open my head to take a look inside my brain,” I said, “I think it could possibly be one of the more complex specimens they’ll ever come across.”
Helping progress medical science has always been something of an ambition of mine. Though, as someone who blogs about his worrying addiction to sausage, I realise this may not be something regular readers will instantly associate me with.
“It would be good to understand what goes on up there,” said Guido tapping my temple, “and it would help a lot to know what you’re really made of.”
As a child I always hated that old nursery rhyme. You know the one where, in a politically incorrect universe, idiots used to tell boys they were created from slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails. Needless to say growing up with a highly developed interest in soft furnishings, scatter cushions, and an unhealthy appreciation of Mary Tyler Moore, I couldn’t exactly relate.
“What do you mean, really, made of?” I asked. He was making me sound like a dummy.
“I’ve got this weird image of what I’d see,” said Guido, “and I think it might look a bit like the contents of this bowl of pasta.”
I looked at the half eaten remnants of his dinner which was gooey and glutenous and messy. I truly got where he was coming from. I tried to imagine my head cavity packed full of carbonara sauce and, honestly, I quite liked the idea. I could certainly think of worse things to find. Like angst and guilt and randomly obsessive thoughts about hefty slices of Boston baked cheesecake for breakfast.
“I think it’s probably just as well you can’t,” I said, “see what I am thinking right at this second.”
I have to tell you it’s pretty awkward when graphic thoughts of Guido’s hairy thighs flash before my eyes when I’m absolutely least expecting it. Let’s just say I’m not sure what the neuroscientists would make of it.
“What do you think they’d see in my head?” said Guido. That was a tough call. I didn’t want to jump straight in with cliches. But obviously, I couldn’t resist.
“Well,” I said, “off the top of my head? A fixation with aubergine pesto, strong signs of Latino madness, and a general dislike of Nigella Lawson recipes.”
I’m pretty confident Sting’s brain couldn’t compete in any way whatsoever. I don’t care what the doctors say.