Merv is my alter ego
Merv from Maitland is an alter ego of mine.
He’s not my only alter ego because I have a few.
There is my bullshit alter ego called Dr Iva Biggun.
Dr Biggun is an American Christian evangelist from Minnesota. He is a manipulator and a con artist and plays on the kindness and generosity of others.
I have my dark alter ego. He wears horns and lives in a cupboard. He wants to come out and play when I am doing well and life is good. He is a destroyer and a human wrecking ball. He personifies my active addiction and if I name him, I give him life.
Let’s talk about Merv because Merv likes to talk about you.
Merv is my negative self.
He is a recluse who sits on a stool in a pub, with his right wing tabloids and his TAB account.
He bets on racehorses and greyhounds but he never wins.
He is a loser but he blames all of his woes on everyone else.
He is a drunk.
He growls at the bar staff and glares at the other patrons.
He is never happy.
Merv drinks schooner after schooner of beer chasing a smile he smiled when he had his first beer at 18 years of age.
But that smile is long gone.
Smiling is for weak fools.
He cant’ work due to a bad back, so he lives off his pension.
He hurt his back while drunk at the footie, but he claimed it on workers comp.
Merv criticizes dole bludgers, immigrants, tree huggers, hippies and lefties but he never votes.
He can’t vote because he can’t leave his stool at the pub.
He lives in a room on the second floor of the pub and eats the free chips and cheese on the counter.
Merv doesn’t like people so he hides his anxiety and insecurity with a passive aggressive frown.
He hates small talk.
Small talk is for the weak and the light headed.
Merv knows he could fix Australia if he was Prime Minister but all politicians are dick heads and Canberra is a debt trap.
Merv wants a white Australia and moans at the Asian Aussies buying all his mates houses.
But Merv loves a good chicken chow mein or a sweet and sour pork.
Merv never owned a house by the way and he stopped driving after his third drink driving charge.
So Merv sits on his stool in the Royal Hotel looking for all the answers in the bottom of a schooner glass.
He points his fingers at anyone who tries to be better or take a risk.
It’s easier to criticize than take a risk.
But when Merv wakes up in his sweat filled bed at 3 am he dreams of a 16 year old boy who had hopes and dreams, and whimpers as he holds his head and rocks himself back to sleep.
Need to read more?
Check out the Introduction in One Day, One Life.