Eating one’s hat is, of course, the act of a madman. Imagine you did this in a restaurant. Off pops the trilby and boom, next thing you know, you’re munching it down while the other patrons look on in horror. Not that I wear a trilby, of course, or that I’d eat one. It’s just that it represents the kind of sophisticated gentleman I long to be. Now, to get there I would have to have a hair transplant. My wonky teeth fixed. My skin lasered off. And a brutal workout regime to get rid of my love handles. And I’d have to develop a fashion sense. As opposed to now, in which I have the sartorial elegance of a McDonald’s uniform’s homage to prison attire…
Now I know what you’re thinking, reader. Who eats their hat? Well, this is an expression, meaning that you’re certain something will not happen. I’LL EAT MY HAT IF THOSE ALIENS COME ANYWHERE NEAR MY BUM!
But could you eat a hat? Let’s not wonder why. Perhaps it was a bet. I’d do it for a crisp £50 note. It covers the cost of a trilby. A cheap one. I found one online for £425. I’m not spending that on a trilby. Elvis’ underpants, sure. I could always have more of those…
Let’s get one thing out of the way. You know those edible hats they have in America and literally nowhere else? I don’t know what they are. They have dip in them. No, not one of those. That’s too easy. And this is no candyfloss hat, either. Or an imaginary one. Or even a chocolate one. I only enjoy chocolate running down my face once a year and that’s at Easter.
So this is an actual hat. The trick is to consume it in small bites. Over a long period. Day 1 is a little snip off the trilby. Cut it into small pieces and sprinkle it across my Cornflakes. By Day 5, I’m liquifying the trilby to swirl it in my tea. And, by Day 15, I’m making trilby cake. Don’t worry about the parameters of the question. I’m consuming this cake. It’s not for anyone else. Damn anyone who gets in the way of me and a cake.
Even a cake made of hat.
I reckon it’ll take a couple of months to munch my way through an entire trilby. But a promise is a promise. I keep my promises. I’ll EAT MY HAT IF X, Y OR Z! Then I’ll do it. What are you doing? Calling me a liar? “No! But it’s a phrase! If I said, ‘If this happens, I’ll feed my hamster to the wolves…’ OH MY GOD! NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING! NO, NOT HAMMY!”
Wolves like hamsters, is the point. Oh, and that’s it’s best not to tell anyone. Some people might see it as a tad crazy. When they don’t realise I’m a man of my word. And there’s a crisp £50 note on the table. A perfect downpayment to a nifty pair of the King’s undercrackers.
Now, I know what you’re going to say. Sure, I’m not going to tell anyone. But what if one day a girlfriend of mine happens to walk in on me cutting a trilby onto my pasta, like parmesan? My first thought was to say, “HONEY, IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!” But then she might retort, “I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS LOOKS LIKE!” And to be fair, she’s right. To a casual observer, it appears as if I’m cutting a trilby up as some kind of ‘hat’ parmesan substitute. And for some reason, I don’t think the offer of a £50 note will fly with her.
I do not need to talk myself out of this one, though, because I intend to do my trilby eating in secret. Like in the garden shed. Here is where my genius comes in. No woman would DARE step foot in a man’s man cave. That’s a cave of a man. Not a cave of a man’s man, which I am most certainly not. I’m barely a man in the first place. Not in the traditional sense. I’m more of a lemon. But if I tell my girlfriend not to step foot into my lemon cave, she’s going to think I’m crazy. God help me on the day she steps foot in there because she’s forgotten she’s not supposed to and catches me eating a trilby…
Yeah, you’re right. Why didn’t I call it my ‘trilby cave’? Well, you see, that would give the game away. Sure, she isn’t thinking, ‘Is my boyfriend eating a trilby in there?’ No. She’s probably thinking, ‘Ah, that’s nice, I bet he has a lovely trilby collection in there.’ Well, my girlfriend would. I think by the time we’ve moved in together she’ll know I have many strange loves. She thought the fascination with hot pants was strange, she ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.
“Can I see your trilby’s?” She’ll ask. And I have to say ‘no’. At least until I’ve finished eating the trilby I have, you see. And that’s a great shame because I imagine many women want to have sex on top of a pile of trilby’s. And I wouldn’t allow that, are you mad! Even if I had a trilby collection, which I very much don’t, it’s a prized asset! I have a bus ticket collection, are we going to do it on that? Wash your mouth out, woman…
So what happens when I’ve finished my trilby? £50 NOTE TIME, BABY! “Gee”, he’ll say. The guy who gave me the note. “I can’t believe you did that. And you built a shed for it and everything? Your girlfriend must think you’re doing some pretty sordid stuff in here.” Gee, I sure hope so. That’ll throw her off the scent. There’s no way she’ll think I’m eating a trilby in there. Although she might have started to suspect it’s slang for heroin. And you know what?
I say let her keep thinking that. It might help our relationship survive this episode. An episode you could describe as ‘a bit odd’.
What happens when the trilby is gone? Won’t she get suspicious I’m not heading to the trilby shed anymore? What will she think? Have I fallen out of love with the trilby? Has my heroin supplier gone down? Was this a cover-up for an illicit affair and now it’s ended? There are many drawbacks to these questions.
If she thinks I’ve fallen out of love with the trilby, she’ll want that shed for her ‘lady stuff’. I don’t know what women get up to. Puzzles, I’d imagine. Boom! I’ve lost a shed. That’s not happening. The heroin dealie? No, because she’ll think I’ll have withdrawal symptoms and she’ll leave me. She ain’t dealing with that shit, no way, hon. And as for the illicit affair? What does she think? I’m keeping another woman in there? That’s if I’m lucky. If I’m not, my girlfriend could think I have a transporter in there, like Star Trek. Transporting me to another woman’s genitals. And why does she think that?
If I was hiding a transporter from my girlfriend, it’s because I know she’ll use it as an excuse for me to visit her parents more often and fuck that…
My solution here is to set fire to the trilby shed. She knows I’m not clever enough to invent or steal a transporter. And she’ll know it isn’t drugs because that would make this miserable neighbourhood happy. No, this was a tragic accident. Sniff. My poor trilby’s. They’re gone, darling, THEY’RE GONE! She’ll comfort me with sex, I imagine. Nothing better than trilby shed fire sex, let me tell you.
Now I know what you’re wondering, reader.
Turns out it was the ghost of Elvis in a dream I had about a private lap dance he was giving me. Not to any of his songs, no. It was to the tune of ‘La Bamba’. He shook his maracas. Elvis, that is. No, not his penis.
Turns out this entire trilby dealie was a further dream I had in response to Elvis’ bet that I couldn’t eat my hat. The funny thing is when I woke up I’d eaten my pillow. At least my trilby shed was fine. No, that was real. I bought it from the Trilby Shed company. Yeah, my girlfriend never expected that. Although she’s also not real. It’s very confusing keeping up with my life complicated narrative. It’s like Dune.
Hmm. So that’s how I’d eat my hat. If I had to, of course…
Ciao :)(:
Post 1,906: But how would you eat your hat, reader?
To Contrive & Jive 
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