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Three years ago, with no warning, a brilliant orange farm cat wandered over from the draughty barn where he had been living, in rural Cornwall, and decided he wanted to live with us instead.
We decided to call him Jim.
This is the first photo I took of him, on that night: December 1st, 2022.
As you can see here, right from the very first day he entered our house, Jim found great difficulty in getting settled and making the environment his own.
But it turned out there was more of a backstory to Jim's arrival than we had initially assumed. He had actually been invited over to our house by our cat Charles, to work full-time as a personal valet for Charles.
Jim cleaning behind Charles' ears, which can get very dirty.This photo also looks like Jim is cleaning Charles but he is in fact just eating a Rice Krispie he found on Charles' neck.
Jim had no problem with this, nor working for less than minimum cat wage, since he had already decided he adored Charles more than any other creature on earth.
Jim being very obedient, just after being asked by Charles to remove a stray Coco Pop from his neck.Jim and Charles enjoying a nice sleep after having tantric sex whilst listening to the first Paula Abdul album.Jim honouring his word, after promising he would protect Charles from all vexing forms of modern bureaucracy.
No doubt the fact that he had previously lived in an unheated building full of straw and soil, survived largely on a diet of crap Cornish rats and been called "Mongo" by his former landlords, but now got to experience the joys of central heating, fresh bedding, pizza and expensive wafer thin supermarket chicken, sweetened the deal.
Jim, tucked up in bed, just after I had finished reading him Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon (I slept on the kitchen floor on this particular night).Jim, in the days before he refined his taste, when he viewed a frozen Aldi pizza as "the height of culinary delicacy" .
Some have claimed unfairly that Jim is not an especially bright cat, but we believe this is untrue, and that the reality is more complex. He is simply very emotionally intelligent.
Jim dreaming about licking a big ice cream.Jim with a catnip banana which, despite being over two years old and long since losing its potency, he remains steadfastly loyal to, over newer, cleaner toys.
One of Jim's great skills is stretching. He is better at this than any other cat. People comment on it all the time when they visit our house.
"Holy shit, man, your cat is REALLY fucking good at stretching," they will remark.
"That's because he is orange," we will reply. "And because he's Jim."
Jim in mid-stretch, during the Mid Cornwall Cat Stretching Championships, 2023, in which he came first in all 13 categories.
Jim's greatest other skill is sneezing.
This is Jim, about 1/3 of the way through one of his sneezes, which are always explosive and, like him, large.
This particular sneeze was not detonated in Jim's ideal sneeze environment, which is when he has his face under four inches from mine.
Jim hugely enjoying the sensation of seeing God, in the middle of a sneeze.
Here is Jim in our garden a couple of years ago, looking at my face and trying to decide whether or not to sneeze into it (he decided he would).
Jim and me in the garden, chatting about what we have learned from reading Annie Proulx's three collections of Wyoming stories. This top I'm wearing might look like a shirt, but it's actually my pyjamas. Jim has decided to go topless, owing to the fact it was an unseasonably warm day for early April.
Most alcoholic drinks do nothing for Jim but, after a hard day, he does sometimes like to relax with a straight vodka.
After Jim had finished the contents of this glass he looked up to find that everyone in the bar was staring at him. "What did I do wrong?" he said. I took him to one side and told him it was considered more polite to sip a drink, especially where hard liquor is concerned. "That's fucking bullshit, man," roared Jim, staring down our fellow patrons, as we tumbled out into the city night. "I'll make up my own rules!" It was at this point that we realised that he'd left his favourite scarf back in the bar and had to go back and get it, which sort of killed the whole energy of the moment tbh.
... We are glad to be able to provide Jim with only the finest brands during these moments of indulgence. And when we do, we remember just how far he has come from the first days we knew him, when he mostly drank old rainwater out of a plastic shoe.
I couldn't actually find a photo of Jim drinking rainwater out of an old plastic shoe so I'm using this one of him drinking Asda gin out of one instead.
Jim dismisses claims from the working class cats he used to hang around with that he has "got too fancy for his own good" since becoming fully domesticated and believes he has merely expanded his horizons.
This includes a burgeoning interest in the films of the French new wave.
One of the more pensive scenes from Les Bonnes Felines (1965).And who could forget the dramatic, wordless finale to Adieu Fluffykins (1961)?
... The fibre arts.
Jim, about to seriously fuck up my wife's latest crochet project.
... Collage.
Jim and Charles remembering what their art teacher has told them and thinking carefully about their relationship to each other as objects before deciding where to place themselves.
... Writing.
Jim, feeling pleased with himself, just after making some incisive critical notes on how completely rubbish it is that I am not also orange.
... Making time to learn from the biographies of important and visually attractive historical figures.
Jim about to cry, after I have told him that I have written a book about him that has been read by millions of people, who are all now laughing at him for having no thumbs.
In 2024, he was even invited to model for a shoot for a top interior design magazine.
Jim, wondering why the fuck I have come home with an old wheel and placed it outside our living room.
But what he really excels at is hugging.
Jim, putting his arms around me, while I comfort him, not long after he has had a very bad dream about the Yorkshire Terrier who lives next-door-but-one.
... Protecting wildlife.
Jim, watching his favourite HBO TV show, which is called 'Squirrels' and which he once claimed to me "pisses all over The Wire, both in terms of acting and script".
... Proofreading my manuscripts for me.
Jim with my debut novel, Villager. He managed 3 pages before falling asleep and later claimed he "preferred Lee Child".
... Chilling out with his bandmates.
Jim, Charles and Roscoe, photographed just after the recording of their difficult third album.
... Meditation.
Jim, staring me out, as I eat some muesli.Dream, having a nice dream about a surprisingly friendly wolf, who is also orange.
Looking after the over-70s.
It's lovely when Jim greets visitors to our house in this way, although it is slightly undermined by his habit of saying to them "You're my wife now, Dave" in the voice of Papa Lazarou from the League Of Gentlemen every time he does.
... And karate.
Jim letting Charles win in a fight against him, before magnanimously removing a dried pineapple chunk off his back.Our female cat Roscoe kindly wiping some dirt off Jim's face using a tissue, before an important play they are going to see together in town.Charles and Jim each competing fiercely to be the first to catch a tennis ball I have thrown and return it to me.
Of course, ALL cats are the best cat ever, but I do genuinely believe Jim is the best cat ever.
Jim dreaming about gradually doing front breaststroke all the way around the Scandinavian islands until he rocks up in Estonia, unencumbered by possessions and ready for fun.Jim kindly massaging a muscle on my torso which I have told him is sore.Jim, baked on weed, while listening to his favourite Chocolate Watchband LP, which is generally his favourite scenario in which to experience a chin rub.
