Misère Ouvert

I noticed when I skimmed through the foregoing blog entry that I was somewhat scathing in my comments concerning the novel, The Devil Wears Prada, by Lauren Weisenberger—whoever the fuck she is—and I was amused because I am currently hugely enjoying the altogether better novel, Goodbye Jimmy Choo. Written by Annie Saunders, a Brit, the novel is also set in Britland and has a strong cast of likeable characters … it’s chick-lit in the finest style: self-deprecating and strongly inclined to the British taste for taking a savage stab at establishment icons (from brand names to celebs) . It always amuses me no end to see American stars squirm with ill-concealed glee when guesting on our TV chat shows and the talk turns uncomplimentarily towards an absent Hollywood icon. Whilst the audience shrieks with laughter, the guests generally try to cover their delight with what they hope looks like astonished embarrassment but it takes a truly great actor to do that … or else to recognise that it isn’t necessary even to try: I much admired Robert de Niro’s recent appearance with someone like Jonathan Ross, de Niro clearly got the joke. I suppose it’s why so few Brit comedians succeed across the pond. Being irreverent concerning fellow equity members is strictly verboten. (And I am mindful of the fact the hugely successful Python franchise was built largely on the bankroll of the late George Harrison’s movie funding.)

Meanwhile I have submitted myself to examination under the microscope of a counsellor. Ye Gods! I am having counselling. Is there no end to the depths I am prepared to trawl in my desire to establish that while I conceded I am not sane enough to be left unattended I would, nevertheless, like it very, very much indeedy if the whole of the human race just packed up and wandered over to the furthest corner of the room and kept their backs turned towards me so that when I am feeling in need of a little paranoia, I can fret and fume over whether they are all talking about me.

I am quite worried now about starting counselling. What on earth will there be to talk about? I can hardly talk about my real self … the person I keep locked out of sight because if I don’t like her it seems cruel to inflict her upon anyone else. Better by far to continue to pretend that this simulacrum is the real McCoy (it’s life, Jim, but not as we know it … or was that Mister Spock? Hey ho ….) The point is I am only going to be wasting my time if I don’t first go and—at least—interview my imprisoned ego; better yet I could consider releasing her, but whoa, that’s scary notion.

More news. My MP3 player is eating batteries so at least my drawerful of triple A Duracells will not be hanging around challenging their Best Before dates. The damned thing ran flat while I was trapped on a bus with the twirly brigade the other day. A “twirly” for the uninitiated is a pensioner with a free-travel pass. Such a pass is good for travel all day after 9:30am—giving the hard-working population a chance to get a seat for their journey to work. Anyway at 9:29 this does not stop the old and the confused and the simply hopeful from brandishing their pass at the driver with the mendicant plea of “am I too early?” The other morning the twirlys weren’t and so they were all on my bus. Once seated, the ladies began flirting noisily and with an outrageous absence subtlety with the lone wrinkly male passenger (who took the barracking and badinage in good sporting humour, but …). I suppose I should be cheered by the idea that flirting is as much fun in one’s dotage as at any other time, but instead it was simply depressing that there was such a dearth of targets.

Friday, 08 December 2006

Ripping Off God

OK, so I am devoutly agnostic. I have no inclination to accept any of the religions that have plagued the mental well-being of our miserable species for as long as we’ve been able to look up at the sky and wonder what the heck is going on. Of course, I do not believe that there is no creator—with or without capitalisation—because atheism requires as much of a leap of faith as any other belief. For me belief must have, at least, a trace of substance to sustain it; gospel truth ain’t good enough without a signed affidavit or other suitable provenance. An agnostic simply affirms that she has no knowledge. Funny how the “theists” tut and mutter and—too often—seek to damn one with quotations from their own peculiar book of “truth”.

With that off my chest, I can now bemoan the parlous state of the Christian hymn. Jolly old Krimble is a great time of year to hit one’s local church … or at least to tune in the telly to that old BBC stalwart: Songs of Praise of an adventitious Sunday evening. I don’t care how curmudgeonly and Scrooge-like you are it is pretty darn hard not to get all unnecessary after having your ears filled up with a few tastefully rendered Christmas carols. I mean the good old songs that you can sing along to; songs with simple meaningful verses that are not too heavily clagged-up with sugary, sentimental, flummery; tunes written by someone with an ear for a rousing chorus rather than an innocent—of talent—desire to set a maudlin, greetings card rhyme to music. I listened with despair as the Beeb’s musical director struggled in vain with choir and organ to inject a bit of majesty and joyousness into the variety of dirges that I have just been subjected to and I stared in frank disbelief as the subtitles revealed the full depth of the songs’ collective poverty of poetic= value. I almost lost the will to live when I saw that one songwriter chose to rhyme grass with cross! Maybe that rhyme works in some godforsaken corner of the English speaking world but it sure don’t work in any of the bits I’m familiar with.

What’s wrong with Hark The Herald Angels Sing? Come All Ye faithful? Ding Dong Merrily on High? Even the dreary old-fashioned carols are better than the new ones, We Three Kings of Orient Are was never gonna loosen any rafters but at least it has a decent enough singalonga chorus. Jesus! They didn’t even wheel out all the little kiddies and get them singing Away In A Manger.

Personally I blame it all on the bloody Christians. They’ve taken over the Church of England and now they want to take over Christmas as well. It’s not good enough. Is nothing sacred? We don’t bother them at Easter so why the hell can’t they leave Christmas alone? It was alright as it was, thank you very much. I’ve had more than I am willing to accept. It’s time to take and stand and tell these holier than thou prigs that they are fucking with tradition and doing themselves no favours at all with their sanctimoniously, ersatz attempts to proselytise their beliefs. I am not buying into any faith, which replaces joy with something that only makes me want to reach for the Prozac.

Sunday, 10 December 2006