The endless quest of a not-quite-writer and almost-musician to try and create something of worth in a fight against procrastination, cider and a never-ending merry go round of pets. Follow this to find out how not to finish anything you start.
About the book that people are calling 'not finished yet is it Dave?'
It’s been a blissful ten years since George put down his bass, left the Artful Badgers and vowed never to play in public again. But when tragedy strikes his best friend he’ll do anything to help. Unfortunately that means going back out on the road, and this time he’s taking his daughter with him.
Alice has realised she wants more from her best friend Becky than she is prepared to give and the band they have spent so long building up may not survive the fallout. Luckily her dad has the perfect plan to take her mind off of it.
It might feel more like a support group than a band, but if George can’t keep it under control then it could destroy his best friend’s life, his daughter’s happiness and what’s left of his own sanity.
Join George, Alice, Tim and a whole host of familiar faces as George is dragged back into a world to which he hoped he’d never have to return.
Weekend Rockstars 2: The Ballad of Fat Labrador will be released into the world on the 14th of February 2020 and is now available for pre-order.
BUT
If you can’t wait that long, there’s a preview of the first chapter at the end of the new edition of Weekend Rockstars that I’ve just put out, with a new cover and everything.
Hang on though Dave, I already read about this in your latest (frankly brilliant and funny) newsletter, why should I have to pay when all these brand new subscribers are getting free stuff?
You should have read it properly, there was a free download link in that newsletter, stop skimming you bellend.
Thank you for your time, and patience, please pre-order the book - it’s only 99p if you do and I can’t be held responsible for the enormous price hikes I will almost certainly apply as soon as it’s actually available.
This weekend was carnival time in my terrifying little corner of Devon. A time when our primeval fear of the cold and dark leads us to set fire to things and throw them at each other. I knew this because my google calendar set off my ancient primeval fear of the cold and dark by beeping a midnight reminder as I was dropping off to sleep. Why did I need my phone to tell me this when the whole town was full of it and local excitement stalked me across social media?
I didn’t. At least I don’t anymore. (I also haven’t figured out how to turn off reminders so it doesn’t wake me up every other night, don’t @ me).
Carnival weekend was on my calendar to make sure the band didn’t book any gigs so I could enjoy it (or play at it, as I have for the last god-knows-how-many years). So it was a bitter-sweet, heart-stoppingly loud beep it gave, reminding me that for the first time in my (admittedly very poor) memory, I am not an actual member of a band anymore. My current band did its last gig last weekend.
I’ve got gigs booked, I still dep for more bands than I can actually remember and do the odd solo show (hence all the google calendaring) but it’s not the same. It may be because my recently expired band was made up of people I have been friends with for over thirty years. As an adult I have very few fully-functional friendships, and those I do have tend to be the result of bands I used to be in.
I have a feeling that adult men in the 21st century are poorly equipped to maintain proper, healthy relationships with people we are neither related to nor having regular sex with. I have an even stronger feeling it might just be me.
As men, we don’t talk about important things. According to stereotype, women meet up and talk about everything: sex, books, death, genital hygiene, the whole gamut of the human experience; while men talk about cars and football. In reality, I doubt any of this is true, particularly since I have no interest in cars or football.
As a result of this non-communication and brushing important things under the carpet I fell out with a very good friend over what turned out to be a misunderstanding. For most of this year we did not speak, until we finally did, whereupon it turned out we had both taken offence where none was intended. I’m not going into details, but it highlighted just how little we men talk about things. At least nobody died. I spent a lot of time being surprised at how ill equipped I am to deal with a broken friendship as an adult.
These two were not the best role-models for male relationships to grow up to
And then the unthinkable happened. I am not terribly sociable or communicative at work and up until this year I have never missed anybody from any job ever after they left unless their replacement was a useless bag of shit-spanners that made my life harder. (That’s nearly always the case, but not where I work now. We never replace anyone, just make somebody else’s job harder). But nevertheless, a chap I’ve worked closely with for the last decade unexpectedly quit and it took me weeks to work out that that was what I was unhappy about. It should have been obvious, but like I say, I’m not the best at maintaining functional friendships - or recognising them.
All of this brought my mum’s offhand, ‘if we knew what we know now when you were little I’d have had you tested for autism,’ back to my mind. I went down a googly wormhole and quickly diagnosed myself as functionally autistic with a side-order of ADHD. This was clearly bollocks. Last time I self-diagnosed myself I was convinced I would die within the year, but it turned out I just wasn’t getting enough sleep. I can’t diagnose myself as anything, but I did recognise a lot of symptoms.
So what do I do with that? I’m 42 years old, have a job, a couple of lucrative side-careers, thirteen years of happy marriage, two well-adjusted step-kids that are partially my fault and a lifetime of coping mechanisms that keep me in check. What good would an adult diagnosis get me?
That’s an actual question by the way, I struggle to see what good it would do me to put yet more pressure on the NHS trying to find out why I freak out utterly at some fairly odd triggers. It could just be flashbacks. I’m more worried about the undiagnosed arthritis I can feel in my wrists as I type this blog, but I’m not going to the doctors about that either.
Men eh?
I saw the root of the problem while watching World War Z. Brad Pitt’s character is going off somewhere and leaving the women folk without a man. So he tells a prepubescent boy to look after them. I’m paraphrasing but basically it was, ‘Look after the ladies for me small boy I just met, for you are male.’
I’m sure we men just need more rights to maybe be better, so I am going to become a mens’ rights activist and fight for the following rights:
The right to wear a dress
The right to cry in public
The right to talk about why we’re sad
The right not to let it all build up until we kill ourselves
The right to play with dolls
The right not to be feel guilty every time a girl pays a bill
The right to not like football, cars and fighting
The right to do housework without expecting a fucking medal
The right to like the Phantom Menace and Jar Jar Binks.
Of course the irony is we do have all these rights already.
Because we’re men.
But some other, bigger boys are trying to stop us utilising them.
Being a reliable dep bassist/guitarist I regularly play with a lot of different people in a lot of different bands. I have done for longer than I care to admit, yet it still amazes me how often I come across people who cannot play nicely with others. I don’t mean the usual muso problems (that I spent most of my first novel, Weekend Rockstars, making jokes about) like ego clashes, everybody trying to be louder than everyone else, or stealing the drummer’s girlfriend. I’m talking about the basics, like starting at the same time, being in the same key and playing at the same speed.
This is not my band
My first band - which isn’t the one I tell people was my first band - was a Christian rock group formed at a church youth club in 1989. It was made up of the precocious little prick that was twelve year old me, two girls who could just about hold a tune, a friend who could play drums, another friend who claimed to be able to play keyboards but in truth could only play 'Silent Night' on his nan’s accordion, and another friend who had no discernible musical talent: we gave him a bass - obviously.
I am not naming names - you all know who you are.
Our first few rehearsals consisted of my trying to teach them an epic 15 minute prog interpretation of the book of Genesis I had written called 'In The Beginning' - of which there are thankfully no surviving records - while hammering the importance of the guitar solos into them by playing a borrowed guitar as loud as possible through a ghetto blaster. The girls had no idea where to come in and it was becoming obvious 'Silent Night' didn’t really fit.
Luckily for me, the church youth club leader was a grizzled old muso called Eddie (who was approximately 3 years younger than I am now). He had played all over Wales with Dave Edmunds (who none of us had ever heard of) and Welsh Fargo (which was a pun we didn’t get). It was he who loaned me the guitar I was playing - I have not given it back as it’s still my go to number one guitar. Without him, my life would have been markedly different and I miss him every day the same way I missed his funeral in the deep snows of a freezing December a decade ago.
30 years on long term loan, it's changed a bit
He very quickly took us under his wing and made us spend the next four rehearsals playing a three chord, 4/4, 40 bpm dirge in C major called 'Thank You Jesus'. He made us listen to each other, count, watch for the changes and play for the song. There were no guitar solos and excitement was very much discouraged.
I highly recommend you don't listen to the above link - which is the song we did
The one below, however, is proof that Christian music can actually be awesome, even for us heathens
But it made us better, something clicked, and even the non-musicians could learn it quickly. We were playing a whole song, start to finish, without any fuck-ups. I learned that my ambition far outstripped their talent (a thing I have had to live with every day of my musical career, I’m still enough of a prick to never doubt my own ability) and to lower my expectations. Sometimes simple is better: fewer chords, less fret-wanking and slow the fuck down.
Since then I have come across a million different people who never had an Eddie, never learned how to work with others. From those who blindly follow the song note for note, beat by beat, with no space for improvisation - not even the kind necessitated by having to wait for a forgetful singer to come back in or an equipment malfunction - to those unable to keep the same time as the rest of the band (it’s surprising how many of those are drummers). Along with the no-compromise ‘just play the fecking note Dougal!’ dictators and ‘ah that’ll do’ bumblers who are happy to carry on playing minor chords that should be majors.
(Again, I can’t stress enough that if you are chuckling in recognition you will definitely enjoy my book - Weekend Rockstars.)
All these little problems can be ironed out with a willingness to listen to and learn from each other. Musicians are fragile of ego, and naturally given to melodrama, so in practice any slight criticism tends to lead to a flounce and the end of the band. But it wouldn’t if everybody had the memory of a middle-aged welshman with a fondness for lying about his achievements knocking them down to size.
Less than a year later, I had philosophised myself out of my Christian upbringing and - in a splendid accidental metaphor - left that church youth group to play in a punk band called Dead Jesus. I suppose I should probably say 'Thank You Jesus' for lowering my proggy expectations to shouty three-chord wonders with no guitar solos, but it was Eddie that fixed it, even if Jesus told him to.
That's me there - about the same time as Dead Jesus was happening
I’ve written a lot of stuff about fathers and sons over the years - it’s the central theme of my most recent novel Gap Years - and I don’t think any of my books fail to mention that defining moment in life when you realise your father is not an all-powerful, omniscient creature.
Sorry Dad (if you’re reading) no idea why I keep harping on about it. Love you, and you are an all-powerful, omniscient creature as far as I’m concerned.
This week I experienced the other side of the equation for the first time.
I am only 42 years old and already becoming obsolete.
Record scratch - 'That's me, I guess you're wondering how I got here'
Without going into details, our bedroom ceiling desperately needed replastering and I am by no means a practical man. Despite this we reasoned we could save a few quid by pulling the old ceiling down ourselves - a decision both of us have since come to regret. It seemed a no-brainer to ask my firefighter stepson to help since he is both younger and fitter than me.
My initial misgivings were obvious. Despite the fact he has plenty of experience ripping out old plaster and lathe ceilings, as far as I know he has never before had to do it slowly, carefully and without anything being on fire. However, he and his girlfriend turned up, suited up and got stuck in with the crowbars.
Within not very much time at all, it became apparent he knew what he was doing a lot more than I did and I quickly deferred to him on most decisions that needed making (one of which should have been obvious, and had been pointed out to me for days by proper builder people before we began).
And then there was a lot of loft work, perching precariously on beams that clearly weren’t fit for purpose when they were put there over a century ago (which is probably why I need a new ceiling in the first place). My vertigo has led to me getting Adam to do stuff for me plenty of times before, but usually I point him at a thing then tell him what to do and how to do it. This time the situation quickly became reversed as it became apparent he knew how to get insulation out from underneath beams without ripping it to shreds or getting it in his eyes.
A more traditional, manlier man than I would have felt threatened.
Especially when he told me to stop if I was too hot and vertigo-ish.
If we were lions he would have taken me out back to a quiet bit of Serengeti and ripped my throat out before taking the pride for himself.
Look at the murder in his eyes - my days are limited
Luckily we are not lions, and I have never had any pride.
This is the first time he has been better than me at something I needed to do that isn’t going up a ladder. It didn’t take him long to be better than me at skate-boarding and putting out fires, but that never really mattered. This one felt important. I sat in the garden that night, looking up at the stars and contemplating my mortality.
The wheel of time keeps on turning, and nothing lasts forever. Not me, not you, not even Keith Richards. For sure as Windows 10 made us forget all about XP (what happened to 9? How bad was it?), One Direction made us forget all about the Beatles, new Melissa McCarthy Ghostbusters made us wonder who this Bill Murray guy is and Dan Brown eclipsed Dickens we will all be replaced by newer, more modern versions of ourselves that we - mistakenly - think are not as good right up until the moment it becomes glaringly obvious we are wrong.
It is now a truth universally acknowledged that anybody who does anything creative will get battered for expressing personal opinions online. We get told artists aren't supposed to have political views. Don't alienate your potential customers, stick to writing/singing/crochet/cheese-making. You know, like George Orwell, Peggy Seeger, Margaret Atwood and Chuck D. Well fuck that. I've always been a little to the right of Karl Marx and rarely ashamed to bleat on about it.
I used to spend a lot of time getting into arguments in pubs, on the internet and anywhere where there are people with opinions. My first really big blog post was on this very subject (it was the first time I realised people were actually reading what I was writing and had to start editing this shit properly).
But then social media exploded, and I got tired of the endless bickering, those who wanted to win rather than have an intelligent discussion, and I stopped calling it out. This anger fatigue (a bit like compassion fatigue, but slightly less cunty) made me decide to be more tolerant, even going so far as to tolerate the intolerant. However, it turns out just avoiding conflict has not made things better for anyone. Since I have been scrolling past and respecting other people's opinions Brexit, Trump and Farage all happened, and the 'free-speech' warriors (currently crying about a 16 year old autistic girl on a boat who says climate change is real) have taken over the discourse.
So fuck them. From now on I will not be turning a blind eye to the bullshit. Expect comments, links to Snopes and requests for your source material. There is no such thing as an alternative fact. I won't be engaging in endless back and forth that goes nowhere, so don't assume you have won just because I stop.
IT IS NOT ABOUT WINNING, IF YOU ARE RIGHT I WILL ADMIT IT, I HAVE NO HILL I WISH TO DIE ON - unless you don't like Billy Joel's 'Scenes From An Italian Restaurant,' in which case you clearly have no soul and we can't be friends.
I expect I will lose some friends, some followers and some fuckwits. But honestly, I don't know what else to do, there are some genuine differences of opinion which I will respect, but if your opinion is that some people are not as worthy as some other people simply because of their faith/race/sexuality/class/gender then I don't have to respect that and you are an arsehole.
Opinions that differ from mine that I will tolerate:
That you don't enjoy the same music as me (Billy Joel excepted).
That you don't like my books.
That you think I dress like an idiot.
That football is important.
That capitalism can still work (though expect some laughing).
That the Monarchy are worth every penny.
That it matters whether the jam or cream goes first on a scone.
That tea is not a meal, but a thing you do at about half four with cake.
That your god is real.
Things that I will no longer classify as 'just a different point of view':
Nigel Farage.
Nigel Farage popped round last night and wouldn't stop crying about not getting the Brexit he wanted. At least I think that's what he was on about - I was too busy waiting to see if he noticed that I'd served him up a glass of Beast Man's piss. pic.twitter.com/BKGKjlnEiP
That your god thinks the LGBTQI community are evil and subhuman.
That your god thinks you should inflict harm on anybody.
That racist/sexist/homophobic/transphobic/rape jokes are just 'banter'.
That trans-women go through all they do to perv on cis-women in toilets.
That Trump is not a lying, self-serving white supremacist.
That this country is being brought to its knees by immigration rather than tax-dodging, land-owning, grouse-shooting, xenophobic cunts.
That climate change is 'just a natural process, human activity has nothing to do with it.'
That your linked article from Spiked, The Canary or the Daily Mail has anything in it that isn't complete propagandist bullshit.
Nigel Bloody Farage.
That unborn babies have more right to life than foreign adults.
That the laws of economics are as unchangeable as the laws of physics.
Any clear shit-stirring post that involves poppys or people in shops disrespecting our 'brave armed forces' I've never seen one that's actually true - check Snopes.
That an advisory referendum result won by breaking electoral law and barefaced lies represents democracy and anyone questioning it is a traitor.
Any shared Facebook post that begins or ends with the words 'Share if you agree...' or 'Share if you remember...' IT'S A FUCKING CLICKFARM KAREN!
That vaccinations are bad.
That mentally ill people just need to pull themselves together.
Anything at all that mentions chemtrails, prehistoric aliens or a flat earth.
That my socks, bright green crocs and corduroy combination is not cool.
Nigel Bloody Fucking Cunty-Faced Farage.
(I have not mentioned the Hopkins woman out of respect for her family).
And that's pretty much all I can think of, there's probably more, please add to the list in the comments.
One thing I've noticed about getting older is that my pop-culture references are going out of date. My random shouts of, 'Monkey Tennis!' at trailers for new TV shows, or, 'It wasn't me that done it, Mr Hoppy!' in a geordie-esque accent are often met with blank stares anwyay. But most people used to at least chuckle a bit at 'Thats you that is,' 'You're so unfair,' or 'Am I bovvered though?'
I turn 42 this week and the number of people who understand why I have titled a blog about it 'Life, The Universe and Everything' is dwindling. Soon I will just be a strange old man screaming 'That's Numberwang!' at strangers who look as bemused as I did at 'Here's a funny thing, there'll never be another,' or my kids do at 'I didn't get where I am today by...'
The reason I haven't written a blog in a long time is not because I've been working hard on my next book (I totally have though) but because I haven't had an idea that stretches to more than a paragraph. What follows is a list of disconnected random musings, some of which are funny, and some of which will make you wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.
I have worn Converse All Star (or cheap copies of) for the best part of thirty years, and just this year realised they are not comfortable. They are too thin for my massively wide feet. Reasoning that anything Grayson Perry can pull off, I can too, I bought a pair of Crocs, due to their reputation for comfort. It turns out that comfort only applies if wearing socks, and not walking far. I quickly lost the skin from the tops of my feet walking up and down the road to the day job and am in need of footwear recommendations for those times between big warm boots and flip flops.
Downsizing is a popular thing which I am all in favour of. I've recently sold off a few unneeded guitars, I'm still trying to sell off my massive comic collection (do please message me for details) and most of my read books go to charity shops. I do most of my reading on a kindle and mostly listen to mp3 downloads anyway. Spotify is alright, but it's as morally-grounded as strangling puppies for pleasure and what happens if the whole streaming business model dies? No music for you.
I would get rid of all my actual books and big slab of vinyl but for fear of the apocalypse. When I'm living in the burned out remains of my shed after the meteorite/ice age/zombie uprising/nuclear armageddon, I will stand a much better chance of rigging up a rudimentary way of getting a turntable and amplifier to work than desperately attempting to reverse the effects of a world-ending EMP burst on my kindle, laptop and mp3 player.
So my excuse for having so much stuff is to prevent boredom as I wait for radiation poisoning to kick in.
I have discovered face-blindness, and it's a thing I probably have. I don't recognise anybody I've met less than five times, never have and never will.
I did worry I was racist, as 'they' do all look the same to me. The trouble is, 'they' are Keeley Hawes, Suranne Jones and Eva Green (see also: Colin Farrell, Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp). I'm not sure I even recognise my family by their faces and have a shrewd idea the only reason I wear hats all the time is so I can pick my own reflection out of a line up.
My cousin Tea covers the subject of Prosopagnosia really quite well in her book 'A Curiosity of Doubts' which I recommend to everybody.
I've always considered 'do as you would be done by' a sensible rule for life; treat others as you would wish to be treated. But then I watched a documentary on Channel 5 about people who like having their genitals nailed to planks and now I'm not so sure.
I am uncomfortable using a mobile phone in public, and have only just realised why. It is not for fear of it being stolen, or appearing rude. It is because I grew up in an era when the only people who owned mobile phones were the worst kind of show-off pricks you could imagine and subconciously do not want to be associated with them.
My endless banging on about gender as a social construct has reached its natural conclusion. I've decided we are all born non-binary, poly-amorous and bi-sexual before social-conditioning takes over. We are taught that boys will be boys, girls will be girls, and those who aren't paying attention will be forever uncomfortable/beaten up on buses. Society has done its thing with me and I am now Neterosexual (only attracted to Netty - that's my wife in case you didn't know.)
I have finally accepted a book is now worth 99p. Less than a packet of Rizla papers, less than fifteen minutes' parking in Brighton.
Sometimes I worry that it's rude to charge people at all to read something that cost years of my life and a tiny piece of my soul.
Marketing said piece of soul means I have to spend a lot of time pretending to be interesting on Social Media. Usually by driving somewhere pretty and taking a photo of my dog (I keep her locked in darkness under the stairs the rest of the time, I do not like her, she is a marketing tool and only allowed out for photo ops. Don't ask about the cats.)
I could give the world a truthful insight into my life, but if I were to tweet, 'Just made it to season 5 of Brooklyn 99 on Netflix, still mainlining Pringles, lol,' four times a day it would not sell books/interest anybody. Neither would my drafted blog, 'Might have another biscuit before I start season 3 of Santa Clarita Diet.'
Why is it that any time I have a quick five minutes to watch the news it is always either sports or business news? Where is the pottery news? Wherefore the D&D stats? Why no books and music news on the every-half-hour BBC Breakfast cycle? Why aren't my (alright, I only do 50% of those things) hobbies represented like my brother's are?
This is just like being eight years old again.
British culture is an indefinable thing. Ask four different white men from Surrey what they think of the Chelsea back four and you could end up talking about plants, football, buns or asking what the fuck sort of a name Binky is.
Two of the biggest problems I endlessly argue with idiots about are due to poor use of language. Firstly, we let climate change be spoken of in terms of 'The Environment' as if it is something separate from us; and saving the planet, rather than the human race. If the words 'Human Extinction' had been used more widely forty years ago we might have done something about it by now.
Secondly, we let people use the term offended to mean crying in the corner, rather than not wanting to be complicit in structural bigotry perpetuated by tiny, tiny incremental bits of awful forcing us to call out bad things. It's the exact opposite of being a delicate snowflake so stop getting so offended at any suggestion that the status quo is shit.
I was told I would get more right-wing with age, this was bullshit.
It is the year 2019 and still people are looking around to check who is in the room before saying to me 'Do you want to hear a joke?'
No, I don't want to be in your clearly-about-to-tell-a-racist/sexist/homophobic/cunty-joke club.
It is 2019, what the fuck is wrong with you?
The only similarity between Boris Johnson and Donald Trump is a shit haircut. One of them is a very clever man hiding his agenda behind a facade of bumbling idiocy and the other is a very stupid man desperate for people to believe he is a 'very stable genius'.
Why are the only two songs I can think of with the mightiest of Anarchic sentiment (Do Anything You Wanna Do) both such fucking boring middle-of-the-road Dad rock? I mean come on...
So Happy Birthday to me - I'm playing with my band Jealousy and the Cat in the Beaver Inn, Appledore on the night (Saturday, June 15th) do come and see us*.
*warning - may contain middle-of-the-road Dad** rock.
**speaking of Dads, it is Father's Day this Sunday, and your kids won't have bought you my very funny book about Father-Son relationships, Gap Years, so I've put it on a 99p special offer until from the 13th to the 20th of June, you're welcome.
The worst advice my father ever gave me
was: 'If you don't know the answer, make something up and say it
authoritatively enough that nobody questions you.' I think he meant
it as a joke, but one of my friends once told me that while I would
undoubtedly be useful as a phone a friend on Who Wants to be a
Millionaire he would never use me because he would 100% believe my
made-up bullshitty answer. I can't blame him.
This, conscious or unconscious,
self-assured bullshitting is rife, in a certain kind of person. I
recently ran into a vague acquaintance in the street (late 60s,
well-off, male, white) who asked me about my dog. He said:
'Is that a Husky?' (I get that a lot)
and before I'd had time to get my answer out, he added, 'it's
definitely got some Husky in it though, am I right?'
I quickly interjected, 'No, she's an
Alaskan Malamute.'
At which the chap said, 'Oh yes, I’ve
seen them before, they've definitely got Husky in them, yes.' Before
going on to criticise the anti-Brexit demonstration that was
happening across the road, telling me he was going to go and explain
democracy to them. 'We had a vote already, they lost.' At this point,
I started to think I was being mansplained to. Clearly I know more
about my dog than this person who has just met her. But I am also a
man – albeit a fairly girly one. Perhaps, given his ruddy
complexion, I was being hamsplained to?
I
am fairly sure that democracy is not handing supreme power to a
government
with
no mandate and branding those who do not agree as traitors
I politely smiled and made my excuses to
leave. There are some people I have no time to argue with, not even
to explain the Alaskan Malamute is a separate breed to the Husky -
well known for its pig-headed stubbornness - and actually much older,
so if anything the far-better-known Husky has probably got some
Malamute in it. And I am so tired of arguing about illegal votes
carried out on misleading information I now have an 'agree with both
sides' policy in public.
Old-fashioned British privilege is still
alive and well as evidenced by the dramatic drop in kids studying
languages at school on the news the other week. Everybody speaks
English right? ‘Dos Cervezas por favor Manuel’ is all the foreign
any of us need to know, and not even that, you can point at the San
Miguel pump and wave your fingers at the barman. Though it is more
fun to sing Dos Cervezas por favor to the tune of Queen’s ‘Las
Palabras De Amor’ at any given opportunity. Couple this alongside
the bluster and bluff of many of us refusing to admit we're wrong and
you can see what led to a lot of the problems with the world today.
The much-criticised White Male Privilege, and the toxic masculinity
that surrounds it. It's not easy being ham. Although, in fact, it
quite clearly is easy, but you could be forgiven for thinking it
wasn't given how much of the stuff we chaps take for granted as
god-given rights needs to be split up, broken down and just chucked
in the bin.
Hot
Space is Queen’s best album and I will fight anyone who says
different
I'm guilty of it myself, as I said
earlier, my dad told me to do it. It's the attitude that still leads
me, when asked if I've heard a new band, to declare that I either
love or hate them, based on an immediate judgement of their name, or,
in best-case scenario, say 'I think I know the name,' rather than
admit I haven't got a fucking clue who they are. I am gammon, hear me
boil.
Conversely, I have plenty of friends who
are happy to admit gaps in their knowledge. Not many of them went to
the same public school I did though. Most of them are nice, normal,
working class people, the type I work with. I tell them things, and
they listen, and believe whatever I tell them, because I am a bit
posher, and therefore must be deferred to. This might be an
oversimplification of a complex situation, but I've noticed it over
the years. My accent gives me undeserved gravitas. I have been known
to use this power for evil, filling people's heads with
misinformation and lies.
It
might not just be me that sounds more knowledgeable than I am
Please
learn to back down gracefully instead of arguing yourself into
corners
People of the UK, we have a class
problem. You knew that already though, right?
I noticed it quite prominently at
breakfast in a Premier Inn last month. The seemingly random way those
coming down for food were placed at empty tables slowly began to take
on a pattern. The nice bit, over by the windows, with large tables,
nicely spaced out, was filled with elderly couples – men in pink
trousers explaining the correct way to boil eggs to women with
massive handmade scarves – whereas the very close together tables
near the coffee machines were populated with tracksuits,
phone-starers and feral children. On my second morning there I began
to think I should get a nice haircut and put a suit on to enjoy my
breakfast in peace - because, at heart, I am a fucking snob, alright?
This isn’t just going on at discount
all-you-can-eat breakfasts. It's pervasive and it always has been.
The culture we consume is filled with a certain kind of person from a
certain kind of background who is very good at lying when they don’t
know the answer.
I
know she wasn’t an editor with a flat in Bloomsbury
But
you know what I mean
We're too soon into a post #MeToo world
to see the knock-on effect in fiction (publishing timelines are
unavoidably long)* but I suspect, if anything, it will lead to yet
more feisty middle-class girls from Hampshire being motivationally
bummed in cute knitted hats. I realise that the reason for the nice,
quiet, bookish, middle-class girl heroine is because more books are
bought and read by nice, quiet, bookish middle-class girls than any
other group (I have no evidence other than my Twitter timeline for
this outlandish claim). Representation is nice, it is good to see
yourself in the stories you read. But, and just think about this,
what if the reason the working-class council estate kids aren't
reading books is because all available books portray them either
stabbing, being stabbed, breaking up marriages in grubby, doomed
affairs with the handsome but flawed husband, or being aided by the
middle-class saviour to become another fucking media twat.
Is there a place for a story of a kid
from a working class home, on a council estate, who doesn't actually
see anything wrong with where he or she's from and isn't yearning to
escape? Girls who can go on to do something important without being
non-consensually bummed into it?
We have a problem with the working class
in this country, mostly that we are eroding low-skilled employment to
nothing and ensuring the creative industries don't pay enough at
entry level to be anything other than a hobby for the already well
off. If this continues we will never see anything other than the same
old tired literary fantasies of 'University Lecturer works out his
mid-life crisis by fucking a mentally unstable student,' and its
mirror 'Woman who was abused by her college professor goes through
emotional turmoil before finding new love with a younger, slightly
less-rapey University Lecturer.'
*correction - I’m too far behind in my
reading of new releases to have any idea if this statement is true,
please correct me, I want to be wrong.
