This is all so dreary. No one in the 50s quite understood what the term “global village” would actually mean. What it turns out to mean is that village concerns become globalised. Those of us who left Deep Warwickshire in utter fear & rage, in 196-whatever, looking for the many benefits of an alienated & intellectualised modernity–that is, a city in which no one knew your name or cared what you did, a place where plans for a different future could be hatched–never expected that 40 years later it would all have caught up with us again, via the flattered self & media feedback looping. But here you go: village psychodrama acted out in big. Parochialism in the UK, it’s coming some time maybe. The problem with people like Myerson is that they already think their family is the centre of the world. Why the fuck are we encouraging them ? Thank god for Barbaric Document’s steadily ironic view of the process.
Mike Harrison
- Urk. I should be on a train. I decided to read "Getting Out of There", which @nightjarpress publishes as a chapbook later this year. 18 hours ago
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Spot on. Myerson belongs to the small tribe of wankers who control the parish magazine and privilege their ordinary little lives. They live in London but insulate themselves from its reality. As soon as a fragment of that reality sidled through Myerson’s front door (guarded by potted geraniums, the aspidistras de nos jours) and threatened her rigid regime she became – in the root meaning of the word – hysterical. It’s almost as bad as Saturday.
“It’s almost as bad as Saturday.”
Exactly.
On second and third thoughts the crack about ‘hysteria’ was pretty unjustified. Parental abandonment pushes one of my buttons, but it isn’t my place to question Ms Myerson’s motives. However, I’m still pissed off by the way that, like many of her ilk, she feels that her experiences are in some way privileged, and provide an exemplar from which the little people can learn. I didn’t leave a crap town in Gloucestershire and come to London to be patronised by people who can’t see past their own entitlement.
The key to all of this, clearly, is to not write any more books.
If it’s any consolation, my American ass has no idea what this is all about.
On the other hand I did finally join Facebook after a critical mass of friends and loved ones made it clear they would no longer be communicating through any other means. As a Facebook member I find that people I went to high school with and never knew feel compelled to send me “friend requests.” No ill will meant, but it’s a bit late now. Still I guess I’m a participant in the global parochialism…
On an unrelated subject I recently finished Joy Williams’ The Quick and The Dead and thought it explored the enigmatic in a way Mr. Harrison might find appropriate. I would have been finishing Viriconium but my fiance stole it.
Life in the vicarage, isn’t it? I could give a toss, but it’s hard to imagine how. You wouldn’t think it possible to be a so blinkered a writer with London on your doorstep – though “London” in this case probably amounts to a small circle of vaguely anomic aquaintances who are each wondering how on earth they can cope with only £300k coming in every year. I wish I could tell them. The contrast with far less well-rewarded journalists like H.V. Morton, who never got over the mystery of the city or lost interest in its inhabitants, and virtually excluded their own lives from their work, could hardly be plainer.
And yes, it’s all getting way too ingrown and self-regarding, with everyone supposedly watching everybody else. McGoohan’s idea of “the village” (as opposed to McLuhan’s) is our reality: most of us know more about other lives than we do about our own. It’s pretty vacant. But we don’t care.
The neighbour’s cat is terrorising me. It masturbates behind me when I’m working, and has started transporting all its toys into our flat. Orange fluffy things lie scattered upon our lovely khaki carpet. I can’t take it. Enough is enough. I’m locking the windows and never letting it in again. And I’m writing about it now. Can’t anyone see? Cats! They’re destroying the moral fibre of our great nation.
Is WankCat ™ on drugs? Did he suffer from harsh early experiences at the litter-tray? Was his personality warped by over-zealous worming? Can we get a picture of Jade Goody cuddling him before the hearse comes up the drive? Lara, the OpColumns welcome you with open arms, and Max Clifford can get you into Whiskas’ ads for years.
“The Menace In My Miaow” – great title, kid. Just sign here …
Interesting though, Martin, that you assume WankCat © is male. For she is one big stripey female feminist pussy (er-hum) who is not ashamed of her, er, sex.
I shall want a cut of this, you two. The buzz started on my site. Also the opportunity for some piggyback publicity. “Sex”, that’s what you younger people call it, is it ? Hm.
My mistake, Lara: patriarchy emerges from my substrate yet again, and embarrasses us all.
But not to worry. This means our furry madam can model cat lingerie: foundation garments for the discerning feline. We just need a cutting edge Parisian house on side, like Chantal Thomass, and we’re quids in. Mike, you’re up for 10% of the gross, plus future consultancy fees. Can we all shake on that?
http://www.chantalthomass.fr/#/accueil
As long as you remember that more than two shakes is a wank.
ooo, miaow!
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/mar/10/family-julie-myerson
Which one of you buggers was responsible for ruining that poor cat’s life by writing about her struggles during kittenhood? I know the ‘I really thought your porridge was cat litter’ episode was simply hilarious, but when she kicks her catnip habit and finds a good brief you’re going to be in a world of trouble.
It’s not just the global village; it’s the peasant economy, children as resource.
What’s beginning to be astonishing–& I didn’t care about this in the first place because I was only interested in the idea of the ramping-up of village values & social structures–is the feeding frenzy. Everyone’s in on it. Everyone’s taking their profit.
Oh, and Infinite Thought passes this on–
http://tinyurl.com/d2mlj5
“Why have we not yet heard from the Myerson family cat?” demands Allison Pearson.
It’s too busy pleasuring itself on Lara’s wall-to wall, Allison: that’s why not.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1161076/ALLISON-PEARSON-Its-liberal-mothers-real-dopes.html