Enemies of Reason Poundshop potshots at the media moral maze.

Workbrain

I was trying to think of something to cobble together about the decision by Johann Hari not to write for the Independent anymore, and what it would mean for the newspaper, and faith in journalism, and all that kind of thing. And then I just thought to myself: oh, for fuck's sake, why not just not write anything? There are only so many ways you can express ambivalence, after all, and you've done the whole sorry business to death.

This is my workbrain kicking in. I've been working in a 'proper' job for a week - in the public sector, so I am looking forward to my gold-plated pension, platinum-plated paycheque, short working hours, job for life, and staff canteen where the salty tears of Alarm Clock Taxpayer Hard Working Families Britain are dried out and sprinkled over the finest subsidised caviare. Unfortunately, none of those things appear to have happened yet - perhaps I'll get the keys to the Saddam Palace of gold and finery after I've done my probation period, or when I've gone off sick for the first time malingering, like we all do, because we're not wealth creators, and therefore spend our lives spongeing off the hard work of others.

Funny, it feels like harder work, for considerably less money than equivalent private-sector jobs I've done in the past, but I'm sure that's just my perception playing funny tricks. The grass is always greener, isn't it?

Anyway, my workbrain has decided that writing about Johann Hari is a waste of time. Workbrain likes two things: food and sleep. If I eat food, it pats me on the head. If I sleep, it says thank you in a nice polite voice. Workbrain has no time for these things. Which I suppose I should be grateful for, in some ways, though I feel a bit out of the loop to be writing about the media, when I have so little contact with it at the moment. I go to work, little storms erupt, people get angry about something or other, I come home, and everything is very much as it was. You all had a party, you cleaned up, rang up the French polishers from the Yellow Pages, and it all seems OK. And I'm happy enough to think that. Does it make me less informed, less well off, if I miss out on all these talking points? I am not so sure it does.

And then another thought came into my head. People are always talking about class. Some people on the left talk about class a lot because they don't really understand other things and are pre-programmed to bring class into any discussion about anything, regardless of how relevant it is. I tend to think not in terms of class but in terms of work. I remain of the same 'class' I've always been, but I do know this: when you're exhausted after coming home, you are in no mood to be politically active. You just want to eat, sleep, shit, piss, and probably get drunk if you've got a spare moment. If you've got kids you want to spend as much time as you can with them. The 'working classes' (whoever they are) aren't just excluded from political debate by the system and by elites; they're excluded because they're fucking knackered. And there are better things to do with the precious spare time you do have.

There I go again, saying one thing and doing another. I say I won't write and I've got better things to do. But then I go and write something about how I've got better things to do. So I suppose I should just stop this blogpost right here.

OK, I will.

Be Sociable, Share!

• 

No related posts.