Enemies of Reason Poundshop potshots at the media moral maze.

It doesn’t matter that much

As I explained in my previous post - sometimes people call them 'pieces' but that always makes me think about 'pieces of shit' so I call mine 'posts'; you may well think of it as a 'post of shit' though, if you like, and I don't mind - I am working a lot and my brain is slowly shutting down non-important functions. I learned a lovely word the other week, debridement, doesn't it sound like quite a pleasant thing? Until you find out what it actually means - oh, and don't look at the Wikipedia page for that if you're eating a spam sandwich, or any kind of sandwich, come to think of it. And that's what I think my brain needs - a bit of debridement of the stuff that's died away and is just sitting there, taking up space.

What I'm trying to say is that a lot of stuff doesn't matter that much. When I was unemployed (and I am hurtling back towards that state of being again, at a rather alarming speed) I tended to ruminate on everything I read, everything I saw, everything that was around me, every tweet, every Facebook update, every everything. It wasn't a healthy way of being, and made me rather introverted and sad. Not that that isn't my default setting, but you get the general idea: I was a whole world of that beyond the level at which I normally operate. In short, I was a twat. But what I have learned from having been a twat and now being somewhat less of a twat (in my opinion only, though your mileage may vary) is that a lot of stuff really doesn't matter. Really doesn't matter that much at all.

Things seem much more important than they really are, when you're sitting in a world surrounded by tweets and blogposts and articles and people linking to stuff disagreeing with other people disagreeing about stuff. So much disagreement, so much energy, so much anger and resentment and bitterness and pettiness. And really, when you take a step back, as I've been forced to due to lack of energy and lack of motivation, you realise, for Christ's sake, this isn't all as big and massive and important as it seemed. It's just a big soup, and I am a crouton. It's a big carton of milk, and I am a fly sucking it up, as the Thin White Duke once said. It's a big load of stuff, and I am a small piece of that stuff, among that stuff, and that's that.

And really, my opinion doesn't matter at all. I may have written some things on some subjects, but really, don't take me seriously. Please don't see every utterance from my keyboard (or especially mouth, should you ever have the displeasure to see me in person) as something that's really important to me. Look, if I'm writing something like this, I'll put some effort in; if it's a tweet, it's a splodge of ephemera, a piss off the side of a ferry; it really isn't worth combing through 140 characters and telling me where I've gone wrong. Because I might not have said what you think I've said anyway. Twitter is a clumsy, random blaster and longer blogposts are more elegant weapons.

Anyway, I just felt like saying that. Reading it back, I sound like a bit of an snippy idiot. Fuck it, say what you like to me, I don't mind. But for your own sake rather than mine, just don't take the tweets too seriously. It really doesn't matter that much.

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.

So Solid Wiki fun

In case you missed it at Wikipedia, here's the full list of So Solid Crew members

Main members^[4]

• Megaman (b. Dwayne Vincent)
• Lisa Maffia
• Queen Liz
• MC Romeo (b. Marvin Dawkins)
• MC Juliet
• Oxide (b. Alex Rivers)
• Neutrino (b. Mark Oseitutu)
• Synth
• Lil Mizz Hannah Gravez
• Bobby Champs
• Notorious B.L.T
• Michael Harvey
• Richard Madely
• Statix
• G0LD3NB0Y
• Nick Trampo Porter
• Drew Brees
• Peyton Manning
• Aaron Rodgers
• Tom Brady
• Boya Deemarko
• Lil Kim Jong
• The Great Phil Neville
• Dan Da Woman
• Kaish (b. Shane Neil)^[5]
• Face (b. Jason Moore)^[6]
• Swiss Toni (b. Mahtari Aminu)^[7]
• Skat D (b. Darren Weir)^[8]
• Trigger
• Hiroshima Twinkie
• AC Burell
• Mr. Akira
• Terry Frazier
• Grech-man
• Hairy Cakelinum
• Kalldean
• Klaus Nomi
• TW7
• Mac (returning) (b. Jermaine Williams)
• Gillard
• PDS
• Timeless
• Tiger S
• Mr. C
• MC Pig Dog AKA bumchum
• Tiger loves Wang
• Mr. Shabz (b. Saif Naqui)
• The Twins MC's
• Mr Morgan (b. Carl Morgan)
• Money
• D. Schiff
• Naomi Notorious
• L. Step
• Court-Nay Vee
• SNiPER (Anthony Melas)
• The Zismail
• Asher D (b. Ashley Walters)
• JD (b. Karl Daniel)^[9]
• G-Man
• Donna Kebab
• DJ Wogan
• Soap Droppah
• So Solid Dog
• Paul Danan
• MC Louis Stephenson
• Murray The Athlete
• Pat Clifton
• Rodney Dangerfield
• Templeton Peck
• Alf Thompson
• Mrs Gogginz
• Albert Tatlock
• Insp Gadget
• Max Deposit
• Harvey Toothpaste
• Big Rog
• MC Bobbie Babishh
• Claude Greengrass
• Uncle Vic
• Duncan Doughnuts
• Po
• Mad Erik
• P Middy
• Michael Knight and KITT
• Joe Cole
• MC Foxtrot
• MC Tango
• Norris McWhirter
• Frank the Tank
• Grassy Knowles
• Boss Hog
• Tony the Flame
• Legs 11
• Mad Moniker
• Peter North
• Roll Ups
• Benjamin Stackerz
• Calpol SixPlus
• Rhyming Douglas
• Night Nurse
• Nick Da Nutter
• DJ Campbell
• Supa Soaka
• Tinhead
• Mr Brittas
• Cogley Bonanza
• Frank Castle
• Spewy Hewy
• Papa Lazarou
• Bombhead
• Mick Johnno
• Sergeant Slaughter
• LT F. Drebbin
• Heisenberg
• Father Braunmas
• Giant Haystax
• Jim Eek or Kill
• Ironside
• Joseph 'MC' Barton
• Albert Bridge
• Martin Clunez
• Father Stone
• Ms Money-Sterling
• Jimmy Jinx
• Fan-E Craddock
• Emperor Berger
• Clarky Cat
• Gus Frings
• I McHunt
• Claude Romero
• Stuart Sheldon
• Frank Bruno
• Yorkshire T
• Brain Departments
• The Green Bastard
• Chazza Muckian
• Wattsy
• Boro Pizzas
• Ivor T. Engine
• Mediocre Dave
• Spangila
• Fenton!
• Dave Length
• Lit-L Jim-E Krank-E
• Noddy
• Jay-Zed
• Nadine Coyle
• Benny 'Over The' Hill
• Susan
• Big Ears
• Pepin the Short
• TV's Anne Diamond
• Scrooge McDuck
• Ef'n B'st'd
• BALTIMORA
• Mr Aziz
• Dependable Peter Parker
• Anneka Rice
• The People's Republic of Bangladesh
• Josie D'Arby
• Anthony McPartlin
• Declan Donnelly

[edit]Duos

• Oxide & Neutrino
• Cannon & Ball
• Saint and Greavsie
• Torvill and Dean
• Hinge and Bracket
• Shake and Vac
• Shearer and Sutton
• Arn and Tully

Quentin Letts killed by a woodchipper

Quentin Letts wishes for John Prescott to die. As he is completely entitled to do. If I were one of the spectral ‘Humourless Left’, that tedious strawman wheeled out by the Unimaginative Right at these times, I would object, but I don’t. Quentin Letts is perfectly entitled to imagine Prescott dying or committing acts of violence, just as Bill Hicks – a slightly superior comic mind – told people who worked in advertising to kill themselves.

Similarly, I am entitled to imagine a happy world in which Quentin Letts falls feet-first into a woodchipper, where his screams of pain are mistaken for cries for attention. “Oh here we go,” says a passer-by as Letts’s shins splatter all over his front garden, “he’s trying to get people to go and look at him again. Well I’m not giving him the satisfaction.”

“No no,” wails Letts over the buzz of machinery, his knees splintering, “I’m actually being chewed up and killed by this woodchipper.”

“Yeah yeah,” tuts his next-door neighbour, hurrying inside. “Just like when you wrote that column about John Prescott, hoping that you’d get lots of outraged attention from it. Not falling for it this time, Quentin.”

"No, this isn't a joke," whimpers Letts, "this is....AAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHHHHHHHH".

See, is funny, no?

I just sent Robin round

Hello,

It's been quite a year, what with one thing and another! But anyway, I am still writing this blog, even if my entries are slightly more sporadic and less interesting than they were, say, a year ago. But things have changed, and as we enter the shortest and darkest (or whatever it is) day, I thought I might reflect on what has changed over the past 12 months. I do this in the form of a 'round robin', the kind that people might slip into a Christmas card on a nice bit of jolly xmassy stationery, in a completely inoffensive way which nevertheless provides tedious comedy bronze to be mined by talking heads on "Grumpy Old Cunts at Christmas" and similar programmes.

This time last year, I had a job. It was quite a nice job, in many ways, now I look back on it, although if truth be told it did leave me somewhat lacking in satisfaction. That's no fault of the job itself, but rather of me - I didn't really get out of it what I put into it. I didn't put an awful lot into it, either. That said, I worked as hard as I could, but it was limited. When you're working in a declining and dying industry with no hope of ever going anywhere, your motivation tends to dip a little, and it's not long before you find yourself counting out the hours.

Anyway, in January, the round-robin letter of a different kind came around. We were all going to be kicked out, or words to that effect. It's the shock the first time it happens; it's annoying, but wearily inevitable, the second. At the same time, I had a personal triumph: I was taken on by the New Statesman to write a couple of blogposts a week. And I've been doing that ever since.So just as one career headed towards oblivion, another began.

I've really enjoyed working at NS ever since and I think the blogposts there have been a bit more thoughtful, a bit more reasoned and a bit more enjoyable than the ones I did here. Which isn't to say that sometimes they haven't been more tedious or woolly, because perhaps they have - but it's hard to find your voice and have the confidence to write what you really want to write. I think I'm getting there and I appreciate all the kind words and feedback that I've had.

While I wrote about media stuff over at my other blog, I've concentrated here on more personal stuff - particularly with unemployment, which has had a terrible effect on me. It really is the most awful, glum, impotent feeling in the world. I've been extraordinarily lucky in that I have been given a lot of freelance work to help tide things over, thanks to the very kind efforts of people who have trusted in me and my abilities, but not having a job to go to was truly horrible. I felt like I was disintegrating and that soon I would stop being a person altogether. Read back through the unemployment posts I wrote on this blog and they're pretty grim stuff.

Still. I'm out of the other side of that now, for the time being. I have lost all sense of entitlement, such that I had any in the first place. No-one deserves a job; you have to go out there and fight for it, especially the way things are at the moment in this country. I feel for the kids who are leaving school now - they've got it far worse than people my age, and they don't even have the experience of a time when things were better. It must seem so much bleaker for them, and it's hard to convince them that it won't be, I think. No wonder they're pissed off: you would be too.

I'm looking to try and develop a new career, away from writing, and we'll see how that goes. At the moment, I am waiting for the results of an interview to see if I can get a university place next September. I hope I get it, and I've done everything I can to get it. If I don't, I'll never give up. I don't want to say too much; we'll just have to wait.

I've had a job again since November, when I've been selling books. It's been fun and I've really enjoyed it - the people I've worked with are all good folk, and the customers are very pleasant too. It's hard work, but it's nice to feel like I'm working again. And from January, I've got a more permanent thing going on, somewhere else. I don't want to say too much about it, as I feel like it's something I will never write a blog about; my writing and my work will be separate, and that's the way it has to be. But writing will continue.

So that's that. I'm sorry that this blog isn't what it was, but then things change, and people change too. I will try and bring back some elements of what made this blog popular, while still writing for NS at the same time. It's not easy, but I'll give it a go in the new year. We'll see how much time I have away from work to do that.

And finally, while everything else has changed, there have been many constants. The constants in life are what keep you anchored; they are the things that stop you drifting off into despair or misery, even when the temptation to do so is strong. As a person who has had depression, and who continues to have it, albeit medicated and more controlled than it was once, you have to keep hold of the constants, and cherish them. But they are more than constants: they are people, other human beings, who care for you, despite all your failures and faults, people who love you, even when you let them down. When everything else - work, ambition, careers, everything else - is taken away, all you have is the people you love, and the people who love you. I am extremely lucky in that I have more than my fair share of those.

Anyway, that's all. Merry Christmas, and all of that. Thanks for reading; I appreciate everyone who has, and who does.

Kim Jong Ill

First of all, Kim Jong Ill sounds quite funny. You know, he was ill and then he was dead. Wait, Kim Jong Il sounds like 'Kim Jong's Ill', doesn't it? Oh, everyone's done that already. And then there comes the bit where people saying 'FFS with the Kim Jong Ill jokes you bastards' starts popping up, and that raises a smile at first. But soon that becomes as irritating as the 'Kim Jong Ill' things. Perhaps even more irritating. And you start to think: Well, those Kim Jong Ill people are just waking up to the joke, and maybe it was quite funny the first time you read it. I told you I was Kim Jong Ill, you know. And then you think: but surely some of these people are just feigning naivety and saying the Kim Jong Ill joke, knowing it's been done a million times already, as a laugh? And then, what does that do to the "FFS with the Kim Jong Ill jokes you unfunny bastards" thing? Does that make it funny again? At what point does it stop or start being funny? And then you think, well, I suppose it's reached the point where the joke itself, and the jokes about it not being funny, have reached the point where neither is funny, and both are unwelcome. So what do you do? Do you just leave the world altogether, because you fear that someone you admire, or respect, is going to say "Kim Jong ILL MATE, MUHAHAHAHA!" and you're going to have to stand there and mutter how pleasant it all is to yourself? How do you survive? Or maybe it doesn't matter at all. Maybe it's all right to just let it happen.

Kim Jong Ill, haha.

I give you special price

Seeing as it's xmas, or very much the run-up to xmas and all things Saturnalian, I've decided to celebrate by SLASHING the PRICES of my book. You can now get the Kindle version for £2.29 or the booky-book version for £7.94. You can't say fairer than that, can you? No. Good.

Abusive

I'm pleased that my New Statesman colleague Helen Lewis-Hasteley kicked off a debate about the abuse suffered by female bloggers. It's a subject that deserved to be heard by a wider audience and it's probably quite an eye-opener for some of us. The more you read, the more you realise it's a widespread problem.

The bottom half of the internet is a scary place, and there be dragons. If TV was like the internet, you'd watch a well crafted 40-minute documentary and then have to sit through four hours of random people saying "Well, I didn't even watch the programme, but I know enough about it to decide that it was entirely wrong" or "Oh dear. The presenter clearly needs to have more sex." This is the wonder of Web 2.0. We have blogs - horrible blogs like this one. We have comment boxes - catflaps that you can crawl through to get your voice heard. We have visitor books full of dirty protests. (Not all the time, of course. Often comments are constructive, insightful things.)

Publishing means you get your voice out there, your words out there. It means you get the odd bit of trolling and the odd bit of abuse, which can be annoying or distressing, depending on the severity or the persistence, and depending on the personal nature of it. I've been called a few names, and I've been slagged off a few times. I've been lied about and accused of things I haven't done. But I have to say, as a male writer, I've never experienced anything approaching the threats described by many female writers over the past few days. It's really shocking, and I can't help but come to the conclusion that it is gender-based, and directed at women, mainly by men.

Already, a few predictably contrarian rumblings have started. Ooh, these women, they just need to 'man up' and get on with it. Everyone gets abuse; if you can't stand the heat, and so on, they say. But it is not just online abuse. I think we all expect a bit of abuse when we write stuff. It happens if you have an email address, a comments box or a photo byline. But judging by what I have read about and heard about over the past few days, the only sensible thing to recognise is that there is a particular kind of abuse aimed at women writers, and that it's not really the same thing as the (distressing and upsetting, but different) abuse levelled at writers of all kinds. It's not even a particularly subtle thing to recognise. It's really there.

I say all this despite having been accused of being a misogynist myself, of hating women, of abusing women, of wishing violence and death on women, due to things that I've said or written. I'm not and I haven't. But then that's exactly what an overprivileged woman-hater would say, isn't it? Well, it's not for me to judge. And I'm not doing the 'poor me, I've suffered too' thing either. Whatever minor inconveniences I've gone through are nothing compared to the awful threats and abuse endured by women writers who have dared to have an opinion or dared to say what they want.

This isn't about creating an environment in which women can't be criticised when they're wrong, can't be called idiots when they're idiotic or can't be treated with the same respect (or lack of it) that we've given to male writers. It's not about that. This is about a particular kind of abuse that is reserved only for women, which is happening, and which is documented. We can pretend it's not there, or that it's not important, or that these writers are just oversensitive female types, but that just isn't right. Sure, I've been called a cunt plenty of times, and it's been annoying and hurtful on occasions, but no-one's threatened to rape me or said that I deserved to be hurt. That's a whole different world of intent, and aggression. We need to recognise this.