Some number of Xmases ago, my treat was a Channel 4 programme of academic experts telling us about their “research”. I was hoping for some stuff on the speed of light not being key in relativity (E = MC2 is not important per se), or news of animals with penises twice their body length (almost real) and even that Jane Austin is bad for us. The programme concluded with the professor of happiness from some dull pretend university like the one I was working in being asked how we might have a happier society. The answer, now inevitable given the performance of the array of dull old farts and young fogeys on show, was ‘to make more people happy’. By this point, all that would have made me happy was a machine gun, a double-‘O’ licence and travel warrant to the studio.
Much of life is deeply patronising. We are held in perpetual childhood by polite mediators of ‘news’ and a whole range of mediocre arses pretending knowledge. Sue and I watched Horizon last night on ‘ideas beyond the Big Bang‘. It was twee piss. Neither of us did much physics beyond undergrad level, but obviously we could have come up with the metaphors of the universe as Swiss cheese, or of them birthing in black holes, or there being no ‘Big Bang’. This was BBC science feeble crap for gullible lay people, yet again. The thinking expressed is not remotely new.
The BBC nuspeakers always talk down to us as though the old drivel they puke at us is intelligent. Some weirdo called Laura Koonsberg (close) seems to be everywhere at the moment, always wearing a scarf or high necked coat. She is so animated I’d swear some roadie is pouring her one as she relays the boring gossip of what might happen at number 10 as though she gives a damn and we should give a fuck. Cunning stuff, body language – Shakespearian students may laugh now, on the ‘cun’ in ‘cunning’ or the notion of ‘cunning that Koonsberg’. Perhaps I went down better at The Globe on the more sophisticated medieval audience? You get three tons of body language from Koonsie in advance of any sentence, and ten along with it as she nods like fuck. You get all she has to offer in a soundbite. Newsnight might be sexy again if they finally pension off that old frump Kursty and let Koonsie flash her legs at us while reading a bit more of her politics degree as though it’s intelligent comment on whatever shite CoonDem (well, immigration will be big at the next election) serves up as policy.
Our current affairs and science programmes are as vapid as the cosmetic commercials ending with ‘because you’re worthless’ – said without the ‘less’ in order to make you think putting on hairpieces, six layers of mascara and having a liberal delousing with perfume before sex is natural – not that you ever get laid, all this fuss is between women, discipline from the vilest hetro-lesbian gaze of all – wombmano – wombmano as it were. In this impossible world you can be as good looking as Cheryl Cole and still need a bucket of pollyfilla and someone else’s hair on before you can go out in public! And disabled people can’t read us the news. Brian Cox, who reads the physics, is even more beautiful, but I’d be listening to him on radio.
I’m not perfect, and time was, I’d probably have tried to pour one into Koonsie at some appropriate juncture after a rugby match – fear not Koonsie – I played the wrong code for you. My cloth cap would have got in the way.
Those who think this is all my fault and that news, adverts and almost all other crap beamed at us is not about sex and crude emotion manipulation miss the point of any evidence. I don’t really fancy Koonsie or more or less every weather girl, nor am I mad enough to believe they all want to shag me. I’m fat, 60 and don’t care. I’m actually faithful. I’d rather someone in a wheelchair was doing what Koonsie is supposed to do. I don’t need ‘virtual prick teasing’ and if I did, I’d watch a porn channel so as not to inflict my pathetic desires on a wide audience.
This is a world in which war criminal Blair walks free; this is a world in which disabled people commit suicide because of boorish thugs (often other people’s children) who walk free; this is a world of twat politicians who make public claims to be stopping infamy but perpetrate it in private. The question may be, if we are all as decent as we pretend, why we let it all go on. It may be we are all too tired after a day’s weanking over Koonsie – no typo. We need weaning off it. If you’re female, read ‘Tomas Shakehisnackers’ for ‘Koonsie’.