You are joking aren’t you?
In the words of Loudon Wainwright III: ‘Who in the world needs a review? Once was enough for me thank you’
(The only thing that I guess I might mention was that there was an amazing Ronald Searle exhibition in which the first item was drawing made in the Changi POW camp in Singapore, of a fellow inmate dying of cholera, which seemed to capture in its faint outline of skeleton and eye the very last ember of life in a man, the ultimate moment before death, the final point of humanity, so that just as death is the backdrop of satire this seemed to underlie all the splendid and proliferating grotesques and caricatures of his subsequent work. Pissed all over the Renaissance drawings exhibition anyway. Useful blogpost here.)
LETTERS FROM BISHOPSBOURNE: THREE WRITERS IN AN ENGLISH VILLAGE
by Christopher Scoble
Yes,and one of those writers is Jocelyn Brooke! The other two are Richard Hooker and Joseph Conrad (eh? Oh, he wroteThe Rover there. Hmm.)
I should probably read that, shouldn’t I? Hmm.
Did I tell you I went down to Elham, the place where Brooke spent his holidays as a child? Don’t answer that, I know I didn’t. I half wrote a long piece about it which covered Memory and Loss and THIS COUNTRY which is sitting gathering dust in my drafts.
Maybe I should do a Doctor Who style trailer of what’s coming up in the next series on The Idiot and the Dog (which I’m thinking of renaming The Idiot and the Dog and the Fucking Albatross Around My Neck by the way).
*exciting nuclear war strings with endlessly perorating drums*
WALTER DE LA MARE!
PUNCH AND JUDY!
HALF MAN HALF BISCUIT!
JENNIFER EGAN vs WELLS TOWER!
YOUR FUTURE OUR CLUTTER!
and… JOCELYN BROOKE! (that’s like the daleks bit – you know it’s coming you just don’t know when)
(obv when they do the tv trailers it usually means they’ve filmed at least some of it whereas when I write these words it means buggery fuck other than a platonic representation of the gossamer strands of mere noumenal conjecture that have haphazardly caught on the severed upturned and empty claw of my mind which strands are represented as the phenomenological fibs known as Fine Words, and as we all know fine words butter no parsnips).
It’s just I’m listening to this Rasputina album on spotify at the moment and
I’m absolutely sure it’s very good but* it’s making it incredibly hard to concentrate. (*It’s got a song called Afternoon of the Faun on so perhaps I should have guessed, but it’s cunningly put near the end).
Don’t see why those without spotify shouldn’t have to put up with it –
See? idk is that any good? (This is where my critical faculties are at currently.)
I just want to listen to Waka Flocka Flame:
Maybe I should just rename it The Fucking Albatross.