Fast feed, crystal fever, swarming through a fractured mind

Book shops. I could (and sometimes do) spend hours in them. But, at this time of year, approaching heriu renpet, it all goes wrong.

Point(less) the first

Biographies and autobiographies (ghost or traditionally written) pack the shelves, waiting for empty-headed celeb-wannabes to buy them to see how their vapid and more empty-headed heroes got to be where they are. Alright, so I don’t really care if these get published or not, as I amn’t going to buy them, but it seems to say so much about life today. Be famous for pointing your breasts at other famous non-entities and get your life story published. When you are twenty-three. Please. Of course, when I look at the vast tables set out with numerous volumes laid thereon, I recognise perhaps only one name on the front of those books. (Last week the only one book by someone I knew was Humph Lyttleton. The various other plastic people and Z-listers, well, I had no idea.) Can I be so far out of step with modern culture that those who are worshipped don’t even fall onto my radar? (I must also say I haven’t even read PopBitch in a while, so my knowledge of gossip is even less. And even reading that I don’t know who they are talking about half the time.) It is probably due to my lack of televisual time. Currently I am watching Torchwood, through some sense of misplaced loyalty that I should. (Although the evil fairy episode was quite good, but old Cap’n Jack is wrong. And RTD just wanted to make the X Files, didn’t he?) I also like Jack Dee’s show, with the hot Magda in it. Yes, I sit through Catherine Tate before that, but only to prove my moral superiority, I think. Even if I did laugh at her signature bovvered sketch last week. (The one where she is being asked about the elements in a chemistry lesson. ‘OK, how about Mi?’ ‘bovvered?’)

Point(less) the second

All those 1000 insert something here before you die books. Like 1000 places, or 1000 films, or 1000 books, or 1000 women to sleep with. They annoy me also. Muchly. For many reasons. But let us start with trying to justify it first. They are useful, in a finding-out-things-I-didn’t-know sort-of way. Although that implies I have read *any* of them. I haven’t. I may have flicked through the 1000 painting you must see before you die or else your life will be pointless, culturally barren and a waste just to see their recommendations. However, and here is my main dislike for these type of books. I, and I guess 99% of the population, won’t have the time, energy or most importantly, the money to do this. Thereby being belittled by the intelligensia, looked down upon by the self-appointed guardians of current mores, sneered at by the media commentators who dictate the prevailing tastes to the proles. Or Why don’t you make enough money to travel the world for the rest of your life? Perhaps sit still for the half of your life you aren’t travelling in a cinema? Wouldn’t it be great to be as smug as that? To reinforce your credentials, to validate your life based on what some wastel with cash tells you you should experience? And this post isn’t even coming out as bitter or vitriolic as it should.

Life your life. Be free.