There’s something buried deep down there

31 10 2008

What is going on?  Jackson told me over breakfast that the headline of The Times website was ‘Russell Brand falls on Sword’. The world is trickling at a steady pace into meltdown, financially and ecologically and yet Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross are getting more coverage for their pointless high-jinxs than is necessary.


A weird feeling is hanging over this, like the news story is just coverage for something else. Something is stirring and I suspect that it’s hidden in Brand’s gargantuan stack of hair. It’s as if the world leaders are on the verge of a big announcement and temporary distraction is required in the form of the cultural petite mal of British TV.  In fact, is Jonathan Ross responsible for the recession? He gets paid 18 million pounds of licence payers’ money. Think about that for a moment. Jeez, every year I’d dilligently pay my license fee and every year it got more and more expensive. No wonder we’re melting away our financial resources. Wake up world! I’m all for entertainment, in fact the world of entertainment in all its forms is one close to my heart but maybe someone, somewhere just needed to stop and think. Have we just been flushing money down the drain, willy nilly without a backwards glance as to where it comes from?

Celebrating celebraties is a cheerful way to lift people out of their doom and gloom, but it’s sad to see what being a celebrity actually means these days in England. Ross, I can just about understand – he has a certain appeal to a certain audience, and I’d occasionally laugh along, but recently he too has been sliding somewhere unknown. But Russell Brand?? All he’s done is inspire emaciated guys to wear winkle pickers and give them an excuse to never wash or comb their hair. I’m so fed up of hearing people squeezing out a brash London accent, forced through an ashtray of burned out Malboro Lights, and passing it off as whacky. 


Remember this?

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!


Thanks, Emily Dickinson. That’s about the only poem that Jackson can’t stand. But I think it has its resonances.


So how about it? Is Jonathan Ross’ pay packet the sole reason for the English financial recession? Are there sombre forces lurking somewhere in the depths of Brand’s barnett, waiting to be unleashed upon us like wraiths? 

Why is the voice of freakin’ Carrie Bradshaw in my head whilst I write this? Which reminds me of the time I visited Hamburg and had to spend the night in a tiny sweat box of a hotel room, and the only channel I could watch on TV was playing the one episode of SATC that I’ve seen from beginning to end. How about that for just plain bad luck?