If you must read something this weekend,
“Big Babies” by Michael Bywater is a brilliantly written hilarious look at the infantile modern culture. Bywater manages to remain constantly exasperated throughout the book, frustrated by the over surveillance and tick box culture of current times.
And Who can resist a book with chapters like “Read the Notices Or You will Get the Runs” and “Mummy Is Everywhere, and Mummy Can See You”?
Here’s a quote:
“We know something has gone wrong from books.
The I-Was-a-Victim books, the Why-Your-Doctor-Hates-You-and-Wants-You-to-Die books, the How-I-Was-Terribly-Abused-but-Survived-to-Write-This-Book books, the Whatever-You-Do-Will-Never-Be-Acceptable books, the Read-This-Book-if-You-Want-a-Hope-in-Hell-of-Keeping-Your-Job books, the executive bullshit books and the live-coaching books and the phony instant spirituality books and the angel books and, of course, the Why-Does-Everybody-Hate-America? books and the Why-Does-America-Hate-Everyone-Else? books and the How-did-We-Get-Stuck-with-George-Bush/Tony-Blair? books and, of course, the Everything-Is-Shit books … And if some enterprising publisher were to come up with a series of little something-has-gone-wrong-but-there’s-worse-to-come books, they would make a fortune. Chant Your Way to Cancer. Eat what You Like and Remain Horribly Fat. Heart Disease: Nothing You Can do About It. Fifty Reasons Nobody Will Ever Love You Again. Yes, Your Mother Hated You and You Know What? She Was Right. Oh, there’s a market there all right.
Because something has gone wrong.
If you must watch something this weekend,
Self-explanatory really. But don’t go into it thinking you will have a Bush-bashing party. It is a factual documentary. A really well done factual documentary.
If you must call someone a hypocrite,
Do so without fear or favor.
My neighbor (no not THAT one) today called me a hypocrite and a bloody hippie.
“You are a hypocrite, you bloody hippie,” she said.
Didn’t I tell you?
Turns out my railing about brands, ignorance and the Illuminati really irritates her.
I told her that her Golf was pretentious. She told me my van was ugly. I told her spending millions on expensive make up from L’Oreal and Revlon instead of saving money by buying Irene lipstick in Owino was turning her into a Boy George wannabe. She told me I was fat.I told her Levi jeans were made by child slaves in Nicaragua, she said “YAAH,YBH.”
She said I wished to be her. That I was trying too hard with my old converse, my ugly skull hoodie, my scruffy combats and my homemade earrings. That at my core was a desire to be fashionable, but I just didn’t know how. That if I knew better, I would just ask for help.
I smiled and gave her a hug.
She was right. I am a hypocrite. And I am a bloody hippie.