However, I couldn’t help noticing this morning’s effort, which manages to juggle tragedy, absurdity, bad taste and utter irrelevance with a startling clarity of intent. What strikes me first here is the juxtaposition of image and headline. So, while the top third of the page carries an image of utter devastation and a woman wrapped in a blanket who has clearly lost everything she ever loved, the bottom two-thirds blares “TAX AND PENSION JOY FOR MILLIONS”. And what better place to position a teaser for a competition to “WIN A PEUGEOT MOTORHOME WORTH OVER £30,000″ than in between the two?

Simultaneously, the phrase “Nuclear nightmare looms” is virtually hidden. Indeed, an equal amount of space on the front page is devoted to the fact that Amanda Holden has produced a “brave smile”.

Just look at it. It really is a startlingly odd jumble of words and pictures.

It strikes me that banter has changed. It once involved elements of wit and intelligence, perhaps the odd pun and vague bit of innuendo. You can sort of imagine Oscar Wilde engaging in it. But banter has recently been adopted by a sub-class of moron and appropriated to cover anything groups of men talk about that could loosely be described as mean-spirited, heavy-handed, dull, obvious, bullying, narrow-minded and/or any combination of the above.

This week banter has lost all sense of itself as a concept. Banter now exists solely as an excuse; a defence wheeled out by apologists to cover for the misguided utterances of twats. I’m not thinking of anyone in particular and certainly wouldn’t name them here. But the outpourings of hairy-handed balls enthusiast Richard Keys appeal to this definition.

Poor Richard. If you watch the clip it seems perfectly obvious he is the weakling in the group. The non-sportsman, reduced to impressing the jocks with what he imagines to be “tough talk”, referring to a woman as “it” and espousing bizarre sexual imagery. (Although when he refers to Jamie Redknapp “hanging out the back of it”, I can’t help but envision of some kind of slapstick encounter involving a faulty catch on the rear doors of a Transit van.) Perhaps in a pub or a private setting such comments, although grim and offensive, should not have been enough to cost him his job. But in the workplace, there can be very little sympathy for Keys’ fate.

Banter, in its modern form, seems to have found a particular home among footballers and goes hand-in-hand with conversational narcissism. I recently followed Darren Huckerby on Twitter (he followed me first and curiosity got the better of me) and was thrilled to receive an auto-DM from the erstwhile Norwich City forward expressing his hope that I would “enjoy his banter”. This confused me, since I always thought banter was supposed to be a two-way street. The implication that banter can be owned by a single person perhaps sums up what has gone so very terribly wrong.

Since everyone seems to “enjoy banter” except me, it’s tempting to conclude that I’m humourless, wussy, or both. So I was gratified to find that another adult male I mentioned the Huckerby thing to respond with the phrase “banter my arse”. Another chum suggested that banter is “always used by people who aren’t funny”. So, you see, it’s not just me who thinks banter is bollocks.

Apparently Keys and Andy Gray are now being lined up for jobs in Qatar – a country that is well known for its progressive approach to women’s rights. May they, and banter, rest in peace.

But aside from Michael’s apparently fantastical erectile potency, and his belated apology over its effects, what I found most intriguing about the paper’s accompanying interview was the assertion, midway through the second paragraph, that Huckers was present at the Sex Pistols’ gig at Manchester’s Lesser Free Trade Hall in June 1976. One must always take any printed reference to this semi-mythological incident with at least a quarter-ton of salt. Indeed, since Jean Baudrillard hypothesised that the Gulf War did not take place, I can’t personally see why we must accept the testimonies of the ageing punks and Madchester blabbergobs that the Sex Pistols’ gig at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in June 1976 happened at all.

But let’s, for the purposes of this blog post, assume it did happen. Journalist David Nolan, who has written a book about it, reckons there were “35-40″ attendees on the night but the only real suggestion that El Huckerino was one of them comes from this obviously satirical website, which claims he was accompanied by Bruno Brookes and Thora Hird, plus this Facebook page.

The evidence, then, is a little thin. And not being one of these people who believes the Wikipedia, or the newspapers, or, y’know, the books, I decided to settle the matter by tweeting Mick Hucknall thus:

Hey @mjhucknall Guardian says you were at the Sex Pistols’ Free Trade Hall gig in 76. Can you confirm if it’s true? Loving your work BTW

So what’s the truth? Was Hucko really a part of this mythical event? Did Johnny Rotten play some strange, indirect part in the creation of Simply Red’s 1980-something masterpiece Stars? Excitingly, Le Huck responded just a couple of hours later:

@davidquinn yes I can.

So there you have it. A sort of definitive yes, direct from the iPad of Sir Mick. Now, does anyone have Bruno Brookes’ mobile number? There’s something I need to ask him.

As someone who can’t really be doing with McIntyre’s brand of trite observational “humour”, I am, according to the Guardian yesterday, a cultural snob. The fact that McIntyre has never once made me so much as smile, let alone laugh, is apparently irrelevant. One must, it is argued, accept McIntyre as funny because his mainstream appeal is vaguely “good for comedy”.

I disagree. I think a man being lauded as a comic genius for saying things like “Have you noticed how Weetabix goes soggy when you put milk on it” is actually an unarguable cultural travesty.

Still, Homer Simpson would probably disagree:

And so it’s happened again. This time, the Guardian has suggested that Morrissey has reignited a “racism row” by calling the Chinese a “subspecies”. My immediate response to the paper’s interview, imaginatively entitled “Bigmouth strikes again” (exactly the same as the cover-line for the NME piece back in 2007) is not, strangely, that Morrissey is a racist. Worryingly, in light of my otherwise unimpeachable liberal tendencies, it is that the Guardian is talking crap.

Aside from the interview’s rather tired set-up, in which the poet Simon Armitage explores the experience of being a Smiths/Morrissey fan, (“When Morrissey sported Jack Duckworth-style prescription glasses mended with Elastoplast I went looking for a pair in the market,” etc) and thus ends up using the words “I” and “I’m” an excruciating 35 times in the fucking preamble, the description “subspecies” has to be deliberately taken out of context in order to be interpreted as racist. In fact, as Armitage actually states in a follow-up Guardian news story, the word “subspecies” was deliberately chosen by Morrissey because, in a discussion about animal rights, it vividly suggests that the perpetrators of violence against animals are actually below the level of the animals whose rights are being violated. Or, as Armitage more succinctly puts it:

In his view, if you treat an animal badly, you are less than human. I think that was his point.

Now, fair enough, branding 1.3bn people with a culture stretching back thousands of years as a “subspecies” is crude, nonsensical and misjudged. But I guess the point boils down to this: If someone starts talking about various nations and cultures they dislike, and the Chinese crop up in that discussion and are described as a “subspecies”, then yes, fair enough, they are racist. But if someone starts talking about cruelty to animals, and they say they have a particular problem with China’s record in this area, then surely, despite the possibly ill-advised language, this is not really a race issue at all. And the fact that Armitage was there, and he doesn’t think Morrissey made a racist statement in the first place, makes you wonder about the Guardian’s agenda.

So anyway, now I’ve said all that, I feel a bit scared. Am I merely pointing out the weaknesses in a newspaper article, or am I, y’know [whispers] a Morrissey apologist? I fear I must be. Why else would I conclude this post with a link to a horrifying YouTube video depicting animal cruelty in China?

Elsewhere in today’s news, it has been revealed that Charlie Brooker (who clearly regularly mines by blog and Twitter stream for inspiration) intends to marry former Blue Peter presenter Konnie Huq. Brooker’s involvement in this C-list celebrity story brought out the worst in users of the allegedly popular social networking tool. He maintains massive cuddleability among that certain brand of free-thinking, straight-talking, pathetic, greying liberal comedy wannabes who populate Twitter, meaning Huq’s name quickly started to trend. But might I offer the following tip to Brooker fans: If you want him to like you, and you obviously do, it’s probably best not to do what I saw someone do earlier, which is to call his wife-to-be a whore. Especially if you mention @charltonbrooker in the tweet.

And James Corden. Something to do with James Corden. You’ll have to Google it.

Unpredictably, this comment led to direct contact from Nicky Campbell and, since I’m not one to pass up the chance of wringing a blog post from the most meagre of material, I shall now analyse his tweets in order to make an assertion about his state of mind, personality, etc.

First contact was established by Nicky in the following tweet:

There are a couple of things to note here, the most obvious of which is Nicky’s use of “lol”. Since he’s a 48-year-old, often quite cantankerous Scotchman, I never thought he’d have used this kind of webspeak, which I tend to associate with floppy-brained twenty-somethings who rely on Facebook for their current affairs intake. I suspect he’s been taught it by a teenage family member. Or maybe he’s secretly a fan of I Can Has Cheezburger. The other thing to notice is that I never used the @NickyAACampbell username, so he must have some kind of alert set up for mentions of his own name. Perhaps all celebrities do this. Or maybe they don’t.

Obviously I wasn’t going to be deterred by Nicky’s lol-ing, so I followed up with another tweet:

On reflection, I can see why it might look as though I was pretty much begging for a follow-up response from the erstwhile Watchdog host, and the big man didn’t disappoint:

Fortunately, this is where the dumb, lolcatty Nicky takes a backseat and the frightening, sarcastic Nicky we all know and love makes a welcome return. Witness the heavy irony apparent in the “hugely relieved and grateful” part, followed by the possibly menacing “nice website” – which suggests he has looked at my website, knows where I (metaphorically) “live” and will be watching me carefully for future signs of insolence. (There is, admittedly, another “lol” in there but we’ll let that pass.) Others have interpreted this second tweet as a piece of reputation management, which is designed to disarm me and make me think he’s a nice guy.

I can’t make my mind up if Nicky Campbell is a nice guy, or if he’s essentially a madman who stays up at night scanning Twitter for signs of anti-Nicky Campbell sentiment. I kind of hope it’s the second one but unfortunately it probably isn’t.

Next Sunday: Watch in astonishment as  Tim Lovejoy launches a foul-mouthed attack against me on live television after I take the piss out of his tight sweater.

]]> http://www.wordsdept.co.uk/2010/02/09/nicky-campbell-lol/feed/ 2 http://www.wordsdept.co.uk/2010/01/18/adrian-chiles-beard-and-the-psychological-observations-of-graham-taylor/ http://www.wordsdept.co.uk/2010/01/18/adrian-chiles-beard-and-the-psychological-observations-of-graham-taylor/#comments Mon, 18 Jan 2010 20:34:35 +0000 David Quinn http://www.wordsdept.co.uk/?p=576 The growth of a beard obviously signifies a psychological problem within the wearer. Not my words, you understand, but those of former England football manager and beard expert Graham Taylor, who thinks people who “grow beards for no reason” are undergoing some kind of ongoing, possibly catastrophic, mood change.

Taylor was talking about Roy Keane, who grew a chinful of obscenely Santa-ish facial hair immediately before quitting as manager of Sunderland at the end of 2008. But it might be worth pondering his analysis in relation to poor Adrian Chiles (42), who looks more and more fed up by the day on BBC1′s The One Show. Nobody exactly knows what’s going on but he appears to have become moderately repulsed by co-host Christine Bleakley (30), who is said to be engaged in some kind of personal bedroom arrangement with pie-eating Chelsea midfielder Frank Lampard (32). (The ages in brackets signify my pathetic nod towards celebrity journalism.)

As Marple Leaf summed up on Twitter last night:

That scruffy yam on #motd can’t mention Lampard. Just knicked his bird.

Meanwhile Robin Brown has meticulously compiled an entertaining list of descriptions of Chiles’ beard, including my own observation that it makes him look like

the violent alcoholic captain of a Victorian steamship.

I strongly advise you to go and look at it right now.

“For 50% off home insurance call us now!” – Stephen Fry

Wonderfully engaging stuff from the Direct Line home insurance ad.

“Plus, a thousand pounds’ worth of pet food to be won every week!” – Stephen Fry

A remarkable, seminal line from the deeply influential Direct Line pet insurance ad.

“You’re never sure of the best deal until you come to us direct!” – Stephen Fry

Another terifically entertaining line from the Direct Line pet insurance ad. Here, Fry illustrates clearly his Renaissance man credentials.

“You won’t find our deals on price comparison sites so we can give you savings!” – Stephen Fry

Powerful, sublime work, from the much admired Direct Line “Car Insurance Calendar” ad

“Right now, you can get twelve months’ cover for the price of ten!”  – Stephen Fry

A wonderful piece of delivery from the extraordinary Direct Line car insurance ad. One reviewer, YouTube user Clubby231, said of this: “My 7-year-old loves this advert.” I think this is something with which we can all agree.

I may have missed some off but I think this give’s a flavour of Fry’s unique contribution to British public life.

Next week: Celebrated quotes from Aleksandr, founder of ComparetheMeerkat.com

Within each of these categories, you can assume that the individual Twitterer is between 25 and 49 years old and has a full time job. As such, it’s unclear how they have the time to permanently frequent what is basically a chat room for old farts.

1. The famous person

Most famous people have several thousand followers but only follow a handful back. The reason for this is ostensibly because they fear stalkers but is really because they think they are better than “normals” like us. The exception is Stephen Fry, who tries to follow all his followers back. He even follows me, despite the fact that I stopped following him some time ago after I got bored with his tweets about African wildlife and being stuck in a lift.

2. The “social media specialist”

As many as 91% of all people on Twitter talk about nothing except Twitter*. These people, who are often men with trendy beards, are bafflingly popular on Twitter. This is mainly because they were among the first people to “get” it. As such, when everyone else finally “got” it between October 2008 and March 2009, these people already had 900 followers and, like the popular kids at secondary school, were able to attract more. They apply hashtags to everything and often say “haz” instead of “have” because this is how people on the internet speak. LOL!

3. The weird semi-stalker/spammer

Beware of people who have 46 followers but are following 1,289. The sort of people who live in places like “Sacramento, CA” and mention “Zen” or “life-coaching” in their profile. There is no explanation for what these semi-stalkers want. (Most people don’t block them because even though they say they don’t care about their own follower numbers, secretly they are happy to have lots of apparently harmless people bumping up their stats.) Spammers are similar to the semi-stalkers, in that nobody knows what they want. The difference is they use a grainy avatar that looks like Britney Spears doing something unusual with a carrot.

4. The PR consultant

Twitter is a godsend for PRs because it allows them to bolt half-arsed “web strategies” on to otherwise lacklustre campaigns, which they (correctly) assume will impress their clients. Many PR people pretend they are being conversational about something new they have discovered (a “funky new ironing board!”, a “revolutionary new tampon!”, etc) when in fact they are “creating online conversations” about something they are being paid to “create online conversations” about.

5. The relentless cross-poster

Since most people have nothing interesting to say in their daily lives, it’s understandable that most people on Twitter can’t think of much interesting to say either. Consequently, they set up some kind of automated service that aggregates lots of other stuff (blog posts, bookmarks and general web waffle) and churns it out incomprehensibly, with odd sets of brackets, dots and bit.ly addresses to the annoyance of the entire world. It’s the equivalent of walking into a room and yelling “Page 41 of the Guardian G2 section!”, then reading out the first sixteen words from the headline and intro before walking off. Then doing the same thing again five minutes later with page 42.

6. The person who thinks you give a toss about their record collection

We’ve all been to a house party where someone hogs the record player and plays dreary music, failing to notice that everyone else in the room lost interest in the Bluetones after that one single they did that was quite good in about 1994. The online equivalent is the Twitter link to the Spotify/Blip FM playlist.

7. Some lunatic at a conference

There’s always someone on Twitter who’s at a conference that’s demarcated purely by a hashtag, an apparently random series of lower-case letters and “09″. In fact, up to 97% of these conferences* are about social media and/or “online engagement”, presumably because these are the only types of conference where the chairman considers it acceptable for delegates to sit typing stuff into a mobile phone like a pig-ignorant teenager while somebody important is on stage doing a carefully crafted presentation. They then tweet stuff from the unmissable #xmklwfdf09 conference every five minutes for six hours, AS THOUGH THEY ARE WITNESSING THE BLOODY OBAMA INAUGURATION. Clearly, they aren’t.

Considering all of the above, is it any surprise that 15-year-olds have found much better things to do with their time?

*All figures are made up