So why do Americans love them? Also: 'The Wire' sucked. And so did 'Battlestar Galactica.'
We live in amusing times.
Last week were treated to the hilarious spectacle of America’s bug-eyed crazy right-wing media bubbleheads pissing their monogrammed pink silk knickers in excitement over bald, posh, right-wing Brit Dan Hannan —a horribly grey little man who made an astoundingly dull speech to the European parliament attacking British prime minister Gordon Brown.
To hear the squeals of near sexual pleasure coming from the U.S. conservative circus clowns, you’d think the racist, alcoholic corpse of Winston Churchill had dragged itself from the grave and copulated with Margaret Thatcher who then spat from her withered womb the first of a new breed of super-Tory that’s gonna save us all from the perils of compassion, equality and social justice with scorching rhetoric, deadly logic chopping and the amazing ability to make speeches using complete sentences.
In actual fact the aforementioned Conservative party MEP Dan Hannan is just another boring, bald English upper-class reactionary—typical of the identikit conservative-clones that Britain’s socially-warped and sexually repressive elite private boarding schools spew out in their privileged, stodgy, prematurely middle aged and thoroughly brainwashed thousands.
And as for Hannan’s speech—what it lacked in substance it made up for with a total lack of style. So why all the girlish enthusiasm among the shell-shocked Mad Max types who roam the wreckage of American conservatism?
Could it simply be that Hannan has got a posh British accent? For the truth is that Hannan is no more articulate than Rush ‘Limbo’ Limbaugh, no more eloquent than Michael White, and certainly no less politically clueless than poor old Bobby Jindal. But American right-wingers are suckers for a bit of Brit posh. Look at the way they licked the roast chicken-skinned ass of Margaret Thatcher. Or how they got down on their knees and feverishly sucked the weasel-thin phallus of that pop-eyed poltroon Tony Blair.
Could this frankly rather embarrassing need of the American right to chomp posh British cock be because U.S. conservatism has subconsciously rejected the very notion of democracy and is thus instinctively drawn to the cut-glass accents of this nation’s former imperial masters? I think this is almost certainly the case. And it would certainly explain why both wings of modern American conservatism have become so profoundly anti-democratic—the social conservatives pushing for a theocracy; the libertarians wanting to take power away from elected politicians and hand it to unelected multinational corporations.
They just want to be ruled by someone, anyone—just so long as it’s not the American people.
• Now just a quick message now to newish Philly band Kill You In The Face. Lads, you have a fantastic name. So fantastic, in fact, that I expected your music to sound like an air raid on a zoo. Alas it doesn’t. I checked out your MySpace page and your songs all suck. Which is why I am now officially taking your name away and giving it to a band that rocks. But do not despair. I’ve spent several minutes thinking up names that sum up the sickly, emo-ish priggy-prog drivel you produce. Please feel free to use one:
Old Enough to Grow Beards
Lime Green Tibetan Hippy Twat
Hat With Ear Flaps
Two Of Us Wear Glasses
And You Shall Know Us By The Trail Of Tissues
And while we’re taking out other people’s defanged, declawed and safely tethered sacred cows with a bazooka …
• The Wire. Best TV program ever blah blah blah (although in truth it isn’t fit to eat the peanuts out of Deadwood’s poo). So real. So authentic. Yeah well, maybe. I certainly couldn’t fault the show for its veracity when it came to the drug trade. But then you could write what I know about the drug trade on an unexcited gnat’s foreskin. But during the last series The Wire’s writers dissected the newspaper biz (a gig I do know a little about). And it did so by trotting out a series of tired old anecdotes—the photographer who takes his own teddy bears along to fires for instance—that have been banging around the journo biz for decades. Which makes me wonder just how accurate the drug stuff really was.
• Battlestar Galactica. Am I the only person in the entire world who found all the religious bullshit increasingly irritating and boring? Inserting prophetic visions and dreams and other mumbo-jumbaloid superstitious wank into a science fiction show is fine, as long as the stuff is eventually rationally explained or debunked. Otherwise it’s just lazy ghost-in-the-machine fantasy-genre laziness. “A wizard waves his wand and makes everything all right. Huzzah!”
I loved BSG when it started. Hell, evil robots nuke humanity; Tank Girl-style drop-dead-gorgeous and utterly fucked-up alkie not-actually-a-lesbian tomboy space fighter pilot swears sexy vengeance —what’s not to love? But by the start of the last series I was bored, frustrated and pissed off with the endless ooga-boogas ning-nang-nongery. Was I alone? I didn’t see a glimmer of criticism in the spluttering fanboy hyperbabble that surrounded the show’s finale. Kinda reminded me of watching the profoundly anti-feminist Spencer Tracy/Katharine Hepburn movie Woman of the Year (which ends with Tracey gleefully gay-bashing Hepburn’s male secretary off-screen by smashing him in the head with a bottle) and then seeing a couple of dumb-as-fuck 21st century Ameritards on TMC analyze the film as being marvelously progressive. Are you people all stupid or on drugs or what? And if the latter, can I have some?
Warning: Spoilers ahead. I’ve just watched the finale of Battlestar Galactica, and I’m a little bummed. Bummed, because there’s no more story to be wrung from characters and a setting I’ve followed slightly obsessively over the last few years. And bummed, because the finale did a lot of things right — but also a couple of [...]
Quizzo gave this band its name. “It was a tongue-in-cheek sort of thing,” says Kill guitarist Mike Romeo. The band regularly met at a bar Tuesday nights, despite the fact it also featured Quizzo. “We’d be mad about it, but one day we decided to play,” Romeo explains. They named their team Kill You in the Face, and a band name was born.
It seems—once one has picked one’s way through all the fake crying and strangely Mussolini-like hand gestures—that Glenn Beck is calling from some sort of jihad-style vengeance on those who are destroying some vaguely defined American way of life. Which I’m all for.
I personally spent last 25 years dumping the vilest invective imaginable on the heads of bands I consider bad, boring or merely annoying. Even with cancer, what right do I have to any immunity from those who slag back?
Savage Love: Sondheim is solace