Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Saturday, 7 June 2014
Weave has just mentioned - almost in passing - the irritation caused every Saturday morning, when she scans the 'chatty' column of a local countryside magazine, written by someone who cannot resist using every alternative word instead of the one which describes it most simply. (I had a hard job composing that sentence, and it's still bloody clumsy - maybe I have become a bit self-concious).
Quite often, my Blogger Dashboard tells me that I am not following any other posts than my own, which I know is untrue, and so do you.
So to fill the space on the screen which is normally occupied by all your latest posts, they give me handy hints as to how to compose my own, not realising that I have had quite a lot of experience doing just that over the last few years.
They give a realistic example of how a post looks on the dashboard, after it has been given a title by a writer, and the title it has been given is 'About Kittens'.
I think this shows two things: a weary sense of humour in the technician whose job it is to impart these bits of helpful information, coupled with an even wearier understanding - based on experience - of what appeals to most non-literary contributors to Blogland.
I don't consider myself a literary contributor, but I do try to maintain certain standards here, and they have nothing to do with the quality of the photographs of kittens that I have posted up purely in order to garner a few hundred extra hits. You know this is true, especially when I put up a photograph of our night-scented stock which was so bad, that I didn't even think it worth re-taking, let alone editing.
This has always been a word-heavy blog, so there is always the strong chance that the photo at its head bears no relation to the content, which must be very confusing for anyone with enough time on their hands to read it.
I used to get complaints from people about how many words I used to make one post, as if I was abusing Twitter or something, but now everyone knows that if they want to write in sonnets or Haiku, then Twitter is the place for them.
I've got words coming out of my arse - I even produce them in my sleep - so I might as well put them to some use, even if the end result is of no use to anyone. The funny thing is that I am not what you would call a 'chatty' sort of person.
We have a couple of local, glossy magazines which come flopping - unsolicited - through our letterboxes every month, and there is a contributor to one of them called David Flatman, who is a recently retired Bath rugby player who writes a very laddish page of rubbish about how thick his neck is, and how fat he is getting ever since he stopped training and got paid for writing reviews for restaurants which specialise in steaks.
Bath - for some reason - hero-worships all its rugby players, no matter how dull and boorish they are off the field. Just so long as they are about a foot taller than everyone else and weigh about five stone more than any normally fat person, then they automatically become the darlings of beer-drinkers all over the county.
There are certain women who just love thick legs, I suppose.
I like these magazines, simply because they are so undemanding. My favourite time for 'reading' them is first thing in the morning, over a couple of cups of coffee. I start by scanning the pictures to see how many people I know in the society pages, then I scan the pages again to see how many good-looking women there are within them, and how much flesh was exposed when the photo was taken.
After the second cup of coffee, I will begin to read some text. This is also an undemanding exercise - until you get to bloody Flatman's page.
He ran out of words after the first two contributions, but this does not stop the editors from paying him to write them all over again, month after month.
I stop reading him after the first, predictable line, as this line sets the tone for the rest of the entire piece, and I am utterly sick of hearing about how his wife is trying to get him to lose weight by attending poncey yoga sessions, or how he sneaks out to his favourite burger joint - which just happens to be run by a couple of his ex team-members... etc. etc.
He invited everyone up to a black-tie event in London last year as part of his 'Testimonial', money making exercises. £1000 bought you a small table in a seedy joint to watch a couple of rugby-players pretending to be boxers.
I wonder if my skinny legs make me a better writer than him, and - if so - why don't they pay me to write this bollocks?
I have seen him in our local pub before now. I wonder if he reads this blog? Wish me luck...