Not quite anonymously, a boy with a thorn in his side emails to impugn me for quoting Morrissey, amongst other grievances. That joke, he says, isn’t funny anymore: it’s too close to home and it’s too near the bone.
Following the Kingsnorth fiasco, I am momentarily discombobulated by the ease with which I appear to be accidentally making blog-enemies. So at lunchtime, it being sunny, I took my discombobulation up the usual ascent into rusticity and sat myself on a handy rock, the better to contemplate glorious nature and restore some equilibrium.
Near the rock, however, was a manky old brown blanket, discarded and buzzing with flies. Vaguely sinister and corpse-like, it kept creeping into my thoughts. The blanket unsettled me. Later, I realised that it reminded me of the cloak left behind by Obi Wan Kenobe after Darth Vadar has sabred him down – a scene that caused me no little distress as a child.
Thanks to that blanket, the blogpost that was forming never quite did, or hasn't yet. So instead, let me point you to two excellent tragicomedies.
The first is Frank Key’s terrifying tale of a man who is impugned by a peasant.
The second is Ghanshyam Nair’s viscerally pathetic story of his sketchbook.
Read these posts, absorb them, ponder them at length. Then go moan for man and his hatful of hollow. Have a great weekend!