About National Treasures
I've read some disturbing things
recently. In separate articles, Robert Wyatt, Iain Sinclair and Will
Self, described as national treasures. I like Robert Wyatt, Will Self
and Iain Sinclair. They can't be national treasures, because I like
them, and I don't like national treasures. Not on any principle, I
just don't like them. There's different routes to national treasure
status, and it's the process I'm suspicious of.
To prove it isn't a matter of
principle: Trevor McDonald. He's a national treasure and a
thoroughly sound geezer, as far as I know.
Route 1: being whiter than white.
Examples include the Queen Mother, and Michael Owen. No-one's whiter
than white. Those two have been seen disappearing into the bookies
with a rolled up copy of the Sporting Life in their back pockets.
Heroes and treasures are better with faults, failings, and
vulnerabilities. Makes them more human.
Route 2: not dying for a long time.
Examples include Bruce Forsythe, and, er, the Queen Mother (before
she died). Longevity, regardless of crapness, inevitably leads to
national treasure status.
Route 3: having been a totally
irritating git, becoming marginally less irritating. For example,
David Beckham, Alex Ferguson. I think I have a low irritation
threshold.
Route 4: being on the television. No
matter how crap and / or irritating, being in the telly get you
there. Examples abound and include Ant, Dec, and Parkinson (who also
comes under 1, 2, and 3).
There's many more, I suppose.
Iain Sinclair writes such dense,
compressed prose that some paragraphs approach unintelligibility. In
Ghost Milk he relentlessly rips into the destruction and roughshod
riding the Olympics project brough to parts of Stratford.
Robert Wyatt is anti-establishment, and
produces music that takes repeated listenings to appreciate. He's a
militant left-winger. He wrote Cuckoo Madame, a searing, bitter,
vicious song attacking Thatcher.
Self, for christ's sake, writes in the
New Statesman.
Hands off, national treasure selection
committee. Stick to what you know. The bland, the unchallenging, the
middle of the road establishment. You can take your pick from so
many, don't come over here poaching. You can have Beckham, Alans
Shearer and Hanson, and the jug-eared crisp salesman. I'll have
Patrick Viera on his most snarling, attritional day heading for
another red card.
You can have Elton John, George
Michael, Chris Rea, Ollie Murrs, jesus, the list's endless. Leave
Robert Wyatt alone and don't even think about going anywhere near Tom
Waits.
Have who you want for the comedy. I'll
have Frankie Boyle.
Expert advice on fracking...
...from Cambridge University, where
they've done the science and the maths, suggests that the fracking
companies should be paying around £6,000,000,000.00 per year to
compensate for the damage they will cause to the environment. That's
the reasoned assessment underpinned by an understanding of the
underlying science.
Lord Gummer of Madcowburger thinks we
should simply welcome them with open arms and anyone who dares think
otherwise is a raving Trotskyist. That's underpinned by his degree in
history and a history of using young family members for political
mileage.
What's that smell? Rat? Overstuffed
brown envelope?
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