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October 04, 2005
The Mark Of A Great Writer Is. . . Lots Of Pussy
The Times of London ran this charming article by British writer David Baddiel.
THE LAST TIME I WENT TO Cheltenham, I was interviewed by Professor Lisa Jardine about my third novel, which led to a finely balanced discussion about history, truth, Jewish identity and personal responsibility. . . The time before that, I did an hour and a half of stand-up, which led to a woman coming back to my room, who then sold her story to The Sun. Say what you like about being a comedian and a novelist, it leads to a wide spectrum of experiences. However, I have to admit that, as far as Cheltenham goes, the last is the more defining.
What a drag to have to be interviewed by a woman who is a professor and interested in having a discussion on a book tour when, really, what being a novelist is all about is getting blown by groupies!
Now, whenever I go to the festival, however much I might be looking forward to a searching hour of literary deliberation, once I see those Neo-Classical pillars framing the entrance to the town hall, all I can think about is Rachel W-- for that was her name-- and how she ran away after little more than a dry kiss, pleading boyfriend-inspired guilt; only to reappear photographed looking hurt and bewildered in a hotel dressing-gown, on a piece of fax paper handed to me by a man who came into my dressing-room in Preston three days later from the super, soaraway Sun.
Only a dry kriss? Cock-tease!
I had apparently spent the night with Rachel: I had apparently stripped down to my football socks; I had apparently left without a word, or even a chorus of Three Lions.
You are apparently an asshole.
I sometimes wonder what, if I was a single man without children once again, I would do for groupies. Because the sad truth is that, whilst obviously rock star will always be the top job for bedpost notching, comedian isn't far behind: author, sadly, is a long way down the list, well past footballer, celebrity chef, politician and possibly even local dignitary.
What's the point of being a writer if even the local diginitaries are going to rack up more lays than you?
Maybe in America, the ones with rock star names, Chuck Palahniuk, Bret Easton Ellis, Dave Eggers, are rock'n' roll enough to attract them: but most of the time at literary events in Britain the front rows are a sea of blue rinses.
See, I knew I was lucky I lived in America. Sure, I may have less of a chance of being published than a man, and if I am published, my books may be shoved over in the Chick Lit session where they will be dismissed out of hand as unserious, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that the man-authors get their dicks sucked at every stop on the book tour.
Where are the literary groupies? A cursory glance at English literature shows us that not long ago nothing became a beautiful woman more than throwing herself at some laudanum-chomping Man of Letters. Whether it be Lizzie Siddell, Lady Caroline Lamb, or the Dark Lady himself, the list of muses reveals that, before the pop stars carved out this territory for themselves, all you had to do was throw a few couplets together and some bit of top-class totty would be falling over herself to die of consumption for you.
Yes, where are the literary groupies? Who let them get the idea that they could write books of their own instead of being fodder for mine? Bring back the good old days when all a man had to do get into the petticoats of "some bit of top-class toddy" was write some crappy poetry and just sit back and let oppression do the rest of the work!
Now it tends to be someone keen to tell you how your novel alone got the entire book group through the menopause.
Back when the top-class toddy was dead of consumption at twenty, there weren't any of these old hags hanging around and making their silly, feminine "interpretations" of literature.
I have made this worse by writing a novel with a vaguely Holocaust theme. First, this means that the audience becomes even more decrepit-- some are so old now that that number on their arm could be their age-- and second, you're starting from a point where it's much more difficult to move the subject in a bedwise direction.
See, the thing that really sucks about the Holocaust, is that it adds nothing to the bedpost talley.
When I did stand-up, women coming up after the show might say, for example, "you know that bit about anal sex . . ?" Now, it's more likely to be "you know, my grandfather was killed in Auschwitz". Try suggesting a drink back at the hotel from there.
Also, the Holocaust totally does nothing for getting some anal action.
Oh well: as a virtually married man, it makes life easier.
Man, is your wife a lucky woman.
Of course, novelists are, in general, very keen on sex, so I presume it is going on, just that the tabloids aren't interested. You can understand this. If Rachel W had dry-kissed Julian Barnes and run away, The Sun would have had to make up something about how he'd stripped down to his period Victorian socks; how he'd sent her away without even a reading from Flaubert's Parrot. If Jodie Marsh forsook footballers and boy-band members for one night and copped off with, say, Vikram Seth, she'd have to be in tabloids afterwards saying: "He was A Suitable Boy, all right. He kept going and going, longer than all three volumes."
See, the thing is, that's not a bad Vikram Seth joke. If it didn't appear in such a repellant context, I'd have laughed. I hate you David Baddiel for everything you are and stand for, and I hate you even more for ruining that joke.
Of course, Rachel W should have gone for Martin Amis, because then the headline could have been "The Rachel Papers", with pull-out quotes such as: "He offered me Money. It was an amazing Experience. We did it Yellow Doggy-Style. Turns out it's not just Einstein who's got a Monster. Now I'm just hoping that I don't have to go and get myself one of them Dead Babies."
Yeah, why don't you just give that one a minute to sink in. Have fun!
It's not that surprising that there is a prick who feels so entitled to adulation by women, who sees women as sex objects that exist for his benefit and that have no brains or reason to live after they lose their youthful charms. It's just a little upsetting that a newspaper would think it's a good idea to publish it.
Oh, Curtis Sittenfeld. Not that I ever doubted you but, dear god, how you were right.
Posted by hissycat at October 4, 2005 12:02 AM
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