Reflections on my recently departed youth & reaching a grand Old Age without the accompanying Wisdom

Part One (Tuesday)

It was my birthday last time I posted here, and I never got to post again because I spent the succeeding week quite drunk in a variety of ways and on a variety of pretexts, let me try to reconstruct that week and you’ll get a pretty hazy story without a through-line; here we go.

It starts out on the Tuesday (my actual birthday) absolutely alone and oppressed by misery. At about 5 o’clock I decided it was time to eat and so I had cider and Smarties chocolate, and sitting on the back porch with the heels of my Beatle boots in the nest of rat’s heads (Sebastian leaves them there), cider cup in one hand and fiftieth fag in the other, it occurred to me that far from some kind of demented yet understandable birthday indulgence, chocolate & alcohol comprises the best part of my diet, and accounts for my astonishing figure. But no wonder, really. You too might turn to drink if your atrium became a nest of rat’s heads.

I messaged a young boy whom we shall designate Young Nicholas (after the Tsar, or czar, whichever you like) in the vague hope he might be able to exert some manly influences and get the rat’s head away, oh and perchance remember it was my birthday.

The next day was Wednesday the 29th of February. (Part Two: Wednesday) That is quite a bizarre name for a day, if you look at it; Wednes… day. What on earth does it mean? I don’t recall much of Wednesday, perhaps I was at work (I think so); also some distant memory of creamy beef with seasonal vegetables for dinner. I had gone through this bizarro[OCD]world last November when I wouldn’t eat anything beside Asian food, and then only beef, and had to mix it up only to the extent of swapping between a Chinese restaurant and two Japanese places (I can’t ever remember which Japanese place is which or where they are, they just kind of appear at opportune moments). One night quite late out and tired with a hatred conceived for Nicholas (or cab drivers; I can’t remember which) that I was certain would last beyond the grave, fagging through the unkind darkness I remember seeing the Chinese shop lit up like HOME.

AND SO I had an iced coffee that at the time I would credit with saving my life. In any case another time at the Chinese place I didn’t quite enjoy the sensational scent of chlorine floating up from the basement where I am sure they keep their grandmother chained (in pink rubber washing gloves) mingling with my faire, and so alas but fair cop never did (could never) return.

But finding myself this certain WEDNESDAY with two hours after work & raining & strangely outside of time, I revisited the bleak Asian days and had the creamy beef while sitting on a tiny box stool made for people without knees and it was all so suitably vile. Then as I had always threatened to do I took myself to the theatre for the lack of any friends (at all) or any mere acquaintances who have any culture, taste or interests outside of their own cock [“music”], and saw “The Wild Duck” (after Ibsen, at the Malthouse, etc. etc. etc.) & I, Miss Shitsville, did enjoy it so-o-o-* (*I didn’t like THE GIRL). It all took place behind (inside) a glass screen and I had the privilege (calculated fortune) of being in the front row (Toby Schmitz bowed into my lap) and refocussing throughout the play at poignant and dramatic moments was able to behold my own lovely reflection & brow creased and tense in the most harrowed & tragic fashion, which shows you that the play was of some merit.

The director’s note would have you believe that “The greater part of our life is largely uneventful...” and that Ibsen’s plays are “an inquest into the darkest hours of human experience.”

This version took place in a void – everywhere and nowhere – which I s’pose is a nice way to keep  production costs low & make theatre more accessible to the YOUTH, who for all of their internet & facecock savvy should understand the sadly solipsistic feeling of being everywhere & nowhere very well, but… don’t.  Fuck I hate the YOUTH, but that is by the by. The YOUTH in this particular instance being the screechy squeally drama kids beplaguing the Malthouse’s brickwork conversation pit (read smoking pit). ((How come drama kids are so lame but grown up actors so cool? My theory is a kind of survival of the fittest: the runts all die from peanut allergies on Yr 10 camp, the new bottom rung (by default) soon turns to glue sniffing and practice writing suicide notes as their primary form of artistic expression; etc., etc. until only the cool kids are left.))

Dialogue ‘twixt sweet Roger & I. In fair Shitsville, where we lay our scene.

Now of course my sweet cousin & I had a real simpatico. (Stop me if this starts to sound like a eulogy). One day we climbed the ladder up to the second story of the court house my grandpappy had built & sat with our legs dangling over the balcony smoking sixteen packets of Marlboro Lights and sampling the vino from the mayoral cellars. We got to talking, oh, about lots of stuff. As you know very well my journey to Texas, and thence to Shitsville, has been an epic journey into the dark heartlands of my very soul.  As it turns out Roger just rolled out of bed one day after a soccer final, blinked blearily at his alarm clock, and decided to go to Shitsville as a kind of joke. That explains the moustache & chaps & fringed jacket. Also Roger was a bit glam and I saw then he shared the same Lennon-like taste in glasses as our mutual great-great grandmama, dear departed Arabella Shitsville, who was nailed to the wall in a gilt frame, just above Roger’s sweet head and delicate neck that showed all the sweet bones sticking out.

I have already mentioned how the… uh, the respected citizens of Shitsville had ever-so-subtly, in a Texas kind of way (i.e. not subtly at all) turned against me as mayor since the advent of our sweet cousin Roger in our simple little town. He was a popular and beatific kind of boy, full of pep and joy de vivre, which is all very well and good. He always wore a gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand which showed a Lepidoptera in relief.

Let me take a minute to point out that Roger Shitsville’s mother had got up early to bake fresh bread for him every day of his eighteen years. He had never been hounded by a prying media into joining the uninspired ranks of the gainfully employed, he had never foregone his daily baths in the breast milk of first time mothers, never felt moral pressure to eschew his taste for diamonds, and so on.  In short, for one reason or another, Roger never felt the need to clip his splendid blue, scaled Shitsville wings and undergo a reverse chrysalis into the grotesque yet strangely luminous, pale body of a Texas prairie silk worm, a very down-to-earth kind of grub to be, whose abject produce is considered to have considerable beauty, strength and value, I might add. Now, it was perfectly clear to me that the plain, simple folk of Shitsville were absolutely enchanted by this epicene butterfly, Roger Shitsville. Even some of the mutants from surrounding areas travelled to Shitsville (wearing sort of beekeeper nets attached to their hats to cover their faces) just to get a peep at the supine Roger, gleefully alcoholic and irreparably lazy, soaking like a flower in langurous bands of honey-coloured sunshine.

“We are not very close family but I think we are very similar,” he said, wrapping a pink feather boa tight around his neck.

“Roger, Roger: you are RIGHT,” said I, wrapping a Pierrot-like frou frou scarf tighter around mine. “Now attend to me, lad: I know you would very much like to be mayor, but it is not all boots and badges, cousin. There is a lot of work to do, and there is paperwork besides, and we all know that you can’t spell very well. You should just stick to what you do best (whatever that is) and be happy to leave civic, council and mayoral duties to moi.”

Roger agreed & went back to fanning himself with the back of an old 33c Tattle Tale magazine we had found in the back office. I was reading a back issue of Vogue, which I think is a disgustingly uninspired rag, full of fashion sycophants, but what do you expect to get in the dustbowl of Texas. In’t were a lot of pictures appertaining to the Dior S/S 2010 collection, by this time a neat retrospective. As it turns out, Galliano’s collection took its inspiration from bouquets of flowers, the kind you give to old actresses & opera singers, the great gross madames of the stage who have been playing Peter Pan for forty years running, in the faint hope that they will finally go away and die somewhere quietly if you load them up with enough delphiniums.

Now when it comes to Galliano, let me be very clear: the man is a turd: an ugly, anti-semitic dick of the highest order (like Cecil Beaton), who designs couture gowns for Disney princesses and Barbie dolls (also like Cecil Beaton, who is now mercifully dead). I would swap John Galliano for the re-animated corpse of Alexander McQueen in a smoker’s-quickened heartbeat.

But in the blue, blue peyote-drenched afternoon of any given Tuesday in Shitsville, the photos of  his latest (and last, ha ha) collection for Dior set me to thinking thusly. The overblown, suffocating, cloying  “blossom” palette was the epitome of Texas desert sunbloom chic: shades just this side of sunburnt, pink flush & red thrush (yes I said thrush),  the lurid orange of a burning fag end in the electric purple of a Texas night, the triple shade of blue in the Texas sky, tortoise-shell & cacti green, dark lips and nail polish like fingers dipped in dried blood or crude oil. It also reminded me of the intense warning colours of certain kinds of poisonous frogs and butterflies (and oh, let’s chuck in some birds as well, chickens for instance, just for fun), or the bone-dry rattle of a certain snake, I forget its technical name.

Now I have always subscribed to fashion that works like this kind of aposematism. This tendency to become highly noticeable and distinct from harmless organisms is the antithesis of crypsis, or avoidance of detection. The benefits of aposematism are dual: creature one, the aposematist, (okay so I made that word up) avoids being eaten; creature two avoids an horrific & ironic death by poison because they had fair warning. Aposematism has been such a successful adaptation that harmless organisms have repeatedly evolved to mimic aposematic species, a pattern known as Batesian mimicry, or cheap “fashion” knock-offs worn by bogans, WAGS, and people who shop at ZARA. Another related pattern is Müllerian mimicry, where aposematic species come to resemble one another, but that is by-the-by.

Read Next: High Noon, Shitsville, TX


In Monroeville, AL

I have taken some time to think this over so it won’t sound too hysterical. I am in Monroeville, Alabama writing this now. Monroeville, AL is the town in “To Kill a Mockingbird” and also has some connection to Truman Capote, who has always struck me as a gross little turd. I may be one of the only people in the world who dislikes “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” but all that Fred- Fred- Fred- bullshit makes me want to slap Audrey Hepburn in the face. Interestingly Marilyn was Capote’s first choice to play Holly Golightly, but Lee Strasberg told her that playing a prostitute would be bad for her image so she turned it down. Too bad. Marilyn could have said Fred- Fred- Fred- without sounding like a retarded dick, and still be a knock-out call girl. Audrey Hepburn’s very sexless. Consequently that is a very shit movie.

Oh I forgot I was telling you about Monroeville. Well, Monroeville has red roads and everything is made of wood. We just kind of idle along. I am sitting in a diner that is Deco. The outside is covered in greenish lacquered tiles, it is sort of long and shaped like a tram. Inside it is dark wood & very cool. I have found five dead flies along the window sill, the menus are printed very prettily and everything is quite cheap. I am waiting for some meal that will take my mind off things, currently I drink Coca Cola in a tall glass & you can smoke inside here, what luck. There are some lovely trees and a park or town square with civic pride statues and a museum. I will go there later and view Civil War memorabilia and maybe buy a postcard or a badge. The one thing I will say is, the Civil War is probably the first war that was recorded in photographs. You get the daguerreotypes of the soldiers standing in their uniforms and the soldier’s little mothers (they’re always so little) sitting in crinolines & looking thunderous. It is funny that when you see pictures of people that you know to be dead, they look like they are dead already.

Read Next: The Road to Shitsville, TX

People who post pictures of their food on facebook can fuck off

People who post pictures of their food on facebook can fuck off out of my life.

Pho is the worst offender: iphone instagram photo: “great pho…” “best pho ever…” “pho time!!!” (50 different people all with the same finessed appreciation of pho and the pho- photographic skills to render it like the quaint but touching ochre-tinted photos of your parents’ wedding in the late 70s, with all of your old aunties and grandparents, now long dead and gone, wearing their nice but fake pearls and genuine smiles). What the phuck is pho anyway. Looks like wet vegetables to me.

Why have cooking shows such as Masterchef elevated food to an “art”? People think they’re cultured because they have an appreciation for food, but wouldn’t know the inside of a gallery unless there was some kind of cheap dumpling restaurant attached to it or it was sponsored by a boutique beer company who serve their bottles in paper bags to be quaint.

Worse than that… I’m glad you enjoy your phood… but according to your facebook, everyday, every meal is better than the last… This instant posting of photos and opinions means people don’t hold their thoughts in their heads for more than two seconds; facebook is the repository of your life, thoughts and memories. Alright, we all need a bit of help there, especially if you’re a lithe young hipster who drinks the vino and the goon and the vodka like a fish,  &  takes the old eccy poppers with the same frequency as vitamin supplements, but if you instantly relegate all thought, memory and opinion from your brain onto the net, it makes critique and comparison very difficult. You need to be able to hold two things beside each other in order to compare them and come up with an informed appraisal (and to see if, at the end of the day, they have any real or lasting value). Try it and see how hard it is: go on, hold onto two thoughts at once.

At the end of the month, if this bowl is “the best pho ever”, doesn’t that mean that the bowl you also photographed and assessed as “the best ever” at the beginning of the month was comparatively crap? How can I respect your opinion?

The only time I want to see another picture of “The best pho ever” is from someone who, at the end of their life, flicks through all of the pho photos on their ipho-phone and remembers, truly remembers, and feels for certain after 80 years of thoughtful and considerate pho eating, that this one – this bowl – really was the best of the lot.

Then I want to see it juxtaposed with the nostalgia-hued instagram photo of the toilet bowl and all that remained once you’d had your way with it.

Fuck Cecil Beaton

Taking a stand against Cecil Beaton, praised to the skies for his gauzey soft-focus photography and overblown costumes for My Fair Lady, this (direct) recreation of a stupid lampshade dress from the 1910’s which makes Audrey Hepburn look like a dick, his microscopic anti-semitism published in Vogue (“Cholly asks: WHY?? is Mrs Selznick such a social wow – Why is Mrs Goldwyn such a wow? …Party Darling Love Kike. Mr R Andrews ball at the El Morocco brought out all the damned kikes in town”) and the conveniently forgotten fact that he was finally fired not for this but because he did a sloppy job of assembling and photographing a “how-to-wear these must-have pieces” story.

Representatives for the defence of Harry Potter

Thoughtful Reader, I would like to confess (you may agree) that I probably rank as one of the world’s most cynical people. But cynicism has its limits; one of things I become most cynical about is a kind of cultivated cynicism in others, which crops up often in journalism that references success stories, Hollywood executives, marketing, merchandise, franchises, blah blahblahblah and is proud to confess scorn for a thing just because the bling of $$$$$ is going off like flashbulbs and the sound of cash registers opening and closing (*!*!*!*) is perceptible in the background. As though capitalism is the end result of a huge, secret, unknowable conspiracy between big business and governments, rather than a perfectly visible, illuminated, debated, criticised, analysed and generally understood (and accepted) social-economic system that grew out of the industrial revolution.

I have read only the first 4 Potter books and have seen only the first 3 movies and I don’t mind waiting ten or fifteen years before I get around to finishing them off. I do intend to finish them one day, but the books before the films, and it could be a while before I am in the reading “Harry Potter” mindset again. (On a side note, I started reading “The Wind in the Willows”, page 1, in 1994, gave it up, came back to it last year, stopped at Chapter 10, and still plan to finish it one day, but it too can wait).  What can I say?  I like “Harry Potter” (or, what I have read so far). I like the boy himself and his stupid lightning bolt scar and dorky Lennon glasses, and will stand up for him in the face of all of the articles that are now cropping up, with the release of the final movie installment, which either question Harry’s “real” value to literature and cinema, or like to suggest the Potter hysteria is a product of the film industry & the publisher’s clever PR… and that in years to come, once the hysteria has died down, people may come to see that Potter was perhaps not quite worthy. The other style of articles appearing are nervous but defiant declarations of love (by adults) who seem to be writing in the face of (unarticulated) criticism, the cultural sneer (on unseen faces) of those people who would laugh at or question the presence of a Harry Potter book on an adult’s bookshelf.

… “it’s far too soon to tell what Harry Potter’s literary legacy will be. Ever since J. K. Rowling sold the film rights to the series in 1999, Warner Brothers has used its own mass media wizardry to crank up the volume on every Harry Potter book, film and other branding opportunity of the past 12 years. How could it fail to be the best-selling book series ever, with sales thus far of 450 million? I know children who thought loving Harry Potter was compulsory.”

But, “the big love for the boy wizard isn’t all manufactured. The first reviews of the first book, in 1997, were positive before the hype. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was ”magic”, ”imaginative”, ”inventive”. More than one reviewer compared J. K. Rowling to Roald Dahl.”

Read more: http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/harry-confronts-the-test-of-time-20110712-1hc11.html#ixzz1Rz5bWkYE

I am not attached to Harry Potter for nostalgic reasons. I didn’t read the first book until I was 16 or so, because I wanted to know what my little bruv was on about. I was raised on Roald Dahl, Narnia, Oz, Enid Blyton, The Neverending Story, Labyrinth, Mary Poppins, etc., but, unlike many superior others, gentle reader, I don’t feel personally offended or defensive because, in the eyes of young children, Potter may outshine my favourites. Actually it’s because all cynics were once idealists, and the smothered idealist in me genuinely responds to certain elements of Harry Potter.  (Thoughtful Reader, you should probably put on your Gandalf costume left over from that one party you went to in 1982 and sit down somewhere comfy to read Harry, even though you think it’s derivative, that there really isn’t a pin to choose between Gandalf and Dumbledore, that crappy boarding school stories make you sick, that Rowling’s prose is clunky and does not reach the sublime heights of Roald Dahl, etc).

Point the first. Every witch and wizard story is derivative, you know the drill: archetypes, Jung, Star Wars etc., etc., etc. They all have Celtic/pagan roots. But the Potter books aren’t a cynical rehash of this stuff to make $$$$. The cliched elements have been rendered with such a depth of vision that you literally fall into the Potter world like into a puddle, never mind the clunky language…  The premise of the Potter books is certainly not original; I remember reading “The Worst Witch at Boarding School” when I was in primary school. The Worst Witch books pre-date Harry Potter, but were made into a kid’s TV series only after Potter became popular. In fact strip away the magic and the Potter world is very English and fairly traditional. They have that Whimsical English sense of humour. The school, the shops, they’re all sort of old-fashioned, Dickensian pubs and alleyways. They deal with the childhood conceits of lollies that explode in your mouth, trading cards, steam trains, board games of chess and snakes and ladders (albeit with real snakes), that kind of hokey thing. But being twee is not a crime.

Collage and pastiche are not crimes, even in Art. “The Lord of the Rings”, as everyone already knows, is a kind of reworking of British dreaming: wizards, elves, goblins, monsters etc. are all stock characters in Celitic, British and Norse mythology. Terry Pratchett’s Discworld stories nod to everyone from JRR Tolkien to Shakespeare to Elvis Presley to Monty Python.  An amateur painter (or a bad artist) may make direct copies, or use pastiche and collage to create a kind of art-by-numbers; a good artist will use the pastiche and collage of old, traditional, familiar and “cliched” elements to create something entirely new. Here the new arrangement renews the life inside the object that has been deadened by over-familiarity; a new eye, a new perspective gives that object a new polish; a new meaning can be created out of an old one.

It’s the same clunky charm of the mechanical puppets in the Myer Christmas windows, loved by kids and adults on their lunch breaks alike. Why? Some of the charm derives from the fact that these things tap into something 90’s kids missed out on, and they remind adults of something that went missing.

What went missing? As the Empires of Sony and Apple Macs took hold in the 1980’s, the popularity of “magic” in books and films gave way to “technology”; instead of killer zombies there were killer robots (“Frankenstein” vs. “Terminator”); instead of turning to a wise elder for advice the kids just turned on their computer and asked the computer questions. Technology was getting better and better, and the possibilities inherent in this new technology were naturally very exciting. But this obsession with technology meant that the next generation of kids became disassociated from the roots of magic and society (that’s a very earthy, mysterious thing) because “having a computer” was the new “having a pet dog”. Nothing can teach you love and friendship, loyalty, responsibility and the joy of running about in the mud like maniac the way a dog can. Now everyone has a computer instead (Farmville… Tamogotchi…) and that real connectedness with others and with nature, running, jumping, climbing trees, has gone out the window. Harry Potter brought this kind of knock-about adventurousness and “magic” back into the lives of children. Unlike Spykids, Harry & Co. aren’t precocious computer hacking geniuses. If there’s a problem that needs to be solved it takes them a while, they bungle through in the meantime playing games and learning magic spells, and finally Hermione resorts to going to the library and looking up the answer in a book.

They’re definitely old fashioned, but boarding school stories have a perennial charm. Since “Stalky & Co.” (Kipling) boarding school stories gradually deteriorated and became pulp, because hack writers would just regurgitate the same, popular elements over and over again. But they were popular for decades, from the 20s and 30s when “Dimsie” was queen,  even into the sixties, but they dropped out of favour: not because people realised they were shitty, but because boarding schools became more and more associated with the aristocracy and snobs and privilege, which is not very cool. They’re not all as crap as each other (some are very very good. Enid Blyton had St Clare’s and the other one… remember also Willian’s and Searle’s “Molesworth” and “St Trinian’s”). Boarding school stories aren’t even unique to children’s literature: “Catcher in the Rye” starts as a boarding school story, doesn’t it? More recently there’s been “Old School” by Tobias Wolff, “Prep” by that girl, you know the one… The Oxford section of “Brideshead Revisited” is to a certain extent an outcrop of the boarding school story… and Evelyn Waugh’s brother Alec first of all came to attention for his earnest boarding school story, “The Loom of Youth”… never mind why). The reason for the ongoing popularity of these stories with children is because the boarding school is a cloistered world, a world of children. Despite the teachers flittering in and out it is the kids who are citizens, the kids who have to work out their own politics and society and honour system, and that one is quite different to the (sex & money) society and politics of adults that exists outside of the school in “the real world”. It’s a very accurate depiction of the child’s mentality that they can stake everything on the outcome of a cricket game. Other than that boarding school stories are all about the excitement of independence (being away from home for the first time), making new friends, learning new things, etc. Universal themes, universal appeal.

Last but not least Harry and his friends aren’t these slick cool characters. They aren’t A+ students, they’re dorks, they’re poor, they get daggy homemade sweaters for Christmas… People identify with that… They’re not sexy witches either, they’re daggy. Dressing up to go and see the movie with those daggy round 3D glasses is a bit camp… that’s the real appeal. Everyone knows it’s daggy, you don’t need to point it out.

It’s silly of people to scorn certain books (especially kids books) because of a perceived lack of literary merit: there are only about 4 kids books I can think of that are pristine, perfect world, perfect language: Alice in Wonderland, Winnie The Pooh, The Wind in the Willows and Roald Dahl’s books. Do you really want to restrict your kids to these books, and these alone?

But then there’s another, much larger group of “Classic” (and worthy) children’s books, which aren’t perfect. Peter Pan, Mary Poppins, Dorothy (and Toto), Aslan, Anne of Green Gables, Pollyanna, Little Lord Fauntelroy, the Horatio Algers heroes… Fewer and fewer people have read these books in the decades (or centuries) since their original publication, but they are still in print and they still sell. In a way they kind of don’t even need to be read anymore because the names and personalities of the characters are so well known, they have passed into the cultural cache. Obviously there’s something there, a force of imagination, that transcends the (sometimes shabby) writing. Harry Potter belongs to this group, and I do think he’ll stand the test of time in the same way they have.

It would pay to think like a child when reviewing books (and films) for children. I loved the second group of books when I was a kid (especially the Narnia books and the Oz series…  L Frank Baum wrote 14 Oz books, not just “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz”… Anne of Green Gables and Mary Poppins are also series. Children really love series, but not because the publishers have tricked them into it in order to steal the pennies they earned sweeping chimneys… Essentially it’s because the kids don’t want the dream to end… Ergo, the appeal of the concept of “The Neverending Story”).  In contrast I didn’t really “get” Alice in Wonderland; infact I skipped over nearly every poem in Alice (therefore skipping half the book) and was kind of infuriated by the lack of narrative and a sort of suspicion that somewhere, somehow I was being preached at.  Just the concept of “Wind in the Willows” bored the shit out of me… that is why it took me fifteen years to get past page one.

Then I grew up. Unlike Peter Pan. Now I love Alice – love, love, love. I end up reading Alice in Wonderland about four times a year, by accident. No wonder I didn’t get it when I was little – it’s a nihilist’s bible.

‘That’s very important,’ the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: ‘Unimportant, your Majesty means, of course,’ he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.

‘Unimportant, of course, I meant,’ the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, ‘important–unimportant– unimportant–important–‘ as if he were trying which word sounded best.

Some of the jury wrote it down ‘important,’ and some ‘unimportant.’ Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; ‘but it doesn’t matter a bit,’ she thought to herself.

I should add, the reason I am making my way through “The Wind in the Willows” so slowly is because I love the language of it.

In a way, reading the crappier books gave me a greater appreciation for the good ones… even if this appreciation only came as an adult.  You have to learn to appreciate quality, you can’t just shove quality down a kid’s throat and say, “There! Shakespeare! You’d better like it or everyone will think you’re dumb!”

It’s very, very difficult capturing Characters on paper; it’s even more difficult when you’re worried that some B. Arts (Hons) journalist is gonna start picking at your language (note: “gonna”). I have a tremendous amount of respect for JK Rowling because she did what so many others have failed to do.