Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Those Were The Days
For some queer reason, it's assumed I have a up-to-the-minute grasp of the pop-cultural Zeitgeist. Work-colleagues all congregate round the water-cooler, like acolytes to my Delphi, for pronouncements on last night's must-see telly, and my opinions on the latest artistic vibe down Hoxton way.
It's all down to being a gay man, I suppose, a colourful and comparatively rare bird in the humdrum beigeness of the corporately-suited world. Gay men have their finger on the pulse: everyone knows that. The Sunday supplements and the fag-mags say so: it must be true. Ever eager to express our individuality (as long as it's the same), we eagerly adopt new fashions (as long as it's unwearable with a big label) and establish exciting new trends in music (as long as it's Kylie). Oh, my dears, we are just so hip our bottoms are falling off!
Er, well, not quite. In an attempt to save myself from any future water-cooler moments, I would like it to be known that: I have seen not one single episode of either Buffy or Angel, nor do I intend to, only two of
Although I can recognise most male stars, I cannot put a face to the names of Minnie Driver, Meg Ryan, or Sandra Bullock. However, I know every contour of Monroe's figure, had an auntie who looked like Katharine Hepburn, and consider Louise Brooks to be very probably the most beautiful woman who ever lived. I do not know exactly for what J-Lo is famous.
I have a sneaking suspicion that the last concert I attended was at the Royal Albert Hall, featuring Shirley Bassey. (In my defence, at the time I was a big Morrisey fan trying to be ironic.). I do not know who is number one at the moment, cannot name one song by Eminem, and, though I like Goldfrapp enormously, I think Noosha Fox did it better first time round. I also own more than a few albums by Melanie, but I'd rather not discuss that here. I think Gregorian chant is cool.
I'm not too keen on modern art; which, for me, starts round about 1945, and believe a cow's proper place is in the field and not formaldehyde. And I have never seen a cut, director's or otherwise, of Bladerunner, Pulp Fiction, A Clockwork Orange, or anything with Johnny Depp in it. But there's not a thing on 1920s German Expressionist cinema you can catch me out on, and I can quote you line for line from Sunset Boulevard..
I do not know what post-modernism means.
Finger on the pulse? Foot in the grave, more like.