Posted in February 2010

Bully for The Observer

The Observer did a good launch. The redesign is subtle, efficient and readable – and, as Jeremy Leslie says, it benefits from cutting away a lot of the excess sections. A Sunday paper that doesn’t leave me with a depressing jumble of unread newsprint to scrunch into the recycling come Monday? That’s something I might actually buy semi-regularly.

But it’s not just what The Observer team were selling: it’s how they sold it. Securing the Rawnsley extract for the relaunch meant that The Observer was dominating news coverage for the whole weekend. Anyone who was likely to buy a newspaper on Sunday would have known that The Observer was offering an agenda-setting story, and had to consider buying it.

A few people think it was wrong to print Rawnsley’s analysis of Brown. I don’t: The Observer isn’t the house journal of the Labour party, and “Prime Minister is a bully” is absolutely newsworthy. So, good for the paper, and probably not that bad for Brown. After all, it’s hardly a surprise if powerful men have volatile tempers. People who already thought that Brown was a cracked paranoiac will take this as confirmation; people who feel better disposed to him will see it as an unfairly exaggerated portrait, sweetened by Rawnsley account of Brown’s creditable reaction to the banking crisis in 2008.

Anyway, regardless of Rawnsley’s terribly civic minded editorial about how the voters have a right to know the character of their leaders, all the stabbing-a-chair-with-a-Biro, was-a-bit-rude-to-a-typist stuff is gossip and scandal. Interesting, but not exactly the stuff of poll booth conversions – general elections aren’t referendums on the sort of workplace environment the No 10 staff should enjoy, and if it was, we’d be a nation of vicious sadists to offer Andy Coulson to the Garden Girls instead of Brown.

Thanks to Christine Pratt and the mysterious intervention of the now-imploding National Bullying Helpline (ace exposé work done by Adam Bienkov), the bully-Brown story was too smudgy to leave an impression by dawn today anyway. It did its weekend work, and now it’s been sucked into the rolling narrative of unstable PM/aggrieved statesman (depending on where you stand) that’s pretty much guaranteed to continue until Brown steps aside to become a cheerful economics professor or whatever he has planned for afterwards. And if NBH is discredited off the back of this, the BBC has taken a hit too for its credulous reporting of a dubious source.

When the next round of polling comes out, I’d guess that Rawnsley’s revelations will have done relatively little to affect the relative standing of the Tories and Labour – and had a much, much bigger impression on his paper’s launch circulation. The Observer did a good launch. And that’s probably all the bullying story comes to.

Text © Sarah Ditum, 2010

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Fundament of fashion

There’s quite an exciting tease on the latest Vogue cover. Under Alexa Chung’s lovely face, opposite the big sexy number hit,  the bottom right cover line promises that Vogue is going to tackle “The last taboo”. What could the last taboo in Vogue-land be? Maybe it’s being a size 12. Maybe it’s pedophilia. Maybe it’s acknowledging the existence of poverty (or at least, women who feel a bit sick at the idea of paying over 100 quid on a shirt).

Obviously, it’s not any of those things. Those things are worse than taboo – they’d be the undoing of Vogue’s special kingdom held together by dreams, where skinny teenage girls wear clothes you can only afford with an income that would serve half-a-dozen modest families. Anyway, I can’t wait around guessing any longer. Tell me, Vogue: what is the last taboo?

It’s poo. Poo, poo, poo, poo, poo, poo, poo (thank-you for chucking it all over the page, art editors). And because it’s so unspeakable, Christa D’Souza has written three astonishing pages on the subject. It’s a bit like the editorial team has had a momentary lapse of self-censorship and forgotten that an obsession with elimination is a symptom of eating disorders. (“Oh no, you’ve caught me being bulimic in the features section!”)

“So why, then, if it is such an integral, pleasurable part of our lives, are so many of us hung up about it?” wonders Christa, who then undertakes an odyssey of self-discovery in the lower bowel – which involves going to a Harley Street doctor who puts a balloon up her bottom and watches her excrete it, in order to assess her technique.

Because – and maybe you weren’t aware of this, what with this being the Last Taboo – there is a U and a non-U way to defecate. Yes there is. The fashionable shitter needs to consider “the shape and the colour” of her emissions. You see, without Vogue, you’d never understand all the very subtle ways in which your bodily functions can be shameful. And now you can go straining after the perfect movement. That, my stylish friends, is what aspiration is all about.

Text © Sarah Ditum, 2010

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Useless

True art is purposeless, says Victoria Coren. Therefore, she continues (not totally logically, but we’ll get to that), no one gets to critique Martin Amis on his politics:

The young rapscallion (60) is in trouble again, after calling for euthanasia booths where pensioners can be dispatched “with a martini and a medal”. This extreme and evidently unserious solution to what he describes as a “silver tsunami” threatening to flood the domestic coast has been written up in high dudgeon by a disapproving press, studded with furious condemnations from all the obvious places.

They are missing the point entirely, just as they do when they slam Martin Amis for making “misogynistic” or “Islamophobic” statements. He isn’t a politician, a religious leader nor even a philosopher. He’s an artist. It doesn’t matter what he says, as long as he says it beautifully. Which he always does. Never mind the content, feel the form!

The Observer, “All hail Henry Dagg – he’s a true artist”

The Henry Dagg story doesn’t really get us anywhere near to Martin Amis. Dagg’s work – an impossible, impractical sculpture delivered four years after deadline – had no political content (assuming we discount the politics of aestheticism that make a useless, pretty object so desirable to Coren). Amis’ work absolutely does. He cleaves to the modish big issues as compulsively as a newspaper columnist, only his columns come several inches thick, five years late, and with even more made up stuff.

But let’s take a look at Amis the artist’s amazing doings with words. Here he is in an interview with Tom Chatfield of Prospect magazine:

We had a ten-year holiday from this feeling (of imminent apocalypse)  in the 1990s. The nuclear cold war, then a ten-year holiday, then Islam. Islam only up to a point, one mustn’t exaggerate: the number of people killed by terrorism in the west is the same as the number of Americans who drown in the bath. [...] But then again, the weather, climate change…

Prospect, “Martin Amis: the Prospect interview”

Here, “the master” before whom Coren thinks all writers should prostrate themselves deftly manages to draw an equivalence between 1. nuclear war, 3. climate change and 2. Islam. Not “Islamist terrorism”. Not even “radical Islam”. Just “Islam”, the world religion. (You could argue that he was provocatively suggesting the objects of sequential modern terrors without endorsing the fear of them – could, only you’ve almost certainly read his “The Muslim community will have to suffer until it gets its house in order” interview.)

If we were following Coren’s critical injunctions, we’d never be able to appreciate the delicate way Amis conveys his irrational fright of Islam by weighing it syntactically with potentially civilization-destroying horrors like climate change and nuclear war. You just can’t appreciate how linguistically gifted Amis is until you begin to see what gnarled little bigot he really is.

Text © Sarah Ditum, 2010

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