the sun shines weakly, on a humdrum town. a thousand thousand identical roofs warm slightly to its touch while those in the buildings beneath stare into the street, wondering why things aren't right yet, after all this time. after everything.
further into the town, a larger building - somewhere full of people. full of young people, many of them pretty. not a nightclub. not that soulless.
or, perhaps, more soulless still:
'but why haven't you picked me?'
'we don't think you're right for this'
'but can't you see how marvellous i am? can't you SEE i'm going to be FAMOUS and RICH and HAPPY?'
'that's nice. next'
one by one, up troop the hopefuls, all willing to give everything they have. all knowing that this time, this will be that breakthrough, this will be
err.... just a quick clarification. i panicked after i'd sent this, because, given the subsequent spin put on mark's words, the comment at the bottom about paddles, and suitable substitutes seems in very poor taste. it wasn't a joke about rape in any way sense or form. i wouldn't do that, and from the (admittedly limited) amount i know about mark there's no way he'd do that either. but i'll let him speak for himself. mine was a clumsy attempt at flirtation. all my attempts at flirtation are clumsy. i'll stick to self-abuse xx ian -----Original Message----- From: ian <hobart@dimensionflip.fsnet.co.uk> To: sinister@missprint.org <sinister@missprint.org> Date: 23 August 2003 21:13 Subject: Sinister: twee idol the
one. full of self-belief, they're completely aware that they're something special, more special than any of the others. the judges smile, and offer opinion, looking firm bodies up and down and doing mental bank-balance calculations. they'll use you up, and they'll throw you away, and you're asking them to do it, because that's your dream.
i can hear this happening in the room nextdoor. the blue light from the box fills the room and entrances my partner, who is doubtless watching the screen for pretty boys. i can't be around it. i can't hear it. partly because it makes me so very sad, and partly because i'm scared i'll end up watching it too, getting pulled in by it, laughing at the people who can't sing, in the same way that everyone else laughs. like people laugh at me because i try to sing because, let's face it, anyone who dares put their head over the parapet deserves everything they get, don't they?
watching it hurts me. i feel like i'm betraying something important in myself. it feels like i'm being unfaithful to my spirit, and yet i could still go and sit there, and let it fill me.
------------------------- that's the modern world. that's fame and fortune, its a cruel game and we're all chasing it. maybe we'd all be on that television, given half a chance, being loud, being 'interesting', trying to be noticed.
thank goodness our heroes are different. thank goodness we like different things, which makes us better than the rest of the world. thank goodness we aren't taken in by the likes of that. oh... but don't some of them look pretty?
i hide in here, with my computer. i want to put on kathryn williams records, or, better still, leonard cohen albums. i want to listen to scottish indie, and pretend i'm so far away from any of that. any of that idol worship. any of that addiction to fame. i won't think about my 'buffy the vampire slayer' box sets, or about those early episodes when xander looked so beautifully toned. and we won't talk about the porn.
no... i'm better than that. i value people for what they are, not as commodities and - god, he looks nice in a tight top.
no, no NO.. i don't think like that. i'll find that book on meditation...now where was it? oh yes... right here, under the tv guide.
perhaps i'll pick up my copy of 'if you're feeling sinister' and conveniently ignore the fact that, just maybe, being famous is something belle and sebastian wouldn't mind all that much, either, wouldn't mind being adored by the people listening at home, by the people watching on the telly, by the people listening at home.
oh, there's a layer of irony in those lyrics, but its defensive irony. its the irony of someone who is aware that they're partly charmed by what they're trying to stand away from.
---------------------
i like the fact that we're different here, that we're not like the rest of the world, that we're so gorgeously twee that we never think about bel ami boys, or sex-toys, or holding someone closely to you as they---
no... i never think about that. i'm far too fluffy.
far too fluffy...fluffy... fluffer...fluff...buff...butt...hmm...butt...hmm...
no, where was i?
okay, i'll come clean ---
i wasn't singing 'i'm a little tea pot' to my pussy cat.
you see, being twee doesn't render you senseless to the world around you. it doesn't make you a better person, although it may, if done sincerely, make you a kinder one. it doesn't stop you being a human being. it doesn't even, really, get rid of that part of you that wants to watch simon cowell spout his destructive, self-glorifying crap in the name of building up his own celebrity status at the expense of other, more fragile beings. because, let's face it, its poor television but its compulsive, if you allow yourself to become a part of it.
sometimes, i wish it did. time away from the world around you is a good thing. time away from the crassness is great. if tweeness is your retreat, then i'd like to join you for a cup of tea. herbal, naturally. with one of those nice biscuits with a cow on it.
if being kind, and sensitive, and soft, and perhaps a little precious is your way of facing the world, then good luck to you. you're going to need it. its a hard world, too hard. full of pop-idol people who know they're better than everyone else (that isn't a dig at anyone around these parts, incase there's any paranoid vibes floating round) and, when a hard thing and a soft thing collide, its easy to guess what might crumple.
no, we can't hide from the world completely. we need it. we're raised in it, and we've absorbed some of its ideals. the need for recognition, affection... maybe even s--e--x.
and guess what kids? its true, perhaps, that there are people out there who won't shag you. probably quite a lot of them.
it might be because you're a girl, it might be because you're a boy, it might be because of the colour of your skin, or tone of your voice. it might be because of those clothes - don't you know that crew cuts and trainers are out again? it might be because they're celibate, or bored, or they want something deeper from life. it might be because you're too hard, it might be because you're affected. it might be because you're too sensitive.
it might be because you're twee. a shame being soft doesn't stop you wanting to get laid. doesn't take away the disappointment of not getting what you want. doesn't heal those wounds any more quickly. doesn't get you a boyfriend, or a girlfriend.
not straight away, anyway.
but you know what? if you come to terms with that, if you stop trying to be hard, if you show your sensitive heart to the world then amongst all those people queuing up to stick knives in it, there might be someone you weren't expecting. someone else with a sensitive heart, someone else who wants to feel safe, and warm, and needs someone who will handle them with care - the care that only comes of knowing how it feels to be easily bruised.
it won't stop you hurting them, of course. it won't take away the pictures of naked men and women that titillate. it won't stop sex selling everything. it won't protect you from the cruelty that passes for saturday night entertainment these days. all of which, together, make staying together and making each other happy a terribly difficult task.
but, you know what? it isn't a bad place to start.
and, sometimes, when that soft thing crumples, it forms a wondefully new shape. something strange, and unexpected, and never seen before. something really original. its never the hammer that's the work of art, always the sculpture. always the new shape, formed from something more malleable, less easy to define.
so be twee. or be hard. be whatever you are. and don't be ashamed. and don't worry about not getting laid. you'll get used to it, as i'm sure you are already. that's life. life is cruel. you don't have to be.
and i'd tell amy linton that her music is twee, gladly. although i wouldn't just throw out the word. i'd explain to her what that meant to me, and how special and important it was, and maybe, just maybe, she'd understand.
i'm blowing you kisses and waving a wand. and i'm sticking a big kiss, particularly, on the head of mr. casarotto who, i'm sure, would never stick a paddle up someone's arse. not really. (you've got something that would work so much better than that, dear).
and maybe i'll catch the end of pop idol. it IS compulsive television.
xx ian
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+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+