* 200 articles. Two years. Whelk. The best of Upsideclown. Might be reprinted.

A Lil' Nite Muzak

29 November 2001
Jamie's been dumbed down.

Don't ask me when it happened. Maybe it's something to do with neglecting my usual habits (Times Crossword every breakfast, Verdi on the way to work, The Economist on the way home), maybe it's just the drink and the drugs. Maybe it's living with a pair of twenty-year-old girls (actually, that would probably do it). Whatever the reason, my tastes have noticeably slipped over the last six months.

Exactly a year ago today, I was getting ready for press night at the ballet, followed by a late supper with fellow art lovers and critics. I had spent a pleasant morning attending a lecture on Dada at the British Library, and was in the process of aiding the digestion of a light lunch at Yushoi Mishugi's new art-deco sushi bar with a small glass of VSOP. The bath was running, and I could smell the scent of my lavender bath oil suffusing the apartment.

Now look at me. I'm sitting in my dressing gown and tracksuit bottoms, having spent the whole day in bed. A can of Fosters and a half-smoked Camel light share the small table to my left. I'm waiting for my flatmates to finish in the bathroom so I can have a quick scrub and get ready for our evening in Crazy Larry's. And I'm looking forward to it. After Eastenders, of course.

People have offered different theories. The one I used to buy into was that this was a process of cultural osmosis: I'd be exposed to a new range of experiences, so it was only natural that some of the influences I was lacking seeped into my character. So I encountered the hitherto unknown attractions of Kylie Minogue, the delights of a Mega-Mac Meal (to which I 'went large'), the Hollyoaks omnibus. A whole new world opened up.

But if this were true, surely it would have worked both ways. There'd have to be some sort of equalisation, some kind of exchange. I exposed them to the delights of Newsnight (though Kirsty Wark was becoming less alluring by the day), to nights at the opera, to wine served at the right temperature, to the Observer, even to Ealing comedies for a little light relief. No response. It was like some kind of cultural black hole, like living with vampires hungry for good taste. And they drained the fight from me. Appears that I was spiritually weak and easy to influence, quite simply.

I've been disowned by my usual social circle, needless to say. The only premiere I've enjoyed recently is advertised by Dani Behr; the nearest I've got to an arthouse movie in the last twelve months was Billy Elliot. And I couldn't see the point of that one. My level of conversation hasn't exactly gone down well with the litterati, who appeared distinctly unimpressed with my passionate avocation of 4-4-2 as guest speaker at a poetry dinner. It's really made me feel like I don't belong there any more.

On the other hand, it has allowed my to make a few new friends. One girl was so impressed with my exclamation of 'I carried a watermelon?!!' (long story, circumstances too many and confusing to go into here) that she ended up sleeping with me - the first time I ever got someone into bed without reciting Baudelaire to them first. And while I must admit to missing the increasingly alcoholic lunches-that-became-dinners we used to enjoy in my club, I have started regaining my figure through our regular visits to the gym and twice-weekly visits to nightclubs. I'm quite a mover, if the truth be told.

And move I do. As the room resounds with the glorious sounds of S Club 7, I'm getting the energy together to have a large one tonight. The blazer has worked its way down to the very bottom of my wardrobe, where it nestles amongst the school ties and the tweed; Man at Burton is my new look, it seems. So, if you want to spot me on the dancefloor, I'll be the one being stared at adoringly by young girls half his age. You're more than welcome to join me. Laters.


This is the fucking archive

Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
13 October 2003. Jamie writes: The Persistence of Memory
22 September 2003. Jamie writes: The Email Eunuch
1 September 2003. Jamie writes: Credo
11 August 2003. Jamie writes: Brad and Jennifer and Me
21 July 2003. Jamie writes: Interruption
30 June 2003. Jamie writes: Do you remember the first time?
12 June 2003. Jamie writes: Forthcoming Attractions
19 May 2003. Jamie writes: Stupid Mistake
28 April 2003. Jamie writes: Hoping and Praying
7 April 2003. Jamie writes: Strangers on a Plane
17 March 2003. Jamie writes: Q&A
24 February 2003. Jamie writes: Altered States
3 February 2003. Jamie writes: How to say goodbye
13 January 2003. Jamie writes: In A League Of Their Own
23 December 2002. Jamie writes: What's in a name?
2 December 2002. Jamie writes: Lies, Damned Lies and Spastics
11 November 2002. Jamie writes: Memoirs of a Gaysian: A Preface
21 October 2002. Jamie writes: Love is blindness
30 September 2002. Jamie writes: Time for bed
9 September 2002. Jamie writes: Angry Exchanges Can Be Puzzling [10]
19 August 2002. Jamie writes: High Speed
29 July 2002. Jamie writes: Firkin Hell
8 July 2002. Jamie writes: Do you, er... haiku?
13 June 2002. Jamie writes: Unnatural Porn Thrillers
20 May 2002. Jamie writes: The Triumphant Return of the Septic Fiveskins
25 April 2002. Jamie writes: Meeting People is Easy
4 April 2002. Jamie writes: I Want I Want I Want
7 March 2002. Jamie writes: The Player of Games
11 February 2002. Jamie writes: Fat Man Walking
17 January 2002. Jamie writes: Passive/Aggressive
3 January 2002. Jamie writes: Love (classified)
29 November 2001. Jamie writes: A Lil' Nite Muzak
5 November 2001. Jamie writes: Natural born liar
11 October 2001. Jamie writes: All I need
17 September 2001. Jamie writes: Postcards From The Edge (of the pool)
23 August 2001. Jamie writes: Class act
30 July 2001. Jamie writes: Ritchie Neville is dead
5 July 2001. Jamie writes: A Letter from God
11 June 2001. Jamie writes: "If it's in French, it must be deep"
17 May 2001. Jamie writes: Reportage
23 April 2001. Jamie writes: Show me the Logos
29 March 2001. Jamie writes: Sobering Thoughts
8 March 2001. Jamie writes: Stupid, Stupid, Stupid
8 February 2001. Jamie writes: Spent
15 January 2001. Jamie writes: Full to the brim
21 December 2000. Jamie writes: fuck xmas
27 November 2000. Jamie writes: Eye Candy
2 November 2000. Jamie writes: World-wide-web?
9 October 2000. Jamie writes: Kids' stuff
14 September 2000. Jamie writes: Scatological Warfare
21 August 2000. Jamie writes: I can't stand up (for falling clowns)
10 July 2000. Jamie writes: The Etymology of Greatness

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