Jack Gorman, journalist and writer, interviews Jack Gorman, Penny’s Affair author, in this fascinating and in depth Q&A. Continue reading
Newspapers and TV stations had content at the ready and just as the Union Jack above Buckingham Palace sunk to half mast, social networks became a battle ground between tributes, hatred and death jokes.
Upon hearing Thatcher’s death, I told my work colleagues ‘the good news’. Through reading about Thatcher in Britain in the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s, I’d worn my badge as a Thatcher Hater and engaged myself in a justice for the working class mentality. But her death actually came with an empty feeling somewhere between guilt and shame.
I glanced around the online networks filled with praise and hate, an ongoing debate about whether this 87 year-old woman who passed away from stroke who was (whether 50% of the population agrees or not) an inspiration to many, should go to the grave as a villain or hero. There was a scattering of people borrowing popular sketches from YouTube to express their knee-jerk reaction-And well done to you for expressing yourself in a truly original form.
Are Frankie Boyle’s comments on the plans for her state funeral from Mock The Week really articulating a nation’s hidden voice? It’s merely one man’s opinion and does nothing but humour and enlarge his detest. Was it such a brilliant piece of comedy that speaks for a nation at this time? Looks like it, when one of top Frankie Boyle searches on YouTube is for this specific clip.
Another interesting anti-Thatcher sketch that is being recycled more than a copy of Viz in a shared bathroom comes from Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie in A Bit Of Fry and Laurie. Within his minute speech, Fry gives an honest and frank list of reasons why the pair cannot be confused with being Thatcher fans. It is funny, in that Fry’s delivery is dry and almost emotionless from it’s honesty. But would it be funny out of a comedy situation? Inevitably not, it’s language and tone would feel at home in any after dinner speech stolen from 1989.
That’s not to mention that intelligent anti-Thatcher jabs in The Young One, Spitting Image etc. But back then it was done in taste when a nation was living in a divide. The worst are the modern jokes, influence directly by her death that let alone aren’t, perhaps, dignified but are also proper groaners. If you were at a comedy night and someone belted out on the million gags bleeding through Twitter then you’d be looking for your nearest crate of rotten tomatoes.
Where does this lead me? Will I sit and ponder if a Jimmy Savile look-a-like will be one of the casket bearers? Will I question why Frankie Boyle hasn’t been asked to make a reading during the ceremony? And will I be disappointed that the funeral service isn’t made be a priest in Krusty The Clown costume.
I won’t, because that’s not how things work. There just isn’t any lasting humour in death and the deadpan jokes crumble away to reveal a generous amount of dignity. As much as humour is used to hide our grief it seems it is also there to sweeten our anger.
Still, I’ll crack a joke off this time next year. It might be funny then.
Plus that gives me time to think of a good one.
I like swearing.
And I swear a lot, I’m starting to think if my girlfriend’s mum found out how much I swore-she’d prefer a cracking smoking, drug dealing car thief hanging around with her daughter.
I really like swearing.
“But Jack, people who swear can’t articulate themselves…”
Yeah, you’re probably right. But I’ve got a great extended simile coming up in this rant. I struggle to see how using “clean” words can fully express your fury when the red mist descends like precipitation in the rainforest.
“I am rather, really, very annoyed you’ve ruined my day off. You absent minded indivual. I do hope something bothers you in return for such an annoyance”
Just doesn’t have the same, shoot the other person in the face, kind of effect I was looking for without pulling a pistol in vengance.
The way I see it, my swearing is like showing 9 year-olds hardcore pornography in their first sex education classes. Yes, it is crude, irresponsible and sometimes wrong but, ultimately, gets to the point quickly.
It has come to my attention that my swearing, attitude and lust for hardcore language is upsetting people.
Strange enough, that’s the point.
Remember school? The teachers and lecturers that remain lodged in your mind had the biggest personalities and attitude that helped you learn and had a lasting impression on you.
If you’re down with my lingo and reckless rants you’ll follow me, trust me and evolve your own ideas?
Or is that just me?
Everyone has a first impression of you…
“Yes, mine was Jack saying ‘cunt’ within the first five minutes of meeting him. And that was the description of a door that was stiff…”
Truth is, I hate stiff doors…no, I think people are who they are and that should be respected and so first impressions are dead important.
“How long is it going to be before that niggly feeling I had in our first meeting comes back takes a chunk out of my behind?”
The thing is I make occasional comments on the Internet (you might have seen them) that have upset and annoyed some of you. The last comment that made eyes spin with horror could have been considered as a sarcastic nugget of info-wit, had it been absent of swearing. But at the time, I felt like a gurilla displaying his pride across his broad chest, eyes fixed with honour and at peace with the world, above the laws of decency within modern language.
“I am very happy today” Didn’t have the same swell of victory I needed to convey.
Alas, I am now on a journey of self censorship and anger management (surprisingly swearing is most vivid when rage is fired through my blood) to curb everyone’s impression of me.
This journey is hitting me in the face with problems. I swear, like swearing and made angry nearly every day and this is a recently-made white van man writing here.
Yet, I see it as self expression, relaxation and territiorial pissings. This is who I am, what I do and what I am proud of.
“But do you really need to swear as if you only have four words in your lexicon?”
By this time next week, I’ll be a changed man. Articulate, calm, collected and, like a dog curled by the fire, basking in a glory of doing exactly what I want to do.
Everyone has seen pictures of last week’s shipping disaster in Italy. And now through the maze of chaos theory, news stories are emerging of the Costa Concordia capitian, Fransesco Schettino’s “activities” during the accident.
Being from the Isle of Wight and forever needing to use a ferry to get anywhere in life, I have witnessed the strict sailing procedures and the rarity of operations going wrong. My uncle was a first officer on the QE2 too, and told me about the brilliant technology that make these massive superliner easier to control as well as the safety procedures in place.
So when this accident happened, I rapidly joined the party questioning, what the fuck happened?
If you live on the Isle of Wight, or know your way around it, yet don’t understand why it was initially perplexing. It was as if the Wightlink Yarmouth to Lymington ferry having a bump in East Cowes, an unthinkable accident that, in theory, shouldn’t happen.
But whatever did happen on the ship’s bridge, it has had a tragic impact on a number of families. At the time of writing, 11 people have been confirmed dead with up to 22 people still missing including a 6-year-old girl.
Yet, in today’s I the story of the Captain’s court hearing had me in stitches of dark humour. How on Earth this guy manages to walk through an automatic door without causing incident is beyond me.
In leaks from Italian newspapers, Captain Schettino explained his early escape by suggesting he “inadvertently found himself blocked on a life-raft”.
I’m sorry, but what?
That’s like a flasher suggesting he was looking for his wallet when his penis inadvertently became visible through his long trench coat and trouser-less attire to a playground of an all girls school…these mistakes happen, eh?
The worst parts of these quotes are that he “stumbled” and then became “trapped” in a lifeboat. Just how much of an idiot is this guy?
“Yes, I realised it was wrong to run away from the accident. But when I went to leave the lifeboat, I realised I was trapped and had no choice but to do a runner.”
If this man wasn’t a Captain he would, no doubt, appear on Traffic Cops or Police Interceptors.
“Now, we pulled you over today, Mr Schettino, because you were spotted driving the wrong way down a one way road just so you could wolf-whistle at some 18 year old student…So, we’ve also completed a background check and it turns out you don’t have insurance, MOT or even a full driving licence. We’ve also discovered a note from your doctor that suggests you shouldn’t even be driving you’re so irresponsible. Say here you can’t even be trusted to open a can beans that have already been opened…”
Jokes aside, these turn of events make me worry about the kind of professionals in charge of our safety. How could the Captain be so reckless and be so unsympathetic of his decisions. And remember this blog was “inspired” by his excuse for running off let alone his reasoning for accident happening.
“Something strange happened to the space-time continuum aboard the ship and whilst I was aiming to begin the abonden ship safety proceedings I took one step forward and suddenly found myself escaping…not my fault.”
It’s the same irresponsible actions that caused the Herald Of Free Enterprise disaster surely? A collection of human errors that lead to tragedy. Agreed though, some of those responsible for the accident did help the passengers rather than running away.
Just because technology is there to protect does not mean we have to act like apes and text it beyond it’s capacities. Ultimately it’s been made far worse with such extreme incompetence.
We’re a nation of addicts. Nicotine, alcohol, ‘illegal’ and ‘legal’ drugs, shopping, masturbation and, of course, gambling.
Now, whilst I work myself into an entry level job thus naturally progressing past graduation, which is as difficult as blowing your nose and not looking at the tissues’ content, I occasionally watch that nation’s favourite morning televised feast-The Jeremy Kyle Show.
At the moment, my girlfriend and I gear ourselves into motivation with the relief that we’re not “Jeremy Kyle addicts”. That gives you the height of my Kyle hatred, I cannot stand listening to these people argue, bicker and inarticulate their own morals in front of a TV audience. Sure, I can relate to these people (at times). But please, sort your mess out behind closed doors and preferably in the vacuum of space
Alas, like the Zapruder Film, every once in a while I have to peak into what I’m missing. This morning I watched, I laughed, I slurped at my coffee and sighed with relieve that I could walk away from the TV and get on with my day-until I noticed the gambling adverts hadn’t changed in years.
I am confusing bingo with cribbage? In my understanding bingo is a game people of an older generation play in the hope of winning a bottle of Tesco Basic Sherry and a voucher to have their eyebrows trimmed.
The only fox I can imagine around bingo would one thieving a disposed chicken from the bins behind the hall, or a stuffed one around a punter’s neck.
I’m wrong. There’s big money in bingo now-obviously. Sorry, gambling. No, bingo. What?
Are we being brain-washed into thinking it’s not gambling if it’s bingo? And would you like to know who the real winner of this new ‘craze’ is. Well, that would be ITV who have their own Bingo enterprise.
Yes, they target advertise this stuff to bored housewives who haven’t had a length of their husband’s tickling stick for a number of years.
“Hey, you’ll feel like a sexy bitch if you play Foxy Bingo…yeah, your husband might think about giving you go once you’ve gambled away your life savings away…”
Wrong, being debt ridden isn’t sexy at all…even if you could win millions.
And don’t think I’m picking on women either because some of the males are letting the side down too.
LIVE GAMBLING ON MATCHES…WHAT THE FUCK, HOW IS THAT LEGAL?
I don’t watch a lot of live football, I can’t afford Sky as 98% of Premiership Footballers are girls and 100% of all commentators cannot see Wayne Rooney isn’t the God-send of English Football, but I discovered something rather astonishing in the half time break of this Sunday FA Cup match on Sunday.
Live and updated odds during the ad break. How more forceful can these companies be:
“YOU THERE-BET. BET NOW. BET EVERYTHING YOU’VE FUCKING GOT.”
“Na, I’m fine thanks. I’m enjoying a nice cup of tea with game. Cor isn’t it cracking game…”
“SHUT AND BET NOW, FUCKHEAD!”
“WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BET ON? NEXT GOAL, CORNER, YELLOW CARD, RED CARD, FIRST PLAYER TO BE RACIALLY ABUSIVE, FREE KICK, FIRST WOMAN IN THE CROWD TO SHOW HER BREASTS? ANYTHING! ANYTHING YOU WANT!”
“Well, I’ll go with how long I can go without touching myself inappropriately, please…”
“YOU WANKER…OKAY. I’LL GIVE YOU ODDS OF 4/1 YOU WILL CHOKE YOUR OWN CHCIKEN BEFORE 5PM TONIGHT. AND I KNOW YOUR MISSUS IS AT WORK TILL 6PM AND YOU PICKED UP THE SUNDAY SPORT THIS MORNING…ACCEPT?”
“Challenge accepted! I’ll put a tenner on that, please.”
Seriously, how determined are they to make us gamble. Even if it is just “a couple of quid a month”, you’re still contributing to the betting companies needs.
I wish to be told wrong, maybe the majority of my friends don’t succumb to these incentives and that we’re not a nation stupid enough to by into the idea: “We can all be winners”.
Yes, can is an important word in this belief.
If it was will, I’d be wearing dentures after selling all my teeth gambling on the chances of me offending people by calling masturbation an addiction.
It’s natural, man.
Since I posted my last post, which hit the milestone of being my 50th blog, I have no idea what planet I’ve been breathing on.
I have become attached to my computer, living a strange symbiotic relationship that begins around 30 minutes after I wake and around an hour before I sleep. Sure, I am able to detach myself to feed and bath but other than I’m pretty dependant.
My dependency isn’t pornography related, entirely. I’m writing more than ever on the beginning days of 2012 as part of my New Years resolution: Get Off The Isle of Wight.
Now, previous blog posts will tell you about my book idea and I’m pleased to say I am back in the process of editing the first 3 chapters and introduction. I am also pitching ideas to become a British Touring Car correspondent to major newspapers, a job that would make me as happy as a Billy Goat with freshly trimmed beard. I am also writing for a new online magazine whose first issue came out on Friday, you can check that here.
Regardless, it is all part of the greater mission to be paid to write 24 hours a day. Imagine that, I would become the ultimate information gatekeeper hermit.
Of course, I have been employed in a seasonal job to keep some money in the kitty. Although, my finances is something I no longer wish to digress but in short, I’m never making myself so depressed ever again. Still, the seasonal employment was looking particularly seasonal as, if you haven’t noticed, we (the working classes, of course) are in a recession and money is a bitch. On Friday afternoon, I was told that I was being let go and duly felt disappointed, but understood the reasons why. I awoke to complete a little job hunting yesterday morning to be offered a different position at the company I was let go from the previous day, oh karma you are wicked sometimes.
In short, this new position is going to be awesome. Yet, I am going to restrain from divulging any further info because I do feel that karma is pulling the strings on my existence.
Indeed, when I first met my girlfriend I noticed how superstitious she was. No bags on beds, no wearing of green and generally not trying to jinx anything were key points I adhered to and respected. Now though, I am following these rules and pulling my hair out not to piss off these karmic gods. As I am writing this I’ve noticed my laptop bag is on my bed…shit…
A few weeks before Christmas, I decided I was going to get one over on all this karma and bad luck. I noticed my live wasn’t particularly good when I wasn’t really contributing to the world, no positive thoughts and no motivation to get myself away from the pits of boredom. I needed to change, so I went for a run one morning, freshened up went to town and helped a couple of elderly people at the library, wrote something interesting and began believing myself. Then the phone rang, work called to say I was late (when I wasn’t), some wages I was owed wouldn’t be paid until the following week and then I walked to work in the rain.
That was a demoralising day and it carried on for the rest of the month.
In the first 8 days of 2012, my karma has cradled, kicked and teased me into my new work ethic. I will remain attached to my trusty old Mac and eventually set sail to England.
The New Year brings a change to my radio career. I am back at Vectis Radio on Wednesday evenings, 10pm till Midnight bringing you the best new music I have to offer and the usual moody chit-chat that is best suited for the middle of the week.
“But why should we listen to you, Jack? You’re only good for looking like a poor Jarvis Cocker impersonator that has lost his backing band and beard…”
Every week, I’ll have some the finest talent on the other end of the line, exclusive first plays of singles and my regular features Bootleg Beatuies and Classic Phat Bass…and sooner or later I will be giving away some prizes too.
The last show I did before Christmas had the brilliant Valentine Gray in the studio, I will be dragging them into the studio at some point in the coming months too.
Do tune in and do keep posted. 2012 is queued up and ready to be a very good radio year.
Vectis Radio. Every Wednesday from January 11th from 10pm till Midnight.