If you are a frequent reader of my blog you will no doubt be aware that this Semester in my University course I turn my head to poetry. Now, I don’t like poetry. I never have done and although I like to think of myself as open-minded, I fear I never will. The reason why poetry as a whole has never appealed to me is its creation of an undeniable air of pretentiousness amongst its avid readers. If I may elaborate: a student walked, no, swaggered into my Music elective last week wearing a cravat, horn-rimmed glasses with no lenses, holding an old, leather-bound copy of a book containing selected poems by Percy Shelley. They say you form an impression of a person within a few seconds of seeing them and within about a half of one of these precious seconds I instantly decided that I would very much like to test the sturdiness of his face against the business end of a spade.
It is this creature whom I most despise. Don’t get me wrong, wearing a cravat is perfectly reasonable – post turning 90 – and I would be the first to support anyone in wearing whatever style of glasses they liked – as long as they, oh I don’t know, were used for their primary function, not so someone can saunter down the street exclaiming to passers by how ‘indie’ they are. It was no surprise to me that this person was holding the book that he was. He is the kind of person you see on a train very evidently reading Dickens or Shakespeare in an attempt to somehow elevate his social status amongst a group of people who he has never spoken to and who would potentially, depending on the journey, beat him to death for wearing ridiculously over-polished black and white brogue shoes.
As far as I could see, a few years ago these snooty, cravat-wearing tosspots only read poetry. Now it seems that they’re branching out into other areas of popular culture I previously thought they never knew existed, most notably films and music. The favourite band of this kind of human is The Smiths. They will exclaim that Morrissey has written some of the most “beautiful and spontaneously moving” lyrics of their generation, even though he wrote most of his lyrics before the night their Dad’s got lucky 18 or so years ago, and point out that “they have a song for every mood possible.” Which, to be fair, is true; if you constantly feel like committing suicide.
The same goes for films. This kind of creature spends their time at a Cornerhouse cinema or local picture house, not a large cinema chain. They don’t watch films though mind you; they explore their soul through the medium of the ‘contemporary visual arts.’ They are the kind of person who can watch a silent movie and proclaim that it ‘spoke’ to them on “moving, spiritual plain,” because just “liking” a film will surely never do.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have come across this person at a time in which I was tired, it was early and I was reluctant to even be in Uni at the time it was. Or perhaps coming across him was just the thing I needed to start the much sought after revolution we so badly need against these horrific malfunctions of the human race. I’d probably opt for the latter... if it wasn’t so mainstream.
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