Among a list published today of the great mysteries of life that puzzle us feeble humans, rubbing shoulders with conundrums like hob big is the universe, is there a god, does life have any meaning, is there a fundamental particle that holds matter together, why did Jennifer Grey have that effin’ nose job, who put the ding in rama lama ding dong, does anyone know what the Large Hadron Collider is supposed to do and who ate all the pies is the question of what do women see in Russell Brand.
Now this is not a question that has ever troubled me. Living in the north I have never met a woman who sees anything in Russell Brand. The nearest was one of my daugter’s friends who said “Sometimes he’s nearly a bit funny.”
Actually Boggart Blog though Brand had married Jonathan Ross and buggered off. Sadly not.
This question’s appearance in the list does highlight one serious issue however. That of the widening cultural divide between people to the south of that imaginary line from the Severn to the Trent.
Up in the north here we still like comedians who tell jokes. They need not have beer bellies od dinner jackets and bow ties, but we like humour to be delivered in packets that have the structure of a joke, anecdote or comic monologue.
In the south the new wave of comedian (with the exception of Jack Whitehall and Mickey Flanagan) are unfunny middle class kids who stand on stage for an hour mumbling introspectively about how they hate themselves, all their mates and relatives and their middle class background. Except for Marcus Brigstock who is just a twat.
What we have here is the tragic humour of the clown, the grotesque, the freak. Clowns are not funny, they are tragic, their faces hideous masks, their baggy trousers and oversized shoes serving only to accentuate their clumsiness and ineptitude. But a certain kind of person laughs at clowns because the clown’s tragedy is their tragedy.
In a world controlled by advertising and propaganda, the world inside the M25 for example, on Planet Metrosexual only perfection is accepatable. So everybody, and when I say everybody I think we all know I mean Guardian readers because they are so self absorbed they don’t know anyone else exists, falls short of their target. So they feel inept and clumsy because they are not perfect and they feel grotesque because they are not anorexic and they feel inadequate because they are not the CEO of Barclays Bank. And they hate themselves for all of it.
Russell Brand’s appeal to women lies in this self hatred. Self haters are prone to addiction and the self hating metrosexual women, addicted to chocolate and Chardonnay, white wine, throwing up, the gym, shopping and Sex-and-the-City identify with Russell Brand because he talkes about his self hatred and addictions, to drugs, sex, wanking, taking about his addictions, taking aboutr sex, talking about wanking and most of all his unhappiness. These silly bints think he will understand them and they can make him happy.
The women who rate Brand sexy are of a certain type (sic) I can’t see Essex girls going for Brand, they like someone with a bit more muscle. Norhern girls certainly don’t because they think all southerners are wusses.
Right so that’s Russsell Brand sorted. Next, the meaning of life.
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