PHAUDE.com

It has been said that conversation amongst dull, middlebrow, middle class folk will eventually and inevitably turn to the subjects of schools and property at some given point at any dinner party. These subjects having been exhausted, someone will then think themselves interesting to mention Desert Island Discs. “What will -” (the presumptuous ‘will’ rather than the all-too-realistic ‘would’ belies the arrogance of the questioner) “- what will your chosen records be?”

Being dull, middlebrow, and middle class myself I have of course thought about my answer. I don’t for a moment imagine that the occasion will ever occur when I will be invited to appear on the programme – and if I were to be asked to be banished to Plomley’s island I’d get horribly bogged down in technicalities as I decided on my choices. Should I opt for my actual favourites or those that would make me look cultured and interesting? Should I use the opportunity to choose neglected records that deserve airplay? I know I’d just get flustered and opt for some stupid mixture of Vivian Stanshall, angsty 90s ‘music for bedwetters’, 20s jazz, 70s lounge music and thumping, brassy, classical stuff before instantly regretting my choices. (Practically of course all this is rendered spectacularly irrelevant if one asks for an ipod as a luxury item. I’m surprised no one’s tried that yet.)

However, something that causes me more thought in idle moments (of which, embarrassingly, I have many) is this: what would my Desert Island Books be? If I had to chose eight books, and eight only, to last me the rest of my days what would they be?

There are dull technicalities relating to this too. My rules:

Series shall count as individual books. Thus, for example, Powell’s Dance To The Music Of Time, Raven’s Alms For Oblivion, Proust’s (God help us) A La Recherche de Temps Perdu will all count as one book each, even if spread over several volumes.

The current list (in no particular order) is:

1. Kyril Bonfiglioli’s Mortdecai Trilogy
2. Robert Musil’s Man Without Qualities
3. PG Wodehouse’s Psmith books
4. Brewer’s Dictionary of Rogues, Villains & Eccentrics (William Donaldson)
5. Philip Larkin’s Complete Poems
6. The Compleet Molesworth by Willans & Searle
7. Anthony Powell’s Dance To The Music Of Time sequence
8. The OED

(Close contenders: Alasdair Gray’s Lanark, Georges Perec’s Life: A User’s Manual, Simon Raven’s Alms For Oblivion, Kingsley Amis’ Collected Letters, Julian Maclaren-Ross’s Collected Memoirs, Edward St. Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose tetralogy, G.K.Chesterton’s Collected Essays, Patrick Hamilton’s Hangover Square, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Dream Songs by John Berryman and many, as the old ads had it, many more…)

I reserve the right to change my mind in the morning though. Please give me suggestions. I need new stuff to read.

Anonymous blogging, eh? Pah, harrumph and pschaw. I mean to say, really. I’ve never read Dr. Magnanti’s [1] Belle de Jour blog (though I do enjoy ‘Stan Cattermole’’s Bête de Jour for all its opportunities for bleak schadenfreude), and only ever managed to sit through about ten minutes of Billie Piper’s telly version, a programme which just reinforced for me the claim that ITV has been “entertaining the stupid and undereducated since 1955” as I believe Dead Ringers once ever-so-slightly unfairly said, but the Daily-Maily reaction to her identifying herself has bemused me. The story was essentially:

‘Woman Chooses To Make Easy Money Fucking Strangers And Then Even More Easy Money By Writing About It’

and yet they reacted with typical mimsy outrage. All I thought was that if it was necessary for her to turn to prostitution to pay for her PhD then there was clearly something seriously wrong with academic funding. However, it then made me ponder anonymity and bloggery.

By my estimation about four [2] people read this blog of mine (when, that is, I bother to put anything on it) and they all know who I am anyway, but the casual visitor will have no idea. I’m not deliberately concealing my identity; rather, it strikes me as supremely irrelevant to trumpet information about myself that you won’t be able to glean from reading my blatherings. However, lest I seem to be hiding behind a domain name, here are five phaude facts to keep you going:

1. The first thing I’d buy if I won the lottery would be a stuffed grizzly bear wearing a top hat, positioned as if playing a sousaphone;

5. I can’t count.

Happy now? Goodo. I’m so glad we sorted that out. Until!

[1] ‘Magnanti’ sounds like Polari for ‘big nothing’ to me and made me listen to Julian & Sandy for a full half hour after having read of her real identity. I’m such a child.

[2] Possibly five, but I’m not going to check the stats. Most of my traffic comes from Russian spambots who send me bad jokes. It’s like being stalked by Peter Serafinowicz.