The Guardian Finally Disappears up its Own Arsehole by Nick Bryans
I have had a problem with The Guardian for a long time. Most of it started during the tax evasion scandals of recent years. The Guardian, acting as a sort of white knight against evil corporations, ran a number of stories on the subject; most famously a front page report about Barclays Bank’s flagrant and unremitting tax evasion. However, it neglected to mention how The Guardian had not paid a penny of tax on a £307M payout to their shareholders, by filtering money out the country through a GMG subsidiary in the Cayman islands. Now there are many things I hate. Courgette, for example. Paul T Anderson’s film ‘Magnolia’. But there is nothing I hate more than hypocrisy. If you don’t pay tax, you’re a cunt. If you don’t pay tax, then bemoan others for not paying tax, you are beyond words.
With the recent phone hacking scandal being almost solely covered at it’s inception by The Guardian – with other papers too scared to cover it – I was willing to give The Guardian a second chance. External from the aforementioned brazen double-standards, the main problem with the Guardian is that, for all it’s good news reporting, there is this horrendous degree of ‘smug’ that permeates every area of the paper. It’s this fucking elitism that comes with the publication, that makes you feel like a self-righteous twerp for reading it. The average edition these days tends to be ‘EXCLUSIVE STORY ABOUT SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT’ followed by some bit-part piece of observational comedy wank about bruddy London life for a 20-something working in PR, Max Gogerty’s latest travel escapade or Alan Rusbridger’s top 5 Costa Rican coffee blends.
This story is tantamount to their problems, and – quite possibly – the worst thing I have ever read in the Grauniad.
‘He was in his underpants eating a radish and an oyster at the same time’
Nick Lezard is 48, enjoys a drink and keeps magazines in the bidet. Laurie Penny is 24, virtually teetotal and never empties the bin. Unlikely flatmates? You’d be surprised …
Just….*sigh*. Our problems with Laurie Penny go back a while to this article we wrote on her a number of months back, which invoked much debate (and her to insult my spelling. But that’s another story). Anyway, in this piece we have these two as some sort of odd couple. She has pink hair. He eats radishes. They literally couldn’t be more different.
See, you’d think that two London writers with similar views on society that have both worked for the Guardian would have nothing in common. But, as the title says, you’d be surprised!
The piece reads almost like a Viz-Parody comic entitled ‘Hampstead Twats’, about two new-age people living in that-there-London who just think they’re the quirkiest, most hippest duo since Milli-Vanilli. Imagine Real Ale Twats meets Leon. The turns of phrase are honestly vomit-inducing. Laurie’s take on event concerns how her friends couldn’t believe she was lodging in a flat with, get this, someone a bit older. Talk about a shock to the system! He’s like 48! He’s practically dead!
When I told my friends that I was leaving inner-city proto-bohemia and moving in with a man I’d met at work who was old enough to have worn Joy Division T-shirts before they were retro, a few eyebrows were raised.
Probably because you use phrases like ‘proto-bohemia’.
I needed a place in a hurry, and I fell in love with the house – a rickety flatshare in Marylebone with wonky wooden floors and review copies of every book published in Britain in the past four years stacked on every surface. The books thud through the front door at the rate of four or five a day.
Let’s get down to brass tacks. Marylebone is not cheap. It’s far from cheap. As far I can tell from her pithy summary, this guy is a consumerist scumbag who snacks on Oysters in his million-odd pound, Victorian style, central London pad (let’s not forget, the man has a shitting bidet!). Surely this would be the FUCKING WORST IMAGINABLE HOUSEMATE for the unofficial voice of the left to bunk with?
Of course, they’ve not seen him standing in his pants and vest in the kitchen at four in the morning, eating a raw radish and an oyster at the same time and opining about the state of radical politics while some of us with deadlines are trying to get to the kettle. If living with Nick has taught me anything, it’s that there’s really no such thing as a grown-up, just people trying to muddle through their responsibilities as best they can while jamming in as much fun as possible.
I would honestly rather go bowling with Rose and Fred West than have morning coffee with these two. Can you imagine the house ‘banter’?
Lezard enters wearing a ‘Stop nuclear war’ T-Shirt, smoking a hamlet and drinking stale Rioja.
Lezard: ‘You know who hate? Thatcher. When’s she gonna give me my bloody milk back?!
Penny: Oh Nick, when will you learn! I’m trying to make a cup of tea here!
Laurie then decides to pen the most Twee paragraph in the history of journalism.
If the amount of time Nick and I spend smoking rollies, complaining about our respective love lives and cackling at videos of cats doing amusing things on YouTube is anything to go by, being in one’s early 20s can be a state of mind. If the time we spent drinking tea and arguing over the best Bob Dylan album is anything to go by, so is being in one’s late 40s. Fundamentally, we’re both writers, and we’re both hopeless romantics, and that means we share a language.
…what?
Nick and I have our differences. He believes that tea should always be made in a pot; I believe that Green Day are a good band. He believes that the bins should be taken out more than once a week; I believe that a rotting hole with a broken sink, a bare broken lightbulb, a seatless lavatory and an ancient bidet stacked full of copies of the London Review of Books does not qualify as a “bathroom”.
This is the ‘where is the tower, where is the gun’ moment for me.
The problem with this is that it has the horrible, teenage, fake-desolate tone that is the dream of every sycophantic English student up and down the country, who thinks that the ideal life is to live as a couple ‘Withnail and I’ rip-offs in central London. You know, central London. Possibly the most expensive area of real estate in the world. But it’s alright, we can get a 3 story Victorian town house on just hopes and dreams. We’re writers, remember? We leave books in the lavvy, smoke roll-ups and argue about the philosophical merit of bins. Richard E. Grant did it, why can’t we?
What I hate, is this idea of ‘poverty-chic’ that leftist writers try and imprint on themselves in order to give their writing some sort of legitimacy. It doesn’t. It just makes you look out of touch with the demographic you profess to represent. Nick Lezard is a successful author. Laurie Penny can include on her CV gigs with Channel 4, BBC, New Statesman, The Guardian and The Independent. These two are a million miles from this image of ‘down and out in London’ that they are trying to pass off as their ‘gimmick’. If these two are as broke as they keep trying to convince the reader that they are, I’ll eat my hat. No, in fact, I’ll eat every hat I own. Actually sod it, I’ll march down to Debenhams with a napkin and a knife and fork, go straight to the headwear department and ask to see the menu. The reality is that these two encapsulate the ‘bougiouse left’, and probably don’t quite have as much in common with Orwell as they seem to think.
There is nothing interesting going on here. He buys books. He eats radishes. They talk about how to make tea. They smoke rollups. They argue about Bob Dylan. Please, how much emotional involvement does the Guardian expect us to have in two people discussing the merits of pop-punk 3 piece ‘Green Day’?
Nick’s account of the living arrangements isn’t as infuriating, but he still manages to go off the deep end in his final gambit.
If I may correct one or two small errors of fact or nuance. 1. I am right about the tea. I have read her Orwell on the subject and will continue to do so until she absorbs him. 2. Since that one underpant-related incident she describes, I have maintained a rigid trousers-on policy at all times. One does not want to scar a young person for life. And 3. I would no more have given Riot Gull crabmeat than one of my own limbs to nibble on. That bird came so close to being seagull fricassee she can consider herself lucky to be alive.
THIS IS THE LEFT-WING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!
The sheer fucking pointlessness of the whole thing is just palpable. Two completely self-involved ‘writers’ who think that whimsical japes involving crab-meat and Green Day are worthy of national press – especially during a time when journalist are being laid off left, right and centre – is just wrong. If it happened in the Daily Mail, fine. Who cares. But this is the Guardian. This is meant to be the last great newspaper, and instead we get clichéd drivel about bidets and rolling tobacco.
This is not so much against Penny and Lezard. I don’t do much more than them on a daily basis, and if forced to write a diary of daily events, it wouldn’t be much more than; ‘read book, went pub, cried’. Fundamentally, these two are just a couple that live together who have been asked to write a personal blog. I mean, it’s complete dross, but it’s not a crime. My problem is with the paper. This is tantamount to all the problems I have with The Guardian. Despite marketing itself as a paper of truth in a horrible industry, it’s not. It’s basically a life-style bible for Champagne Socialists in the Islington-sect. The paper will tell you what to read, what to wear, what to think, what to like, what to hate and what to sympathise with in order to be a morally sound person, yet at no time will make you feel guilty for installing a brand new, £20,000 Scandinavian kitchen. It’s the sort of paper where people will read it and pontificate about its stories involving Syria and Governmental spending cuts, before the cheeseboard and dessert wine is served. I realise I’m generalising about a lot of it, and it does have a number of outstanding writers (such as George Monbiot), but it’s got to the stage now where I just cannot separate the self-righteous smug from the half decent scoops.
Although this story isn’t part of the ‘news’ section, I can’t enjoy anything I read in the paper anymore. I can’t seem to let myself allow the interesting stories to shine through the sheer ‘aren’t we fucking brilliant, guys?’ image that the Guardian emits on a daily basis. And it just leaves me in a position where I have utterly no interest in going near the paper, in fear of waking up in a horrible nightmare where I’m dressed head to toe in £2,000 worth of ASOS clothing from its ‘charity shop-chic’ line, frequenting a pretentious west London eatery whilst saying, ‘These Conservatives are bloody awful, but not as awful as this glass of Côtes du Rhône. Has it been corked?’. So this leaves me at a disadvantage over where to get my news from. I can’t read The Telegraph, because nowadays it’s just right wing nonsense (and any paper that employs Dan Hannan, Toby Young and James Dealingpole shouldn’t be funded). I can’t read The Independent out of principle, due to the appalling way Kellner et al have handled the Johann Hari farce (and the fact they have still employed him), I can’t read the Mail or Express because I’m not a complete menteller, and I can’t read The Times as I refuse to purchase anything owned by the Murdoch family. So where the hell do I go for my news? Four-Four-Two magazine?
Answers on a postcard.
This is a picture of Mr Trade Union, Bob Crow, quaffing champagne in a swanky restaurant. I don't really know the point of positing this photo, other to convey the message that 'just because they claim to represent the average person, doesn't mean it's necessarily true'.
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Read the FT.
Read it online and you can filter out all the badness just by not clicking anywhere near this kind of ‘story’.
Trust you include the Observer, which is the Guardian on Sundays. I cancelled delivery of mine ages ago. Couldn’t bear to see all those trees wasted or my paperboy/girl struggling up the path with multiple supplements I never read. I’m not interested in sport, or in fashion features with anorexic teenagers modelling overpriced silliness, or “lifestyle” crap, or the tone of smug superiority adopted by all those urban journalists. Oh and I can’t stand Polly bloody Toynbee.
God I love you, Nick, we need more observations like this. We do seem to live in a world where ‘left wing’ is simply a way of saying “I am a good guy” as opposed to an actual political stance. Using that kind of political lean as a way to score morality points seems to reveal the truth about you. I.e. at the heart of it all you are a massive, selfish, over-fed and pompous c*nt.
It must be wonderful to live in a posh flat with a pseudo-intellectual where you can discuss the shame of the working class whilst you fund the very machine that keeps the divide going.
Hat’s off to you, mate.
Fine article, I used to love reading my Granddad’s copy of the Guardian or the Observer. A good read, almost always followed up by a proper discussion on the state of the left. As opposed to the bloated load of cack it now presents itself as.
For the record, he was very left, I am not, but at the very least he was a proper leftie, not this intellectual-yet-still-begging-for-acceptance-by-the-working-class types mentioned above.
Must say it though, as wrong as it is, I can’t help but have a little soft spot for Laurie Penny; masochism being my thing, apparently.
With her short hair dyed a “rebellious” colour, far too opinionated, argumentative, a smoking intellectual (who will no doubt curse corporations whilst remaining loyal to ‘Amber Gold’ over all others) and all round spiky type whom so seemingly wishes to fight with the world…oh how I want to just make her happy in a completely anti-feminist way.
Fuck you Granddad, for not spending my youth putting me off of such women. Understanding the Left is not more useful than understanding why my love life is set to “constant disappointment”…
The Economist? It seems to be the only paper that is consistently filled with articles that are not only well written but also don’t force smugness or ignorance down your throat.
I’ll echo the suggestion about The Economist – mainly facts, albeit with a slight Libertarian leaning, and they don’t ensure every business news story is dominated by commentary about the evils of the CEO’s wage packet before adding a couple of sentences about the issue the story is supposed to be about.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/oct/18/make-crochet-apple-jacket
Agree wholeheartedly. I find myself writing long winded torie retorts in the guardian comments section just because I can’t stand the palpable sense of self-righteousness and smugness.
This was hilarious and totally bang on. I laughed like a right cunt.
Great writing! You should get a job at The Times.
I agree with everything.. except… Magnolia is not a shite movie.
Pete was wrong. Magnolia was a shite movie. Second only to Lost In Translation on the “Film critics talk shite, here’s the proof” list.
The New York Times is very good and often includes major UK news. You’ll like it. The Guardian have basically been trying to ape it for years, and you’ll smile as you recognize competently-executed versions of everything the Guardian tries and fails at. Instead of the feeble dribble that is 95% of Comment is Free, they have world class analysis by experts who quote Facts (!) and have a genuine variety of views (!). Instead of the miserable mix of half-finished spreadsheets and poorly labelled circles that is the Guardian data blog, they produce genuinely useful data graphics which are the best in the world. They have cartoons that are actually funny. I could go on…
Back in September, I’d have echoed the comments on The Economist, but it’s taken a major turn downhill in recent months. I don’t know who’s leaned on them editorially, but US Republican polemic is leaking into even the fact based articles, the facts are getting thinner on the ground, and the editorial opinion articles have had an insane lurch to the right – recently, even to the point of implied climate change denial. It’s ugly, undignified stuff.
Which leaves… erm… Newsweek? Time?
(p.s. on the tax evasion front – I agree, but we do need to remember that the Guardian isn’t a big fish even in its own company. If GMG was a family, Autotrader would be the bread-winning patriach, the services and other media firms would be the grown-up kids with real jobs, and the Guardian itself would be the weird one who wants to be an artist and depends on the others’ indulgence and patronage to get by. He doesn’t approve of everything his family does, but until he can pay his own rent he’s not in a position to challenge them on it)