A few weeks ago, I wrote 700 words for the Guardian. It was a glorious exercise in public self-castration, in which I exposed myself as the ill-informed prickwit that I quite frankly am. Since then, I’ve written a piece about how much I love progress bars, which I hope cemented my reputation as the Comment & Debate section’s moronic fluff correspondant. I’m currently awaiting response from my third piece about “Embarrassment”, which I’ll put up here if it gets rejected.
What’s become obvious, is that I need serious practice at pulling authoritative opinions from my arse. So, if anyone is still reading this blog after my crazy days of neglect, this is my challenge and my promise; I will write a 700-word opinion piece on any subject raised in the comments. And boy-frigging-howdy, I will be plumbing wells of passion you never knew I had. I will be searing. I will be sensational. I will be bereft of useful information. To make it in this game, I reckon I’ve got to churn it out like a cocksure fraud – so I won’t research a fucking thing.
Look at this shit, I wrote this back in 2005. If I can write 1,000 words about putting on a sock, I reckon 700 words about the Palestinian conflict should be piss-play. So go on, you glorious titmice – get commenting and commission me into orbit.
(This blog post was this man’s idea.)
Whenever I have an opinion, I tend to find it pretty embarrassing. Being wrong’s humiliating enough, but when you’re wrong about something you were dumb enough to frankly care about, it’s like pressing a heart–shaped cookie–cutter against your chest and making a noisy display of ripping yourself slightly open.
I’ve done it a couple of times on this blog, with religion. Can’t stand the thing, but I’d never tell my mum to stop believing her dad isn’t in Heaven, so there’s weak. I also seem to remember Twiggy got me frothy once by saying there’s no excuse to be fat. How can you say that, Twiggy? Have you not tasted how delicious food is? What are you supposed to do, just lick it?
Both times I was left slightly mortified by having a real thing that represented something I believed out there. If I were to imagine myself as a boss battle – and I do – then you’d have to plough your way through a six minutes Parodius level of self-deprecation and whimsy before reaching a glowing red chicken nugget of sincerity that you destroy with the whiff of disagreement.
So, when I was asked to write something for The Guardian’s comment section, I was kind of paralysed by my own unwillingness to be contradicted, so this is what I came out with.
Read it, and comment on it – make me look popular, please. Yeah, even you, freaky comments stalker who’s forced me to ban three IP addresses. And call that fourth-commenting cunt a retard who completely missed the point, yeah? As if the world needs more pricks gobbing off about what they reckon.