On the Persecution of Russell Brand

My brother, with a characteristic lack of self-awareness, makes occasional unkind observations about what he scathingly refers to as my 'celebrity'. Obviously, this is an ironic insult from someone who has sent approximately three thousand unsolicited cassettes to record companies, but allowances must be made for Spencer's extreme unhappiness. Like many people who consider their own lives unsatisfactory, he's particularly diligent in finding fault in others: it's his only solace. Over the years, he's expended so much energy in disparaging me that it's hardly surprising his 'pop' career has foundered. The fact that my opinions are sought and disseminated to the audience he feels should, by rights, be his, is a source of terrible resentment. When I return from my weekly 'Crime Time' contributions to the Rob McAskill radio show, I invariably find Spencer belligerently drunk and eager to criticise my performance. While he professes to hate the show, he never misses my appearances. In fact, he records them in order that he can re-listen while sober and repeat the same sarcastic observations to which I've already been subjected.

Spencer is, of course, completely unqualified to discuss my realm of expertise. Despite the impression of worldliness he attempts to convey, his own life experience is so limited that he's barely qualified to discuss anything beyond what food he enjoys. In a society in which everyone's opinions are considered valid, though, I can understand how frustrating it is for Spencer that, after a lifetime of attempted communication, nobody is even remotely interested in his.

Dealing with the inanities of Rob's listener's in fact, is something I find increasingly irksome. Normally I'm eager to accommodate anyone who might ask for an opinion. When other people 'zone out' (as my niece, Muriel, says) my own focus intensifies. All I can discern of these people, though, is that they're boring me. Out of politeness I try and dissemble an interest, but I can't help dread the pre-occupation with trivia that Rob, despite the best of intentions, shares with his listeners. “What are Hamilton's opinions on such or such a pop star?” they ask, or “What does Hamilton think about such or such a marriage?” The truth is that Hamilton thinks very little of such things if at all! How can it possibly interest me if a movie actor I've never heard of has drugged himself into a state of incapacity or left his wife for someone he's met on a goodwill tour of Africa (whatever that might entail)? Unless his personal depredations lead him into my own realm of expertise, aberrant and criminal behaviour, I can only say “good luck to him” and try to negotiate a change of subject.

Last night's show was (predictably) dominated by discussion of the Andrew Sachs debacle. Caller after caller excorciated Ross and Brand with a vehemence that recalled the response to the attempted destruction of Glasgow Airport. Having already committed myself to a public opinion, it seemed churlish to express a lack of interest in everyone else's, but a disproportionate amount of energy has already been expended discussing the matter. Even Gordon Brown, briefly replaced by the pair as national scapegrace, has felt compelled put aside the financial crisis in order to condemn his successors with an alacrity which, I fear, reflects as badly on his empathetic qualities as his ability to prioritise. Messrs Ross and Brand might have behaved thoughtlessly toward the extended Sachs family: it doesn't necessarily follow that we retaliate on their behalf. When broadcasters (and audiences) insist on celebrating cretins, it seems a colossal humbug to recoil when they fully reveal themselves. Was anyone really astonished that Ross and Brand were capable of such crassness? In my experience, an excess of indignation often masks the vindictive spirit of schadenfreude. Modern Britain is frequently compared to ancient Rome: a more appropiate analogy would surely be to the Incan Empire where sacrifices were lavished prior to their destruction. Just ask poor Jade Goody!

My relationship with Rob's listeners has been fractious since my contributions were rewarded with the ( ostensibly light-hearted) 'Rat of the Year' accolade (see The Dark Maestro). My continued participation might be attributed to a reluctance to be bullied by a vociferous minority. Last night, for the first time in months, I initially found myself in accord with the majority of callers. As the show progressed, though, and the anti-Ross and (particularly) Brand sentiments became dementedly overwrought,  I was stricken by qualms about my own contribution to the debate, particularly the (genuine) concern that Brand's personality might have been destabilised by self-abuse. "Are you saying Russell Brand's a wanker , H?" squawked Rob, reddening with excitement. Naturally, I was loath to resort to exactly the sort of mean-spirited name-calling against which Rob and his callers had been fulminating. Pressed on the point, I merely confirmed that I suspected solitary over-indulgences might have contributed toward Brand's delinquency, adding pointedly, "he's hardly an isolated case." It was a fatal prevarication. For the remainder of the show, my attempts to return to a level of measured debate were completely overwhelmed. "From the criminologist's viewpoint," I countered as a caller from Dundee expounded on the treatment Ross and Brand might expect in the (unlikely) eventuality of their attempting to disgrace a member of his family. "I'm not interested in the criminologist's point of view," he interrupted. "What about the grandparent's point of view! If Russell Brand thinks he can sleep with my grand-daughter and tell everyone about it...."

Today, the saga continues: Brand has resigned while Ross clings to his position at the BBC with the tenacity of a flea attached to the coat of a wolfhound; Georgina Baillie, the grand-daughter scorned, apparently having learned nothing from her liaison with one dubious partner has agreed terms with Max Clifford and the Sun; Andrew Sachs, probably embarrassed by the entire sorry business, continues to conduct himself with a terrible dignity which must chasten the culprits more effectively than the denunciations of a thousand and one prime ministers.  The rest of us, having been irritated by the affair might wonder what else we might have been thinking about. There are great Kingdoms to be conquered, if only we could resist the temptation to peer into whatever squalid corners might distract us en route!

 

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