Colonial Culture and Cambridge (redux)

It's difficult to tell how people respond to things you publish on the internet, as the only audience reactions you see are tainted by the very fact that you are seeing them. People feel obliged to laugh/cry/spew, and are very conscious of you hovering over their shoulder, waiting for them to get to what you have deemed "the good bits". Thus it's not clear whether people are "getting" the things you are writing (how arrogant of you, by the way, to suppose that the things you write are any more layered than a car manual or a Bill Granger cookbook). To make it easier for readers of It's alright, I know you're from Circumstances, here is a previously published piece with suggested reader responses highlighted in bold.

The Setting: 1966- A Cambridge flat, drab with minimal furnishings. Piles of books are stacked against the wall and old newspapers cover a small table in the middle of the kitchen/dining area.Germaine Greer is busily cleaning the kitchen while Robert Hughes sits at the paper-strewn table drinking a bottle of beer. The door opens and in staggers Clive James, drunk. Ah, a quick Wikipedia search reveals that these three are considered leading lights of Australian Baby Boomer intellectualism. The conceit of this vignette appears to be that they all lived together in shared accommodation, which actually never happened. I am intrigued, and will thus read on.

Clive: Whooo! Clive is on the piss again. (Sings) Clive is on the piss again! This seems unusual behaviour for a bookish man like James, but perhaps the piece is building towards something.

Hughes: What's happening mate? Where you been?

Clive: Just down at the rub-a-dub with Barry Humphries. Spew. (giggles to himself) Ha! An excellent reference to another cultural icon of this era. It appears James looks down on Humphries.

Greer: (Not looking up from her cleaning) What were you doing with that dickhead? Although not central to the developing storyline, I am highly amused to see Greer doing the cleaning. The mundanity of her domesticity clashes harshly with her independent feminine views.

Clive: Reckons he's hit on a new idea. Spends three months in London, and now he's gonna start wearing a dress and acting like a housewife. Sounds like poofter activity, if you ask me. How delightful! Here the author presents Humphries' seminal creation at its genesis point, and imagines it receiving an cold reception from his peers.

Hughes: A dress? Bloody hell. What else did he say?

Clive: Not much, we just shot the shit, chatted up the waitresses. Nice birds.

Hughes: Any love?

Clive: Nah, I was doing alright with one, but... you won't believe this... I farted just as she dropped off our second bottle of Beaujolais. Man, it stank. After that it was all over. I think she spewed. A nice contrast between the sophistication engendered by the wine order and the lowbrow toilet humour.

Hughes: That's awesome. I dropped a ripper today at the Tate, right in the middle of the Degas exhibition. The women next to me looked like they were crying. Hmm, a bit disappointing. If the author had researched properly, he would have realised that the Tate is a gallery for British art, and would thus not have been exhibiting Degas (1834-1917), a Frenchman.

Clive: Did they spew? I would have spewed. Your farts are rank. A good fart should always get some spew going. The toilet humour continues here. Probably laying it on a bit thick by now...

Greer: Sorry to interrupt you Rhodes scholars, but what are we going to do about the energy bill this month? Clive, you still owe us for last month. Excellent. If you'll pardon the pun, the story was getting "bogged down" in all the toilet jokes. Now we reach the 'complication'.

Clive: Shit. I just pissed it all away.

Greer: Clive! Didn't Bazza owe you money? What happened to that? It is very clever of the author to present these highly-respected cultural commentators in such a mundane setting, arguing over the payment of a utilities bill. Very clever.

Clive: I... um... I lost it on a dog. You got any more of those beers, Hughsey? I'm gonna spew if I get any more soberererer (giggles).

Greer: Hold on, a dog? Bloody hell Clive. You're useless. What are we gonna do? It's going to be winter in a month, and I don't have any bras to spare for fuel. Riotous! Simply riotous! Such a witty backhanded reference to Greer's militant feminism. Not only does she burn bras for political effect, she also just burns them to keep warm. This writer is as clever as he is tall and good at finding novel uses for potato wedges in pasta bake.

Hughes: (coming back from the fridge with a beer for Clive. Strikes a Shakespearean pose). Now is the winter of our discontent... A wonderful use of irony. Hughes quotes Shakespeare, but reverts to one of the most well known and overused lines from Richard III. An extra dimension has been added to the already rich juxtaposition of intellectualism with the everyday setting of beer, drunkenness, and electricity bills.

Greer: Don't start Robert, this is serious.

Clive: (holding the beer bottle up to his eye like a telescope) Bloody oath it is, I can't get this beer open. He appears to use James as comic relief when the storyline runs out of steam. An effective technique, but a tad overdone. I hope we're not going to get more farting jokes.

Hughes: They're not twisties mate, where's my key ring? I'm not sure twist tops were in common usage in 1966. Damn, I've already closed the window that had Wikipedia open. Oh well, I'll look it up later.

Clive: It's alright, mate (starts opening the bottle with his teeth). It'll be okay Germaine Sausage. I'll tell you what I'll do... (lifts his leg and farts, followed by raucous laughter from him and Hughes). More farting. There are motifs, and then there is bland repetition, and unfortunately this is straying to the latter. I wonder if there's anything good on TMZ.com?

Hughes: That's disgusting you sicko. Oh man, the place is gonna stink for a week!

Greer: Oh well, it's still better than...

Together: Living in Australia! Yes, very nice. Very nice. I worried the scene would descend into farce, but the author has redeemed himself. All three players in this scene left Australia, finding the narrow mindedness of their countrymen too great a restriction on their self-proclaimed genius. A slight whiff of Tall Poppy Syndrome, but all in all a tightly written swipe at the pretensions of the intellectual elite, reminding them that they are, after all, human, just like the rest of us. I can't wait for the next post to this wonderful blog. I hope it's not just some old content slightly dressed up and passed off as someting new. That would be disappointing.

So there you have it, a quick guide outlining the best way to approach Circumstances. Hopefully you're able to identify with the Ideal Reader of this piece. Most blog readers think to themselves in the voice of a mustachioed colonial memsahib circa 1865, don't they?