An Elephant of One's Own

La verdad, a veces lo veo jodido. Me gustaría pensar que fuera posible. Pero luego suceden casos como éste . Una joven estudiante de Comunicación Social le acusa al poderoso Director de un diario oficialista de haber usado violencia contra ella a fin de echarla del departamento donde él vive. No he visto el (supuesto) video. No soy tan morboso como para perder tiempo buscándolo, y menos mientras luce la etiqueta de "supuesto". Pero basándome en lo publicado en el Universo , me imagino la escena algo así: - Te vas ahora mismo. - ¿Adónde, si nadie viene a buscarme? - No importa, te vas. - No me voy. (forcejeo) - Bueno, quédate. Eres una persona desagradable y molestosa. Me largo a mi habitación. Puede que haya habido algo más de lirismo. Mi invento de "persona desagradable y molestosa" no convence mucho, de acuerdo. Es posible que el poderoso Director haya utilizado hasta expresiones hirientes que claramente identifican el género de la persona obje...

Oh, don't look at me like that. This is a blog for heaven's sake: a place where, according to hallowed tradition, people talk shite. And I firmly believe, as the old BT slogan had it (more or less), "It's Good to Talk Shite". Why is it good to talk shite? Well, EM Forster more or less nailed it: how can I know what I think until I see what I say? This is especially true for those of us who, possibly due to some degree of undiagnosed autism, tend to think more pre-verbally than verbally. My mind is not the final pages of Ulysses: my interior monologue hardly ever gets as far as precise words with syllables in them: mostly, it's the music of the words and the pictures that shine through them. And let me tell you, if you happen to be a moribund old git with mild social phobia, pulmonary emphysema, a baggy face and hardly any teeth whom nobody except a masochist would pass the time of day with, this blogging lark is practically the only chance you ge...

There ought to be a cartoon to go with this title, but I'm buggered if I'm going to play with Paintbrush for an hour (urgent translation waiting in Inbox). So you'll have to make do with a description. From toes to neck, shadow stretches about four feet. From neck to cheekbones, another foot. From cheekbones to top of head, ooh, I dunno, about another five feet, let's live a little. In short (and he wasn't), Burrhus Skinner had a very, very tall forehead indeed. But don't take my word for it. I feel for this guy. I really do. To start with, having a name like Burrhus can't be an easy slog - obviously, like my former schoolmate Andrew de Jode, you would want to keep away from Spanish speaking countries for a kickoff. Not only that, but he had the misfortune to have an Arts degree hanging round his neck like a scarlet letter his whole life (plus a secret ambition to be a writer: again, check). All right, lately I'm rethinking this one, and there may...