Earlier today I wasted approximately three minutes of my life that I’ll never get back. Nothing new in that, per se. I’m used to often walking into the kitchen, forgetting what I’m going in for and end up walking the house like a senile pensioner.
At least with that I often have a cup of tea to look forward to. This… this just left me feeling bleak. And slightly angry that these three minutes were never to return and I could have spent the time scratching my balls. At least that would have achieved a purpose.
The three minutes wasted were worse than catching part of the National Lottery’s People Quiz as I waited for Dr. Who. No, it was Peaches Geldof’s column in yesterday’s G2.
A combination of a busy work day, evening meal and massive hangover meant I didn’t get to flick through Friday’s paper until mid-afternoon, as I wore off the effects of last night. Normally I’m docile when hungover, so Peaches made a great effort to arose my ire.
It wasn’t that her article was especially controversial, or even inspiring. Quite the opposite. It was utterly and totally without merit, point, wit. There was nothing remotely interesting she was saying: Myspace is bad because it sucks up your time and people can post bad things about you, and Peaches now has a dog. Great. Next time she covers for Alexander Chancellor, or whoever, we can expect such pearls of wisdom along the lines of people who like guitar music sometimes also like dance and hip hop, and Pete Doherty doesn’t look well, and is a bit of a mess, because he takes drugs.
I don’t object to people writing about nothing. A good writer is one who can twitter on about nothing in particular but keep you reading to the end. I quite like Jon Ronson’s neurotic column in the Weekend supplement, which makes a virtue of this. Plus Lucy Mangan, in the same publication, occasionally does this. I may not be a regular reader, or massive fan, of her column, but compared to Peaches she’s Proust, Shakespeare and Homer rolled into one.
What depresses me is you could pluck any random 18-year-old from any street in any town, tell them to write about the same subjects and they’d make for a wittier and more engaging read. I know a couple of 18-year-olds who could do exactly this job.
Generally I’ve tried to avoid Peaches’ work. I’ve always suspected there’s very little point to her and that column confirmed it. It seems that editors, producers and whoever else commissions her stuff have decided Peaches, who is so achingly ‘with it’ and in touch with the teens of today, is the official spokesperson for everybody under the age of 20 for no good cause other than a) people have heard of her and b) she is vaguely non-conformist and c) has a famous dad. Hell, much as I’ve no time much for Bob either, I’m sure he’d be able to do a better job and, failing that, would just resort to swearing, which is fine by me. He could fill an entire page with profanity and it’d have more merit than that of his daughter.
Ok, so complaining somebody’s got a gig on the basis of their parents has about as much edge to it as moaning McDonalds doesn’t do enough to encourage veganism. But if Peaches is setting herself up as a writer then at least the editor could pull her aside and tell her she’d written a complete load of bollocks. So what, she’s Peaches Geldof and has an opinion on Myspace? I, too, waste time on Myspace. I never intend to own a dog, and have had a shit twice today. Can I get my own column?
If she’s going to take up space than at least can she have the good grace to stick to what’s she’s good at: namely wearing clothes that appeal precisely only to those whose dads are rich enough to fund a life of doing zero and spinning tunes to those same people. Frankly, I’d rather watch Dogs Dancing On Ice than watch another of her pseudo-documentaries, at least one of which could have been renamed ‘How to generally act like a stupid bint patronise both Muslims and non-Muslims alike while telling us precisely fuck-all in the process’.
Wikipedia says she’s off to study journalism at university in America. Good for her. If she doesn’t actually manage to get any form of writing skills drummed into her, then we can only hope the chooses the same route as other failed journalism graduates: a lifetime spent making sandwiches in Subway while desperately telling anyone who’ll listen they really ARE a writer and/or have read Chomsky.