I am a grown woman. I do not make my own clothes, I buy them. I have a haidresser, not a piece of netting. I believe all religion is pernicious, not only Christianity. In short, I do not read The Guardian newspaper. I do, however, have colleagues with an interest in shamanism who examine its entrails.
They recently extracted a review of apocalytic film scenarios and the realistic expectation of surviving them from the ironically entitled Guide section. In part, it treated the modalities of coping with an invasion by aliens, concluding that they were negligible. I appreciated the endearing tautology, and brought the findings to the attention of No Good Boyo.
Boyo is an afficionado of science fiction, as veteran readers will know only too well. Last night, in his interregnum of relative lucidity between monkey-juice refill No.3 and sleep, I summarised the findings of the Guardian article.
My hope was that he would abandon his fascination with fantasy and apply his pulpy mind to philosophy, child-husbandry and the 'cello.
Boyo scanned the article from his perch on the space hopper, and delivered the following response. (I have it verbatim as I record all our conversations at the urging of my lawyers).
"Fair enough, if they was insects or them lizards. But what if they was all like Valerie Leon out of 'Blood From the Mummy's Tomb', 'Revenge of the Pink Panther' and the 'Carry Ons'? Millions of them, eh? So they enslaves us like this English says, but what if what they wants is to feed on our seed, orally? Don't worry, I'd cope love. Ffyc knows what you birds would do though but. Ha ha Polly Toynbee funnel [remainder indistinct]."
Boyo's operatic ability to see light at the end of the existential tunnel almost warms my heart, and reminds me that the mind of the male is best not understood but simply observed for its curio value.
5 comments:
That's his Welsh lumpenprole act, Mrs Boyo. He gave up doing it on his blog ages ago. The fact that he's still pretending with you suggests he's trying to avoid intellectual discussions - or possibly it's because you like a bit of rough.
Or possibly it's because the lumpenprolosity of Boyo's conversation is in direct proportion to alcohol consumption.
I once spent an evening in a bar with him which commenced with dazzlingly witty conversation about Ukrainian pronunciation and the perils of Balkan cafe culture and ended with ther red-faced close-perusal of the cleavage of what, in fact, turned out to be a bearded American named Ray. I was sober. I was driving...
It's a conspiracy: feeding the Lumpenproletariat stories about giant alien lizards etc to keep them getting up to any nonsense.
I confess that I’m woefully unconcerned about things appearing from the heavens bringing either destruction or salvation; this is a result of being both a non-appreciator of science fiction and a Primitive Methodist. In the first case I’ve always found the human race itself both fascinating and scary enough. In the second, our primitive joy is in The Method, which may in turn be in our madness, but it is its own reward.
Does your husband write / did he inspire the scripts for the Welsh one's dialogues in Coupling, perchance? Or has he just watched a few too many episodes a few too many times?
Gadjo, I agree that the whole aliens/angels fulcrum is designed to deaden the popular mind.
Little did God, Jung and Chris Carter realise that they would instead spur slumbering suburbians to prowl the local woods in search of space pixies.
GB/Gyppo, Boyo's normally patrician urbanity dissolves in monkey juice like a tooth in soda. I emphatically do not like anything rough except justice and diamonds.
MC, the Welsh one on Coupling is like Boyo's long-lost twin. Watching the programme is for me not so much entertainment as an accurate horoscope.
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