about the internet: you’re banging through an apparently endless, incredibly turgid pile of fan-shite one minute, then the next–and completely without warning–you’re suddenly entering a world peopled entirely by haters . And yet here they are, rubbing up benignly against each other, almost as if–underneath all that careful packaging–they’re actually just one and the same thing…
Which they are , effectively (i.e, two sides/same coin etc.).
‘Cos that’s Modern Life, huh ?
Wakedavid.com…
ENTER
Wow . It’s a flashy old site, though, for something so apparently ad hoc .
And the first thing I notice–apart from the unnervingly detached, yet effortlessly jocular tone–is how incredibly keen these people are to make it clear, up front, that their campaign against David Blaine has nothing whatsoever to do with any kind of racial motivation–
Good God , no!
Never !
Uh- uh !
I call Bly over at lunchtime to take a quick peek.
‘You okay?’ she asks, in passing.
‘Huh?’
‘You look a little pale ,’ she says.
‘Did you see this before?’ I ask, pointing at the screen.
She puts her hand on to the back of my chair, leans in closer, and commences reading.
‘I had a boyfriend once,’ she informs me, a short while later, as we share a sandwich, walking along the river, ‘who was really into his four wheel drive Landcruiser…’
Okay …
‘…And you might well think that this has nothing whatsoever to do with the Blaine thing…’
Yes, I might .
‘And you may well be right…’
‘But?’
( Jeez . This girl’s certainly no Jalisa on the information front. It’s like pulling fucking teeth with her.)
‘But when I read that Wakedavid stuff just now it totally reminded me of the kind of tripe he used to download. The general tone ,’ she says, ‘and this particular kind of…uh… mind set…’
‘Was the boy a Nazi?’ I ask sweetly.
She slits her eyes at me. ‘At least credit me with more discrimination than that .’
We grind to a halt in front of a dazed if cheery-looking Blaine. I peer down at my half of the sandwich. It suddenly looks quite unappetising. And while there’s a chill in the air, I feel a little… phew …hot.
‘Oh fantastic ,’ Bly suddenly gasps (between urgent mouthfuls of her tomato and mozzarella ciabatta), ‘it’s Hilary, Adie, look …’
I turn to where she’s pointing (somewhat irritably–I mean when does she finally elucidate on the improbable 4x4/Wakedavid connection?) and see that the individual who’s generating such excitement on her part is sitting on Aphra’s bench, two spaces along from a currently blissfully dozing Punk’s Not (doesn’t this guy have a home to go to?).
He’s this slightly overweight, conventionally dressed, smug-looking, bespectacled, 30-something guy who happens to be wearing a preposterous headscarf–red and white, the kind favoured by Middle Eastern politicos (Yasser Arafat probably has the copyright).
To say the scarf looks a mite incongruous would be to dabble in a grotesque world of profound understatement (If he’s not wearing that thing for a bet , then I certainly wanna know why).
The scarf is literally just tossed over his head (like someone threw it at him and he didn’t quite duck in time). Next to him (and I mean directly next to him–in the gap between himself and Punk’s Not) is a small, rather scruffy, home-made sign which goes some way–I guess–to partially explaining this fabulous head-apparel: ‘Fortunes Read’, it says.
‘You actually know this creature?’ I murmur.
( Jesus . The Illusionist is certainly drawing all the freaks out of the woodwork.)
‘It’s Hilary ,’ she says. ‘Remember? Worked as Mike Wilkinson’s PA last year?’
Nothing clicks.
‘Fourth floor?’
Nope (This chick isn’t in Human Resources for nothing, huh ?).
‘Think he has the gift?’ I ask.
Bly nods. ‘He told my fortune last December,’ she says, ‘and he was
Which they are , effectively (i.e, two sides/same coin etc.).
‘Cos that’s Modern Life, huh ?
Wakedavid.com…
ENTER
Wow . It’s a flashy old site, though, for something so apparently ad hoc .
And the first thing I notice–apart from the unnervingly detached, yet effortlessly jocular tone–is how incredibly keen these people are to make it clear, up front, that their campaign against David Blaine has nothing whatsoever to do with any kind of racial motivation–
Good God , no!
Never !
Uh- uh !
I call Bly over at lunchtime to take a quick peek.
‘You okay?’ she asks, in passing.
‘Huh?’
‘You look a little pale ,’ she says.
‘Did you see this before?’ I ask, pointing at the screen.
She puts her hand on to the back of my chair, leans in closer, and commences reading.
‘I had a boyfriend once,’ she informs me, a short while later, as we share a sandwich, walking along the river, ‘who was really into his four wheel drive Landcruiser…’
Okay …
‘…And you might well think that this has nothing whatsoever to do with the Blaine thing…’
Yes, I might .
‘And you may well be right…’
‘But?’
( Jeez . This girl’s certainly no Jalisa on the information front. It’s like pulling fucking teeth with her.)
‘But when I read that Wakedavid stuff just now it totally reminded me of the kind of tripe he used to download. The general tone ,’ she says, ‘and this particular kind of…uh… mind set…’
‘Was the boy a Nazi?’ I ask sweetly.
She slits her eyes at me. ‘At least credit me with more discrimination than that .’
We grind to a halt in front of a dazed if cheery-looking Blaine. I peer down at my half of the sandwich. It suddenly looks quite unappetising. And while there’s a chill in the air, I feel a little… phew …hot.
‘Oh fantastic ,’ Bly suddenly gasps (between urgent mouthfuls of her tomato and mozzarella ciabatta), ‘it’s Hilary, Adie, look …’
I turn to where she’s pointing (somewhat irritably–I mean when does she finally elucidate on the improbable 4x4/Wakedavid connection?) and see that the individual who’s generating such excitement on her part is sitting on Aphra’s bench, two spaces along from a currently blissfully dozing Punk’s Not (doesn’t this guy have a home to go to?).
He’s this slightly overweight, conventionally dressed, smug-looking, bespectacled, 30-something guy who happens to be wearing a preposterous headscarf–red and white, the kind favoured by Middle Eastern politicos (Yasser Arafat probably has the copyright).
To say the scarf looks a mite incongruous would be to dabble in a grotesque world of profound understatement (If he’s not wearing that thing for a bet , then I certainly wanna know why).
The scarf is literally just tossed over his head (like someone threw it at him and he didn’t quite duck in time). Next to him (and I mean directly next to him–in the gap between himself and Punk’s Not) is a small, rather scruffy, home-made sign which goes some way–I guess–to partially explaining this fabulous head-apparel: ‘Fortunes Read’, it says.
‘You actually know this creature?’ I murmur.
( Jesus . The Illusionist is certainly drawing all the freaks out of the woodwork.)
‘It’s Hilary ,’ she says. ‘Remember? Worked as Mike Wilkinson’s PA last year?’
Nothing clicks.
‘Fourth floor?’
Nope (This chick isn’t in Human Resources for nothing, huh ?).
‘Think he has the gift?’ I ask.
Bly nods. ‘He told my fortune last December,’ she says, ‘and he was
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