Robin Hood versus Spartacus. Who will win?

Yesterday, on this very blog, I concocted a joyful bundle of insults regarding inexplicably popular Radio 2 toss-jockey Steve Wright. It pleased me well enough and perhaps it passed the time for you. It's possible, I suppose, that you are a huge fan of Senor Wright and found my words to be the most offensive thing you'd read since last week, when I toyed with the idea of Jesus Christ having aids. But I doubt it.

It's also possible, I suppose, that Steve himself came across the piece. I can picture him, his face contorted in the ecstatic throes of a self-googling frenzy, pouncing on my piece of whimsy. 'Hooray!' he would think, 'A picture of my brilliant face!' And then his smile would fade and the sweat cool on his thighs. This was no gushing testament of praise! This was... this was blasphemy. How hurtful! How inhuman! Poor Steve would collapse to the floor, all self worth gone, and I would have really spoiled his evening.

I don't really think this, of course. I mean the bit about him being upset. I do think he probably Googles himself, and possibly while naked. But I don't think he'd give a toss about my little eruption of venomous thoughts. I think his face looks like that of a masturbating squirrel and his voice makes my stomach flip, but I actually have more respect for Steve Wright than to think he would be genuinely upset at the scribblings of a short Yorkshireman.

Firstly, he would know that my rantings weren't really directed at him, the actual real person with a beating heart and the capacity to love kittens. I have no idea who that person is, and neither do any of us. The Steve Wright that wriggles into our lives through the radio on a daily basis is a construction - a fantasy. 'Steve Wright in the Afternoon' is a carefully selected set of character traits, points of view and mannerisms designed to work well between records. I'm quite happy to find this construction loathsome while admitting that, if I met the real man, he may well be charming, funny and not at all like some cold sick in a dirty sock.

The second reason not to worry about my ramblings is that they are, I hope, clearly intended to be sort of... funny. An opportunity to collectively release psychic tension by collaborating in a trangressive act of psychological play, as I believe Frankie Howerd would say if he wasn't surely in hell for being a gay. No one could get upset at a joke, after all.

Or could they?

Or could they?

Of course they could. Some people seem unable to see humour even when it is dancing up and down in a funny hat, playing a kazoo that looks like a penis. They think that seriousness is somehow a more intrinsically intelligent response to the world we live in, and intend to punish anyone who disagrees.

For example. I thought twice about making my little Frankie Howerd joke above, lest some serious-brained person feel provoked to leap up and get all affirmative-action on my face. Don't I know that homosexual people suffer all over the world? Yes, I do. The fact that it is rubbish doesn't mean that my reaction has to be unsmiling and - forgive me - straight.

And, for another, slightly more serious example, I felt moved to make a small addendum to yesterday's Wright-bashing, when I realised I had made a comment that a stupid person might construe as a threat to kill the sniggering king of banality. I sort of hate myself for doing it, but it seems we live in times where we have to be extremely careful what we say, and how we say it.

You will be aware, no doubt, of this story, about a man who was arrested for making a joke about blowing up Robin Hood airport on Twitter. Apparently the transparent obviousness of his humour was not enough to satisfy the stone faced guardians of our culture. Now we are not allowed to be funny, in case someone takes it the wrong way.

All jokes are lies. Most of what we say every day is, in some part, a joke. I have a lot to say about this, but perhaps for the moment I have said enough. I'd like to direct you here, where my friend Matt Bradley  makes some eloquent and intelligent points about this farcical situation.

And when you've read that, maybe you'd like to go and look at Twitter, and particularly #iamspartacus, where thousands of people are protesting against the lunacy of this situations by doing what Spartacus's friends would have done if they'd had a wireless connection - standing up and repeating the exact joke that got this man into trouble.

Annoying DJ in Timelord Goosbump Conundrum

It will probably not shock you to find that I loathe and detest Steve Wright with a passion bordering on dementia. I’m not talking about the deadpan American comedian, with straggly hair. Not him. I like him more thanI like you. I’m talking about chirpy moustached radio 2 wanker Steve Wright in the Afternoon, a man who clearly believes himself to be a) funny and b) interesting when he’s c) neither and d) a git. I hate wasps, but I would let them live inside my mouth for a week if they agreed to sting Steve Wright in the genitals.

This week, though, Steve Wright made me happy. I was driving home from work after another hard day’s watching films with teenagers, and was listening to Radio Two. I knew I was likely to come across the jovial tosser and his afternoon session of self congratulation, but Radio Four had driven me away with its ponderous musings on vegetable crops, and Radio One is like being beaten about the head by a musical idiot. So I risked Radio Two, hoping it would mostly be music.

To my surprise and joy, not only was there music, but there was an interview with Mr Doctor Who himself, Matt Smith! And also lovely Karen ‘Amy Pond’ Gillan, whom I respect for her intelligence and personality. The time travelling twosome had come to be interviewed in a tedious and predictable way by the sniggering king of drivel, all the better to plug the new DVD box set which I really want for Christmas please.

What made the experience really great, though, was that Matt and Karen were a little late (“You should have used the TARDIS” chorted the Prince of Nob, snot fleeing from his weasily nostrils at the hilarity of his observation.) Because they were late, Steve played a bit of the Doctor Who theme. Nyeeeeoooom! It went. And then ‘Dummety dum, Dummity dum, Dummety dum’. At this I became most animated, and had brief joy, expecting the music to fade out once its work was done. But it didn’t! Beautiful, handsome, glorious Steve played the whole track! Middle eight widdly bit and all! Ahhh. Surely the best piece of music ever written, pumping away on the car stereo as I crawled through the traffic of the darkening evening.

It was a transcendent and wonderful moment. I love that tune, and hearing it so unexpectedly made me throb with near-erotic joy. It was like a little crack opened up in the gloom of the November evening and warm, glorious light peeped through; the fragments of a weirder, more exciting world. My hatred for Steve Wright melted away. The grey Wakefield sky unfolded above me and became a temple of marble, silver and glass. The drivers around me were revealed as fellow human beings, part of a glorious, universal whole with a single mind and purpose, rather than annoying fools who were getting in my way and driving like gimps. I loved everything.

Thank you Steve Wright. Thank you for unexpected Doctor Who joy. I hope that, when the revolution comes and you are shot in the head for waffling on like a tit, you die a quick and relatively painless death.

(edited to add: I am not suggesting we kill Steve Wright. Just that this is the kind of thing that might well happen in a revolution. Please do not kill Steve Wright and then blame me for giving you the idea.  And don't accidentally kill the other Steve Wright with the straggly hair either. He's funny. I like his joke about getting a humidifier, and a dehumidifier, and making them fight. Are we still in brackets? How embarrassing. Let's pretend we meant this to happen.)

More Star Wars nonsense

Continuing my occasional series of entries into the Star Wars alphabet.

I

Ithorian

That’s the real name, apparently, of the extremely cool alien seen lurking in the Mos Eisley cantina, who tends to go by the name ‘Hammerhead’. He has a truly bonkers physical appearance, with a great big swooping head that seems to lunge forward from his body as if trying to escape. I’m not sure what he does or if there’s more than one of him. In my mind, he’s some kind of intergalactic bank manager, who had unwisely wandered into the cantina with some buddies after work. I think he’s secretly terrified of someone stepping on his massive head.

J

Jar Jar Binks

A fascinating and multi-layered character, he represents everything that is greatest about Star Wars. Deeply mysterious but with a wry sense of humour, his presence alone is enough to elevate any scene he is in up into the pantheon of cinematic greatness, alongside the deep focus photography in Citizen Kane and the awesome tracking shots in Goodfellas. It is one of the greatest tragedies of modern cinema that Jar Jar’s presence in Clones and Sith is so greatly reduced. It is almost as if, rather than being incredibly proud of his magnificent creation, as he *constantly* stated in the aftermath of Phantom Menace, Lucas was, in fact, massively embarrassed by Jar Jar, and considered him a stupid, useless, borderline racist, pointless waste of everyone’s time.

Klaatu Barada Nikto

This is the phrase uttered in ‘the Day the Earth Stood Still’ to stop the big shiny robot killing everything that moved. No one seems quite sure what it means (although if we asked the Bothans they’d probably make something up), but it is clearly a cool and useful phrase. Jabba the Hutt is clearly a big fan, as he chose three of his skiff guards on the basis that their names formed this phrase. Klaatu, Barada and Nikto are all present at Jabba’s Sarlacc barbecue, and probably all die horribly.

"My Aids Hell": Son of God tells all.

I wonder if you've seen this particularly mental story about Jesus being HIV positive.

For those whose life offers distractions enough without them having to click on links as well, the story is roughly this: a South African church pastor, blessed with the Star Wars-esque name Xola Skosana, preached  a sermon on the idea that the Jesus, son of God and all round nice bloke, had the HIV virus.

Now, when I first heard about this I'm afraid to say I had the predictable reaction. What fool, I wondered, would say such a moronic things? I'm mean, yes - this is a story about a Christian which has made it on the news, so the guy must be mental in some way or the other - but... what? What??? WHAT???

I think I said "What?!?" about five times before composing myself and trying to find a more considered way to approach the story. I couldn't think of one, so I just said "What??!!??" again, this time waving my arms about.

Well, here's what. Having read the article, and thought about what Darth Skosana says, I think he may be... kind of right. And kind of brilliant.

OK, now you're saying "What?!?"  Well, calm down, I'll explain. No, better. Look - here's a kitten. He'll explain.

(Picture of kitten not available. I know. It's sad.)

Anyway, here's the what. Obviously everyone got all 'Whoah' about the whole Jesus/HIV thing, and that does make sense. I mean, scientifically it seems implausible. But science wasn't really the main cause of 'What?' around the Christian communiity (and by 'Christian Community' I mean, of course, religious leaders of all dominations plus readers of the Daily Mail who think they are Christian, partly because they were born in Kent and partly because they have sensed there might be a something to be cross about). No, most people were instantly annoyed at the association between Jesus - all brill and holy and pure - and HIV - as dirty and poisonous as a thing can be.

(As a side thought here, has anyone heard from the Catholics on this? The idea of communion wine turning into Jesus' blood might carry some pretty unpleasant connotations if any of this turned out to be true.)

To my mind, the outrage about the 'dirtying' of Jesus is why Mr Skosana's sermon idea is brilliant. Not because I think Jesus actually had the HIV virus - that really wasn't his point. And not, as Skosana's critics would say, because I am blasphemous and without respect for Christ. No. His point was a great point for two reasons. I'm going to call them 'Bob' and 'Jennifer'.

Reason Bob is this. In South Africa, and it must be said in much of the 'Christian' world, HIV and Aids are synonymous with sin. Promiscuity. Immoral lifestyles. And thus a mass of suffering humanity, rather than being helped, are kicked out of 'normal' society to die in misery. Like, well, like lepers. Brave/mad Mr Skosana has stood up for a disposessed and villified group, at great risk. What is more Christ-like - to condemn someone or to stand up and identify with them? Whether you believe in a Christian God or not, I think the answer to this is pretty easy to work out.

Reason Jennifer is more to do with how we see Christ, and indeed religion. Hundreds of years of Christianity have worked to distance the man Jesus- a real person who lived with and for the weak, the lost and those without a voice. As the memory of this man has diminished, the Church which failed to keep it alive has built up a powerful, untouchable, otherworldly Christ. So powerful, so amazing and so holy is this Christ that he must be protected - by the Church - from anyone mentioning his name in conjunction with anything dirty, unpleasant, offensive or truly human.

This is kind of strange. Because one of the major concerns of Jesus, as I understand it. was to say 'Hey everyone, how about we stop looking at the surface of everything and valuing it according to how inconvenient or dirty it appears at first glance?' And he didn't just say it, he did it. Any Christian who gets upset at associating Jesus with dirt and horrible things is guilty not just of missing the point, but of failing to live up to their basic responsibility to look after those who find themselves in a crap place.

I'm not much of a theologian, as you have probably noticed. But I know what makes people good and what makes them idiots. Xola Skosona appears to be a good man.

Naked Face Shocks Local Girls and Boys

Well, now Halloween is over, we need something else to occupy our minds. And so our thoughts turn, easily and naturally, to the subject of genitals.

As a man I am charged with the unenviable task of searching for tumorous growths in the squidgiest and most unappealing of places - the testicles. As Dylan Moran put it, 'Searching for a lump in a bag of lumps'. It is a mysterious process that makes the old needle/haystack conundrum look simplistic and fun. I'm not sure if I'm doing it right, or what I'd do if I found anything, apart from probably forget why I'd started and have a good old scratch. I am consoled by the fact that, if cancer happens to cast its evil gaze my way, it is far more likely to go for my liver, where years of alcohol have weakened all resistance. But then I wonder if you even can get that kind of cancer, and if it isn't the kidneys that I'm thinkng of. At this point I become confused, stop thinking about it, and go back to searching for exotic pornography or pictures of kittens.

Anyway. Believe it or not, there is a point to all of this. Because apparently I am not alone in my fear of goolie-based illness, and someone has set up a charity to help. Apparently one man dies every hour from this kind of cancer (not the same one - it's not like he's a really unlucky version of Lazarus). So in November there's this whole awareness-raisy help-funding thing goes on, and I'm doing it.

It's called Movember, and it's like a sponsored walk except that instead of walking we do the much harder thing of growing a moustache. I know, it's shamefully easy. But I have to grow it all month, and at some point it will probably become annoyingly scratchy. So don't think I'm getting an easy ride. And I'm probably going to cheat slightly a grow a beard, so I'm not even that good.

To sponsor me, go here. It may look rubbish for a while, but I hope to soon be adding my facial journey, captured in photgraphs and video. I shaved yesterday, so my face looks all fat and pudgy. But soon it will be a mighty forest, filled with wonders and terrifying beasts. And bits of food.

Alex is also doing this, here, and no doubt his will be loads better. But it's the taking part that counts. Or something.

Alternatively, of course, you can just give to a cancer charity. If, like me, you are sick of this disease and the random crap it inflicts on people, give it a kick in the face by putting something towards research and care. That would be good too.

Er.. all very serious. Ooh, I know. Jimmy Carr joke to finish:

A girl came up to me in the street and asked if I could spare five minutes for Cancer Research. I said, 'OK, but I don't think we're going to get very far.'