Idle Eye 138 : The Windows to the Soul

When he put his mind to it, my father had a great smile. It was one of those magnificently craggy ones, as pioneered by WH Auden towards the end of his own years, which dug huge trenchlines into the soft tundra of his face and suggested, whether it were true or not, that he was kind and genuinely delighted to have you as company. Yorkshire Television was quick to pick up on this most saleable of assets, so in pretty much every publicity shot taken from the 1980s onwards, you can see him attempting to squash his nose hard into the well of his cheekbones, like some sort of demented human Corby trouser press, whilst simultaneously keeping his eyes open and looking sexy. And, unlikely though this may sound, for the most part he pulled it off.

As the firstborn of four, I have inherited (to a lesser extent) something similar. When it first appeared I was horrified, so desperate was I to preserve the illusion of perpetual youth, and those appalling fissures, snaking their way across my cheeks like levees towards the ocean, became impertinent reminders of my own mortality. Which I bitterly resented. But as the years rolled on, I kind of grew into them, accepted them, and now I shall ruthlessly exploit them for my own financial gain. Hear me out:

I’ve only ever had publicity shots done once. It was back in the day, when I was trying to look moody and angst-ridden for an art-rock band which I fronted. The fact that we never got picked up, and that the photographs fell into the dustbin of insignificance, was clearly down to the fact that I was not yet ready to face the full-frontal glare of fame and fortune. And possibly because a previous night’s drinking had made my eyes look like pissholes in the snow. But now I am older, wiser and sly as you like. So, what if I harness Dad’s old ruse for the back cover of this book that I’m doing? That, instead of going all Charles Bukowski on you, I could make you believe I’m enormous fun to hang out with? Simply by wrinkling up my face! It works across the board: The oldies will think they can trust me, and the young people will find me endearing. Sexy, even.

Now, I’ve been practicing in front of the bathroom mirror, but I think the silver must have buckled. When I scrunch up one side (leaving the other unwrinkled and all come hither), it looks like I’m having a stroke. Yet if I go for both at once, the eyes are lost in a sea of unsightly crevices. And the eyes, as any fule kno, are the windows to the soul. I’ve even tried the direct approach, looking straight into camera with just a hint of crumpled world-weariness. But I just come across as a massive tool. And we can’t have that, can we?

Idle Eye 99 : The Social Leper

I’m not much cop at this whole social networking business. God knows I’m trying, but the bewildering plethora of platforms, plug-ins, avatars and what-have-you leaves me yearning for the good ole days when the only time all your friends knew what you were up to was at the village hall on your birthday:

How did they know it was your birthday?

Because you had gone to WHSmiths, purchased a bumper fun pack of cards with balloons and bears on the front, sifted through your Letts address book and made a list of definites, possibles and last resorts (letters sent out accordingly when the chosen ones had been drawn up), created a second list of acceptees, booked the hall with the vicar (with the help of mum), ordered in a vile selection of foodstuffs and low-alcohol punch materials (with the help of mum), checked off the arrivals on aforementioned list with accompanying tick-box for gifts given (with the help of mum, to be doctored at a later date), and then, when asked what you had been doing lately, you lied back at them with a straight face. These were simpler times.

What about gigs? You used to do them, remember? Social media is a direct, targeted tool to reach your fanbase. Discuss.

True, but that was the ’90’s. If you had told any one of my ‘fanbase’ that they would have to turn on a computer, log on with personal details they had set up at the same time as ordering a pizza from Camden Town, pretending they had read something by Charles Bukowski to a lady with smudged lipstick and a bob whilst attempting to chop half a gram of Persil White into recognisable geometric shapes, perhaps they would have opted for more traditional methods of communication.

Despite being a society of essentially like-minded animals, we have become more disparate than ever before. As our governments continue to fail us, perhaps the duty of care falls to those at the forefront of technology?

Are you sure about that? The very thought of an army of one hand typists having any kind of input as to how we conduct our lives is, to say the least, somewhat worrying. Larry Page’s Financial Funfare, anyone? Or how about Mark Zuckerberg’s Fiscal Fury? Some things are just best left to the suits.

And finally, your blog: Try getting it out there without us.

I can’t. Which is why I’m having to rely on this hackneyed attempt at nostalgia for times past which in turn generates ‘likes’ from various friends I once made in the real world and a few new ones I got off you. Hopefully our unlikely partnership will bear fruit in the near future. I will not, however, do anything you consider fashionable and my reluctance thereof will possibly get us further ‘likes’. Why did you have to call them ‘likes’? Do you have any idea how shit that sounds? Didn’t think so.