[John Whitworth]

Bill Greenwell won the big fiver. Bob Schechter and Marion Shore were nearly there and got hon mentions. The new Competition is as follows:

No. 2666: Pseuds corner
You are invited to supply an example of pretentious, pseudo-intellectual tosh in the shape of a review of a TV or radio soap opera or any other piece of entertainment — book, play, film — aimed at the mass market (150 words maximum). Entries should be submitted by email, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 22 September.

Humph! I don't watch soaps. On the other hand there is The Archers (You don't want to know, Yanks and Aussies) and then it does say book, play or film.

[FOsen]

Why begin at “A”—indeed, why begin at “all,” the anonymous author seems to reply with characteristic brio. “AAAAA Auto service” provides our only introduction to this compendious tome, but it is a Whitmanesque, barabaric yawp that also evokes Rilke, the Rilke of the Duino Elegies, at his most plaintive. The clipped, syllabic lines, each immediately deconstructed by the author into a numeric “code,” are to be our only guide through this vast, mysterious fen of identity-upon-identity, armies of characters who parade by, redolent of life’s absurd, beautiful parade. What are we to make, for example, of the army of “Chans,” the hordes of “Smiths,” the enigmatic, “Elk, Dick” on page 532, or the lonely “Zyld, Gladys M.” with which the saga closes? I cannot say, but the tale, which literally landed on my doorstep only yesterday, has engaged my interest. Here is a poet to watch!

Frank

[Gail White]

Off to a great start. I'm probably going to pass on this one, but I wish someone would take on "The DaVinci Code", the worst written megaselling book in my lifetime.

[John Whitworth]

Lawks, Frank! I can't do that. Very nice indeed.

[Lance Levens]

HOUSE

Hugh Laurie, Lisa Edelstein, et al

On Thursday nights The Exhausted Mega Narrative takes a rest stop at a narrativissimo at Princeton Plains Hospital, NJ, USA, where the standard western antinomies duke it out via a plot line strung together over a frame of Latinate polysyllabics mouthed by the stars as they decode their own middle school genitalized fairy tales and locker room wink winks. The bisexual Thirteen, played by the gorgeous Olivia Wilde, exemplifies the Bartheisan antithesis code. The enigma code? House himself, tortured acolyte of oxycontin and ego-gouging barbs. Looming above them all, the most prominent absent presence is The Other himself, Death, wielding his scene-stealing otherness in the forms of: tape worms, lesions, roller coaster rides through the vascular system,(with hints of Nietzsche's myth of the eternal return) wheezles and sneezles, toxins and the AMA's non plus ultra, exploding brains.

[Marion Shore]

Before I waste time exercising my profound analytical skills on The Brady Bunch, I have a few questions:

a) Is old TV OK?
b) Do you Brits even have The Brady Bunch?

[John Whitworth]

a. Yup
b. Nope

[Roger Slater]

When Louis Lumiere invented the Cinematographe in 1895, he famously remarked, "The cinema is an invention without a future," a quote which, until now, has seemed as ill-conceived as an Ozymandiasian boast, but, with the release of Dinner for Schmucks, has redefined itself as a paradigm of prescience, allowing Monsieur Lumiere to claim his place in history beside the Delphic Oracle for the acuity of his prognostication. Cinema, like Scrooge's business partner, is dead as a doornail, and now threatens to visit this reviewer as a ghost extracting repentance merely for having remained seated throughout this abomination, albeit with a sense of nausea that would make Sartre's protagonist eupeptic by comparison. Wittgenstein famously remarked, "If dogs could talk, we would not understand them." Were he alive today, he might expand his observation to cover actors appearing in the cinema that Louis Lumiere launched with so little enthusiasm.

[Marion Shore]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

b. Nope

Poor deprived creatures!


What about SpongeBob Squarepants?

I assume Seinfeld is a go?

[Orwn Acra]

Whiffling through Baudelairean hyperspace, the operaticos of Britian's Got Talent clearly show the oscillatory prowess of judges and moderators, plebeians and patricians. Called the "sludge of the bourgeoisie" by E. Zola and "Fabulous!" by Liberace, BGT is a kernel of utopia in the pan of proto-post-postmodernist society -- a stratum of entertainment that obviously harkens back to the halcyon days of vaudeville and kitsch whilst reflecting upon contemporary culture's own ironical stance and self-aware posturing. The three judges clearly represent the Holy Trinity and the Portinari Alterpiece triptych, thus rendering the television show aesthetically sublime. The audience interaction undoubtedly signifies the Bolshevik Revolution and alludes to Trotsky's hidden love of Stravinsky. For today, for tomorrow, forever: Britain's Got Talent.