Strawberries. Ella Fitzgerald. Lying on the beach. They’re three of my ‘guilty displeasures’. You haven’t heard of the guilty displeasure? That’s because the concept hasn’t been invented yet. But it needs to be — and quick.
The phrase ‘guilty pleasure’ is widely known. It was coined by the DJ Sean Rowley, who, not content with being the man on the cover of What’s the Story Morning Glory? by Oasis, applied a label to the songs we love despite them being uncool. The idea expanded, and now anything naff can be a guilty pleasure: chocolate spread, knitting, Countdown, you name it. But what about the opposite phenomenon, the supposedly cool things that we don’t like? When will we lift the social shame from admitting that something worshipped by everybody else just leaves us cold?
Strawberries, for instance. Underripe they’re like bullets, overripe they’re a cheap way of dying your clothes red, and for the 17 minutes in between they taste of not very much. Yet when I decline the offer of a bowl, people look at me as if I’ve touched their dog inappropriately. ‘You don’t like strawberries?’ they say. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
It’s the same with Ella Fitzgerald. Effortless panache my arse. It’s simpering, ‘listen to me emoting’ fakery, the precursor of all those tedious modern singers who signal how serious they are by groaning ‘oooh’ 29 times over the intro. Point this out, however, and you’re accused of being shallow. Listen bro, I got depth — which is why I can see that Ella Fitzgerald is spray-on style for sales reps from Dorking.
As for beaches: what’s the attraction? The tiniest gust of wind and anything you’re eating or reading gets covered in sand. As do you: beaches are a displeasure that doesn’t just grate but chafes.
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