I missed a very good friend’s 60th birthday party in the shires, but thus avoided the disgraceful anti-Pontiff showing off by the cheap, publicity-seeking and repellent poseurs that signed up to the orchestrated campaign against the wonderful Pope Benedict.
New York
I missed a very good friend’s 60th birthday party in the shires, but thus avoided the disgraceful anti-Pontiff showing off by the cheap, publicity-seeking and repellent poseurs that signed up to the orchestrated campaign against the wonderful Pope Benedict. Mind you, all these grotesque losers have a point — against God, that is. If I looked like Polly Toynbee or Claire Rayner, or Stephen Fry for that matter, I, too, might be writing letters of protest to the Guardian.
The fact that the Catholic Church’s key message is love thy neighbour and help the poor, that the Church’s moral code built our great societies, and that the Church is the last bulwark against secularism and destruction seems to have escaped these catamites. They need publicity à la Paris Hilton, and they’ll do anything to get it. But not against anyone who might retaliate. The far more anti-gay and misogynistic Islamic religion is off bounds to them because Islam does not take any crap. This is why I loathe them as much as I do. They are the worst cowards I know. Not a word about Zuma or Zardari coming to town to see the Queen, but only his Holiness.
The one I liked the best was the German Cardinal who told a magazine that when one lands at Heathrow one thinks one’s arrived in a Third World country. What is wrong with that remark, I’d like to know? One feels exactly the same landing in Paris or New York. The white man is a rarity, almost forbidden fruit. Why can’t a man tell the truth without all hell breaking loose? And speaking of the Bagel, politeness seems to have been eradicated in the city, like smallpox. Noo Yawkers have little need for politeness and refinement nowadays. In fact, the quality of life seems once again to be heading south, led by a megalomaniacal incompetent midget as mayor, who is now pushing through legislation to stop smoking in public areas outdoors. At the same time Bloomberg refuses to apply strictly a law that forbids people to idle their engine for hours on end, a far greater pollutant and energy waster, yet lectures us on the evils of nicotine outdoors. Never have I seen a greater hypocrite and clown than Bloomberg; he really should join his fellow phonies in London, where he keeps a flat, incidentally.
Otherwise, everything is hunky-dory, except for the informality around the Bagel. What I’ve noticed is that the word gentlemen is no longer used, having been replaced by ‘you guys’. ‘You guys ready to order?’ All humankind is now referred to as guys. When I was in boarding school during the Fifties, one used the word almost pejoratively. As in ‘who the hell are these guys?’ Addressing two older ladies, or two young ones for that matter, as you guys I find offensive. Such informality, too, often creates an undignified situation; for example, when I went to a gentleman’s club a couple of years ago, I asked for someone, and the hall porter announced to my host, ‘There’s a guy down here to see you.’ My father first heard the word during the Forties, and thought he was being called a ghost, because in German the words are similar.
Never mind. The dreaded Bono has written a column in the even more dreaded Big Bagel Times asking us not to roll our eyes when the word ‘summit’ comes up, because summit does not always refer to a large gathering of self-important persons or heads-of-state types and their rock star retinues. No, instead of rolling our eyes we should reach into our pockets and send money so that African dictators can purchase the most recent private jets coming on to the market. Actually, he didn’t say that, but the reason we do all roll our eyes when this man speaks is that he’s cried wolf once too often. And African dictators do have the largest entourages of anyone — in fact, much bigger than Bono’s. The only rock star I know without an entourage is my fellow Pugs club member Sir Bob Geldof, who does practise what he preaches. To the rest I say, spare me, please.
The other thing I’ve noticed since landing in the Bagel is the increase in absurdist language among the tongue-tied populace in general and self-help gurus in particular. You need only to want something to make it happen, type of thing. Listening to Bagelites talking in the street makes one want to scream, ‘Is there a therapist around?’ The trouble being everyone has turned into a therapist, applauding and encouraging the odd jogger who is minding his own business. Existence and action are now defined by language, as in ‘You win, you’re a champion,’ when some fat kid waddles last over the finishing line while stuffing his face with fries. And it gets worse. Where corniness is concerned. The latest wrinkle is to get married a second time, or to renew one’s vows, as the toe-curling invite tells us. One lady, who appears in an even more embarrassing TV show, The Real Housewives of New York City, announced that everyone cried in her vow-renewal ceremony. ‘Every single person present cried,’ she insisted — including the busboys. Knowing the bloody woman as I do, I will bet one million greenbacks that the busboys serving cried because she’s the lousiest tipper I know. Happy birthday, Tim.
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