CELEBRITY, CULT OF - My brother, with a characteristic lack of self-awareness, recently made an unkind observation about what he scathingly referred to as my “celebrity”. Obviously, this is an ironic insult from someone who has sent three thousand unsolicited cassettes to record companies, but allowances must be made for Spencer's extreme unhappiness. Like many people who consider their own lives unsatisfactory, he is particularly diligent in finding fault in others: it's his only solace. Over the years, he's expended so much energy in disparaging me that it's hardly surprising his “pop” career has foundered. The fact that he's devoid of talent is hardly relevant in his chosen sphere: countless nonentities have prospered through graft and perseverance. Unfortunately, Spencer considers himself an artist and refuses to accept the necessity of salesmanship. He mopes about the house, writing his morbid lyrics and maintaining the 'blog' dedicated to his life-time of non-achievement from which he spends his evenings pestering young girls. The fact that my opinions are sought and disseminated to the audience he feels should, by rights, be his, is a source of terrible resentment. When I return from my weekly appearances on the Rob McAskill radio show, I invariably find Spencer belligerently drunk and eager to criticise my performance. While he professes to hate the show, he never misses my appearances. In fact, he records them in order that he can re-listen while sober and repeat the same sarcastic observations to which I've already been subjected.
Spencer is, of course, completely unqualified to discuss my realm of expertise. Despite the impression of worldliness he attempts to convey, his own life experience is so limited that he's barely qualified to discuss anything beyond what food he enjoys. In a society in which everyone's opinions are considered valid, though, I can understand how frustrating it is for Spencer that, after a lifetime of attempted communication, nobody is even remotely interested in his.
Dealing with the inanities of Rob's listener's in fact, is something I find increasingly irksome. Normally I'm eager to accommodate anyone who might ask for an opinion. When other people 'zone out' (as my niece, Muriel, says) my own focus intensifies. All I can discern of these people, though, is that they're boring me. Out of politeness I try and dissemble an interest, but I can't help dread the pre-occupation with trivia that Rob, despite the best of intentions, shares with his listeners. “What are Hamilton's opinions on such or such a pop star?” they ask, or “What does Hamilton think about such or such a marriage?” The truth is that Hamilton thinks very little of such things if at all! How can it possibly interest me if a movie actor I've never heard of has drugged himself into a state of incapacity or left his wife for someone he's met on a goodwill tour of Africa (whatever that might entail)? Unless his personal depredations lead him into my own realm of expertise, aberrant and criminal behaviour, I can only say “good luck to him” and try to negotiate a change of subject.
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