DEPRESSIVES

I've always taken a keen interest in my siblings' activities. Privately, I might consider Spencer's aspirations in the realm of 'pop' and 'rock' ill-conceived. Until recently, however, when my endorsement of his latest demo on the Rob McCaskill show provoked a frenzied renunciation, my encouragement has been unstinting. "That's an interesting lyric," I would observe, affecting intense concentration as I listened to Spencer droning about some unrequited fixation or a resentment he's nursed since adolescence. How often have I tapped my fingers appreciatively to one of his arrhythmic dirges? Not any more! Following his unconscionable outburst, I have no compunction in stating what is obvious to all but the most witless: that Spencer has nothing of interest to communicate other than a profound self-loathing roused by the merest human contact. His entire existence has been an exercise in pointlessness. That he persists in attributing his own shortcomings to Hamilton Coereflects on him more than it does me.

Christine, on the other hand, weathered the storm of an adolescence blighted by the virulent strain of acne that has afflicted generations of female Coes. While photographs of Spencer from the period invariably feature his fragile sneer, none of Christine even exist. The very sight of a camera caused her to flee or cover the livid glow of her cheeks with her palms. To be an object of repugnance is a terrible thing for a young person: Christine, however, bolstered by the inhereted island genes of the Sneddons, remained resolute. She has consquently proved that there are better ways of dealing with personal problems than wittering on about them to the accompaniment of badly tuned guitars. As a psychiatric nurse, she has impacted upon the lives of countless depressives. While I'm at odds with the psychiatric establishment's over-dependence on drugs and analysis, I've made a point of supporting my sister in her endeavours on behalf of the downcast. Many of her patients, or 'friends' as Christine characteristically insists on referring to them, seem indifferent to the efforts expended on their behalf. I've lost count of the occasions on which impeccably organised table tennis tournaments or rambles have been ruined by an absence of enthusiasm. "I don't really feel up to it," says Mr Blue, only to materialise in the King's Arms hours later, apparently the life and soul of the party. See also DAFT MONDAY, DRUMFELD FILM CLUB, EMPLOYMENT SEMINARS.

 

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