Not being content with just one Clive James’ book, and finding myself stuck in Dhaka with no book to read, I took the opportunity to borrow this from a CJ fan. It’s apparently part three in his unreliable memoirs, and I think it’s supposed to be really really funny.
Only it isn’t really really funny. Or at least not to me. I did chuckle in parts, particularly as he regaled the story of his last hurrah with the green stuff where I even managed to chuckle out loud. But, on the whole, I didn’t laugh much. It’s ok though, as there were plenty of other takeaways for a young whippersnapper like me.
Lesson One: Don’t marry a journalist – he will likely be a chimney-smoking-drunk with many more opportunities to meet and mingle with very pretty people who happen to be interesting and talented too. Much more so than me. (NB: As far as I am aware James is still happily married to his first wife, so don’t go jumping to conclusions).
Lesson Two: Journalism is a boy’s club, and they all think they’re awfully funny and awfully clever and awfully cutting edge when, really, a lot of them are big kids who carry on living as if they’re 20 right up until they’re 40, and then they’ve been drinking and smoking so much they look like they’re 60 and everyone puts it down to their very interesting lives while they carry on pointing out everyone else’s flaws and wrinkles with every second keystroke. The more famous your are, the deeper the flaw.
Lesson Three: Getting a gig as a journalist that pays enough to support one person, let alone a whole family, pretty much sucks. You’d have to be mad or obsessed to do it. Lucky for me I’m not mad or obsessed. No, clearly not, being a volunteer makes much more sense…
I suppose if I read the first two books I'll be able to add a few more lessons here, but I'm not about to rush out to find them. I'm far too busy trying to read about everything mentioned in his book Cultural Amnesia to find the time.
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