Continental Philosophy

Why, oh why did I ask the zee German what he was reading? Lying sprawled on the generic Scandinavian sofa-come-double futon-come hell of reassembly, and dressed in what appeared to be his old school uniform, the simple fact of his existence arouses silent fury as I cross the threshold (for the first time this year) into the Bob Dylan sound tracked sitting room. He raises an eyebrow and I flinch with irritation as I begin a mildly autistic arrangement of my freshly laundered pyjamas on the clothes horse. The silence is deafening. Despite my better judgement I can feel the urge rising in my throat to bait him into conversation. Unable to resist, I pose the apparently harmless, venom laced enquiry: “So, uh, whadaya reading there?”

I don’t know if you’ve noticed the tendency of men educated at public school to precede their utterings with a series of ill defined guttural noises, which coupled with their drawl and general neglect of diction makes it nigh on impossible for the listener to discern when the sentence-proper has actually begun. In this case I hadn’t a hope in hell. “Pardon?” I reply. He repeats several noises in a patronising tone, (remember with the natives, just increase the volume and they’ll work it out in the end). Eventually I loose interest in the game and make “mystified” face. With thinly veiled satisfaction he waves the book at me, and there amongst the German I make out a name I recognise. “Oh HEGEL” I laugh. “Yes, Hghghghl” he sighs, and charitably informs me that if I take the time to consider the context of the writing, I might benefit from a reading, although it would, of course, be impossible for me to gain more than a superficial understanding.

Considering my reply, I carefully hang up the last pair of knickers and inform him that when speaking English, it is customary to rhyme Hegel with bagel.

[…]

Transcript of text messages between Olga Whim and Louisa Whim 24.01.07

8.10am Louisa to Olga: >=()…<<< face
8.11am Olga to Louisa: Don’t give me no back chat sucker
8.12am Louisa to Olga: Don’t make me…Blaps you up
8.14am Olga to Louisa: Mmm squirty cream
8.15am Louisa to Olga: I know
8.15am Olga to Louisa: Your mum
8.17am Louisa to Olga: Your mum is gay
8.18am Olga to Louisa: You’re gay
8.18am Louisa to Olga: No I ain’t.
8.22am Olga to Louisa: But you know is the biggest rudegirl and you is just a little chief
8.23am Louisa to Olga: Woteu
8.23am Olga to Louisa: ?
8.24am Louisa to Olga: Wotev.
8.25am Olga to Louisa: Go to school little boy.

Psycho

Psycho


So, was it just me or did anyone else laugh out loud when they finally saw Norman dressed up as his mother?

I’ll explain why I’ve got David Blunkett’s doppelganger posted up here. His name is Jimmy Worm and he’s professor Emeritus of Connoisseurship, (specifically of the going to the cinema variety), at the Lanark academy. He’s also, unfortunately for us both, my supervisor at present.

Enthusiastic about writing a slab on feminist approaches to Hitchcock, I spent the last week trawling through everything I could find on the subject, and then on Sunday afternoon, I found some interesting comments by Professor Worm himself. Referring to feminist critic Laura Mulvey’s seminal 1975 text (containing the first coherent articulation of the fact that the camera treats male and female subjects differently in conventional cinema), Worm asserts that:

“Mulvey’s text inspired a generation of feminists who had mis-read it to obsess over the male gaze in Hitchcock’s work which simply isn’t there”

I have several problems with this:
1. Worm gives no evidence or even explanation as to how the feminists have “mis-read” Mulvey, he simply assumes he has the authority to denounce whoever he likes without coherent argument because he tows the line of official culture.
2. Worm is quite happy for himself and others to waste research money (funded by the taxpayer) on autistic obsessions linked to political, academic and cultural agendas that he sympathises with.
3. You don’t need to obsess in the slightest (I do of course, but it’s not necessary) to find countless examples of the male gaze throughout Hitchcock’s work, and representations of female subjectivity are few and far between to say the least.

So I went round to have a chat with Worm this morning. He didn’t even look up from his desk until I quoted his words on Mulvey and the feminists, at which point he said, “Well, you know, Mulvey doesn’t even really believe that stuff you know”, “Really”, I answer, surprised, “Does she say this anywhere?”. “No not exactly”, he replies, frustrated, “But I do know her you know”. Right, so I just footnote that opinion as private, undocumented confession to Jimmy Worm do I? And if she has said that to you, why does she keep referring to “that stuff” in her current writing? And then Worm continues “And she was writing that stuff in 1975” Right, yeah, the dark ages…or is it just other things happening in 1975 that you’re not to hot on, Worm?

So I realise it’s time to go in for the kill, I cite all the problems with the argument following Worm’s quote, and give him a list of contradictory examples to which the best he can come up with was:

“Well, I don’t see how you can assume it’s a male gaze, I mean men never even watch Hitchcock, they like action movies”

As I stomped home (clogs and cobbles- you can really make a lot of noise) I realised that there are two things alike about worm and my dear father, not only do they have the same arguing style Well I don’t care if you’ve actually read this person’s stuff, I met them at a party once and you see what they actually think is exactly the same as me, in fact I’ve been a great influence, but they must also be the only two men on the planet to have an autistic Hitchcock interest. The rest of the man’s career must have been built on the back of dungaree wearers.

So Worm, you missed your opportunity not to patronise me in private, that’s fine because one day I’ll shred you up in public.

In the meantime you can suck my big, fat clit.

One week down, eleven to go...

One week down, eleven to go…

Finally I have completed my diploma in connoisseurship! After a fourteen hour love in with my laptop yesterday my crushing expose of the quantity of semen in architectural theory has been received in triplicate by the office. Now all that remains is to wait for the judgement by the official proprietors of culture.

Meanwhile we’ve had a visit from Nigel, our pompous little landlord. A typical example of Naz’s friends, he thinks he’s wild because when he went to Lanark Academy he convinced the social anthropology department to let him do his dissertation on poker players-“You see the thing is, most people make the mistake of playing poker for fun…and backgammon too, I don’t understand why other people don’t sit down and work out all the probabilities, I mean why doesn’t everyone else take the time to consider the benefits of playing a more defensive game?” Then he begins his Lord bountiful monologue about how much I must be enjoying the pad, “I mean double glazing is just such a joy isn’t it…” I’m tempted to interrupt and enquire how he’s enjoying having his mortgage paid by my student loan but Naz’s forbidding expression stops me in my tracks.

On the brighter side, Gertrude is looking radiant, Sexy and Helliot have split up again, possibly for good this time, and I have three hundred hours of American teen drama to wade through.

Olga Whim signing off.

83 Days To Go.

Naz has spent the evening torturing me with Polish humour and pearls of his grandmother’s wisdom. Zee German has colonised the sitting room and is listening to Highway 61 Revisited for the sixty first time in a row, and meanwhile I am trying to commit suicide by burying myself alive in cashew nut shells and Guardian jobs pages.

My younger sister, Freya, has finally divulged the secret of her social success. This afternoon I called to wish her Happy Birthday and enquire as to how much of Saturday’s £70 Primarchè jewellery hoard she was managing to wear in one go. Finding an anonymous missed call on my phone usually results in bailiff terror and the need for several aspirin. She simply responds with a message stating her wherabouts, (BIMM, a.k.a. Blaggers Institute of Modern Music), an invitation for more texts and the promise of replies, “to whoever you are”. Then she puts kisses, not one but three.

Prior to pillaging Primarché for plastic baubles and fancy pants I took her out for noodles as a birthday treat. Spotting a blond waitress sporting “Ingrid” on her name badge I decided to take a chance and ask her if she was Scandowegian. The gamble paid off and I got to “have a bloody achievement in the restaurant”, as Freya put it. After being reeled in by my faultless accent Ingrid asked which part of Ikea I was from. Then comes the faux modesty, “Well actually I’m British, just an aspiring clog-wearer really…”. Suddenly Freya remembers the one bit of Scandowegian I taught her, turns to the bemused waitress and says, “The noodles were shit-good! Thanks, Bye”. At the risk of further interrogation I throw down some cash and make a run for it.

Back in the land of Scottish lentils, (NOT lentils, SCOTTISH lentils), life is grey, Gertrude is refusing to reply to my emails, and zee German has finally replaced Bob Arsing Dylan with the only thing worse…yes ladies and gentlemen, an evening with Leonard Cohen awaits.

Olga Whim signing off.

The Beginning of The End.

I finally arrived back at the Lanark Academy to find myself in such denial that when asked for my address by a cab driver I couldn’t remember it.

Inga, dear Swedish mother, and her wife, Anna, saw me off this morning before GNER provided their usual extraordinary service, including an all expenses paid trip via grotty coach around Newark Northgate and beyond.

Back in the land where the national cuisine consists of oats, offal and Irn Bru I find Naz and zee German hosting a gathering of shy Euro brats with some kind of salmonella infested carrot cake as the centrepiece. No need to be gloomy though, the Fawcett society have sent me an evening’s entertainment in the form of their newsletter screaming “Reclaim the f word!” across the cover. So this is what I get for yet another charity direct debit. Perhaps this is divine retribution for a previous position as a successful saleswoman for Sky mini-dish and digi-box insurance: “Flooding, theft and footballs at only £9 per month, yes this is mandatory…”).

Tomorrow I am reunited with Gertrude, meanwhile I will try not to eavesdrop on the Euro brats discussing “The Dangers of Alchohol”. I am considering joining them momentarily to pour myself a mug of gin, in silence, and then leave.

Good night and good luck,
Olga Whim signing off.