Guardian Readers and LA Flea Market

I wrote this on my Facebook page today:

Guardian Readers: just lately it seems that people like Banks and Farage use the phrase 'Guardian readers' as if we're some kind of weird specimens from Mars or Snowflakes from Hampstead. I have read the Guardian since the 1970s for the great journalism. John Arlott was one of the greatest and Neville Cardus was too.

There they are above.

In the 1980s one of my favourite journos was James Cameron (no not that one) who corresponded with me – hand written as did the chess correspondent.

And before anybody says that was then and this is now, there are still great journalists contributing and not all from the liberal left – on Saturday there was a piece in the Journal by Katy Balls, of The Spectator (the Tory speccy), so not just one sided and they even pay 'rude boy' Owen Jones.
The greatest thing about The Guardian is that nobody owns it unlike The Telegraph which is owned by someone who owns The Ritz and one of the channel islands; and by de way - who reputedly doesn't pay tax!

The Times is owned by the Murdoch empire and The Mail – oh who cares who owns it – it supported Hitler in its day – but that was then and this is now. What they do now is bad mouth the royal family.
The greatest guy who ever wrote for The Guardian and The Observer was Clive James.

That's what I wrote or, to use an anonymous (to me) American writer 'that's all she wrote.'

Going on – in the 1920s there was a publisher in London called Grant Richards; he was a bit of a dandy, never without a monocle or a handkerchief flopping out of his top pocket (no he never had a monocle flopping out of his top pocket). He lived his life regretting the writers he either didn't or couldn't publish. He lost James Joyce's first book Dubliners as he wanted to edit it but Joyce would not let him – good old Jimmy.

Richards published works by George Bernard-Shaw and A.E. Housman - A Shropshire Lad , Housman's most famous work, was included and, when he was approached by Neville Cardus, who sent him a scruffy packet of news-cuttings, he published Cardus' A Cricketer's Book, even though he knew nothing about cricket, saying anything that came out of The Guardian stable was worth backing on general principles.

So there that's what I have to say about The Guardian today.

Now I do not want to mention the name of the famous actress who is interviewed in today's copy of the paper so I won't but there is a lot of paranoia in the article; she keeps thinking her phone is being tapped or interfered with – it's an unfortunate expression as the poor woman is one of those who was a victim of Harvey Weinstein – that Adonis of a man who women would fall over themselves to be with – I don't think.

Why is it all the ugly fat bastards think they are god's gift to women? I mean can you imagine poor Mrs Trump having to wake up each morning beside that great big lump of a leviathan – oh I think he's great for the economy – they said that about Hitler.

Hey that's twice on this page he is mentioned.

The actress was married, one time, to a restaurateur who, when I met him, was an actor and played a small part in one of David Lynch's films; he was English and when I said I saw him in it, he came out with the line we all use 'I had more than that in the movie – it was gonna be a series but ya know!'

What I found strange was that he was English and the gonna and the ya know kind of stuck out a bit.

His ex- wife – did I say they were parted? Well yes – would come to the flea market in Los Angeles and I would recognise her and wonder about him.

He was fine and spoke nicely about David Lynch but I saw him many times at that market and we never said another word to one another; I found out that he was also a song writer and I was going to mention it to him but when I saw him the next time he skulked behind a car, looked in the side/wing mirror and adjusted his hair; then he patted his head on top to see if he could get that bit of a quiff to lay down. When he did this it came back up again, just like the boy in the strip Hergé's Adventures of Tintin .

So he had to pat it down again.

This would have been enough for me but as he walked towards me he went behind another car and started slapping his head again. By this time I ducked behind another car as he came passed. I was going to throw him a comb at this point but the thought did cross my mind that I should throw a sock full of dog shit at him instead.

So there we are for today – always remember, when you are on your soap box, what Shostakovich reputedly said to Pablo Picasso “it's okay being a communist if you don't live in a communist country.”