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Low Life by Jeremy Clarke (view source)
Revision as of 17:06, 3 December 2011
, 17:06, 3 December 2011no edit summary
This makes me utterly unsuitable as a candidate to review Clarke's book.
So why am I? Mainly because life can be stressful and sometimes I want to read something light and frivolous and funny. The ""''magic colouring book"" '' feel of the cover with its scattered sketches of an isolated house, fag-smoking car crashed into a lamp-post, open bottle and spilled glass of vino suggested this was about as frivolous as it gets. It also promised some humour.
I might have also suspected that that tagline promised a degree of acerbic social commentary. I might have been wrong about that last bit.
The Spectator ''Low Life'' columns were originally penned by the legendary Jeffery Bernard, who genuinely did live the Low Life and paid the price for it. Clarke comes across as much more professional, stable and as having less acquaintance with the gutter than I have myself. Nothing wrong with that, I hasten to add. I don't see any reason why a humourous newspaper column has to be based on reality – much less why the columnist concerned should be a dissolute, law-breaking individual in order to earn a crust. In fact, on balance, I probably prefer the notion that he dreams it all up while walking the dog on Dartmoor and tests the jokes over a perfectly sociable pint with charming folk who don't mind having a bit of a temper being transmuted into a fully-fledged, misogynist, drunken, drugged, violent default-setting.
There are echoes in the text from the author's personal experience – at least the ""''official version"" '' of it that we're given. He is well-educated, has travelled and (presumably) has a son by a relationship that didn't sustain. I don't doubt that he draws on real life for his columns. I just can't help feeling that he has to draw a lot further than Bernard did.
Fans of the column – he's described as a ""''cult columnist"" '' so there must be some such – will no doubt welcome the chance to reacquaint themselves with past episodes. Newcomers like me may have no idea what to expect.
For the latter: imagine a 53-year-old bloke, unmarried, romantic enough to get smitten with the most unsuitable female in town, crude enough to think that taking a couple of young women back to a hotel room that he's sharing with someone he barely knows is some kind of achievement, but subtle enough to spare you the sordid details; someone who drinks too much, but not sufficient to warrant detox, and takes the occasional illegal substance but not enough to seem either truly pathetic or remotely exotic. Imagine, in other words, a stereotypical journalist. Stereotypical being the operative word.
This is the character whose tales of everyday life we are about to indulge in.
General themes include the women in his life. This is mainly Sharon, his latest ex-girlfriend who comes complete with a violent ex-boyfriend (""''Trevor"" '' obviously) together with a parade of beauties who seem happy to share his company / dining table / bed for unsurprisingly short durations. Football and his mates – he is being a ""''bloke"" '' after all – not to mention the local dog & and ferret club. Foreigners, mainly met on their own turf during his travels. And the unfortunate of society – his dementia-suffering uncle, the special-needs gymster, whack the malteaser players…
Did I get what I wanted and/or expected from the book? Not really. It is light and frothy. I read it very quickly. And yes it made me smile. Occasionally it made me laugh.
Unfortunately, it also made me absolutely certain that I don't like Jeremy Clarke and have no wish to ever pick up a copy of the Spectator. Speaking as one who hasn't ever had any notion of wanting to grow up, I couldn't help but find the style and attitude of many of the columns immature. I was reminded of conversations in our lunchtime common room at my comprehensive school back in the seventies. Although I am also virulent virulently opposed to the ""''special needs"" '' tag that we use as a softener for the harsh realities of some folks' lives, I found the items on the people concerned more mocking that empathetic – although one does have a totally disarming sign-off which I do applaud. His descriptions of foreigners make me wonder why he travels.
Am I just too ''PC'' to get the jokes? No. I'll allow any taboo to be broken if the observation is honest enough to be funny – and the best humour is always deeply rooted in honesty. Perhaps the fact that I didn't believe in the characters is why most of it didn't really work for me.
If any kind of social commentary is intended, I simply failed to spot it. Or perhaps I'm just on the wrong side of the political divide to appreciate it. Either way, if a point is being searched for, it won't be found among these covers. There are few ""''I know just what you mean"" '' moments, and yet nothing obnoxious enough to be offensive.
Mildly entertaining is the best I can say.