Joy To The World! Calling all underdogs…

I really really want Joy to win this year’s Britain’s Next Top Model.  It’s been the first series I’ve followed in a long time, largely due to the new judges (Lisa Snowdon infuriated me in a million ineffable ways).  Elle McPherson is alien perfection on a long bronzed stick, and I love Grace Woodward.  I love her work, her wardrobe, and her deep, throaty big-sister-meets-bespectacled-fairy-godmother-voice, and the bizarre and brilliant catchphrases it issues forth.

Julien McDonald is cunningly cast as the villain; shinily grotesque,  lisping  in satin shades of magenta and puce, and nobody can really bear to look at him.

The competition is traditionally a farce; none of the girls selected are really model models, just pretty girls with bitchy put-downs riding the hamster-wheel of reality television.  The prizes leave something to be desired.  Yes, Company is a magazine, and yes it is printed on glossy pages, but it’s not exactly Vogue Nippon or i-D.  It’s fashion for the mumsy masses.

Anyway, I’ve cast down my cards and displayed my colours:  Joy to win!  She’s the blatant underdog of the competition: the shock transformation, chrysalis-like, from ugly duckling to gamine swan.  The judges well up with pride every time they look at her lately, as if she’s some sort of geeky fashion offspring that has newly discovered net-a-porter (which she kind of is). 

We are supposed to warm to her; the shy gawky outsider with the hunched shoulders, spiky teeth and a gravelly voice that belongs to someone’s emphysemic Yorkshire grandma.  Indeed, I love her for all these reasons.  I think she’s hilarious, adorable and ethereally stunning.  But something’s wrong, because everyone else I’ve spoken to HATES her.  With vim and vitriol and Miltonesque avenging fury.

The Amazonian Alisha, with her impossible body and brash, garrulous camera-manner, is the out-and-out favourite.  No one really bothers to pass comment on Tiff, because they can’t understand her when she talks, and her roots need doing and no one’s had the decency to tell her.

The favourite, Alisha

But Joy!  Never has someone so beautiful been so hated, presumably not since Helen of Troy, or the spawn-of-succubi Angelina.  I like her so much I almost don’t want her to win, so she can pass up on the commercial contracts and get stuck into something more high-end and edgy.  But I’ll be rooting for her, and her weird Gollum-gremlin brand of beauty, to triumph all the same.

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What Price, Inspiration?

Inspiration: a fickle friend. A mighty puzzle. A maddeningly elusive golden snitch that many of us would like to clasp a good deal more firmly. Why are ideas so scrappily born out of threads and flotsam and lint; like torn up confetti-shreds of blotting paper that must be jigsawed together with fuss and the sour sting of labour pains?

Why can’t they fly in, swooping owl-like out of the jet-night, fully-formed and pendulous as a suspended tear-drop, a prism of contained sense-making? Why fore blindness, the dreaded think-block and the agonising scrape-scrape of pen?

For many the ideal (or only) writing conditions are learned solitude; the resin-creak of a mahogany desk, in a panelled library with sunlight streaming onto the page. It seems ideal to be hemmed in by cheerful, huddled tomes of infinite cleverness. The very numerousness and dry, crisp tangibility of these silent paper cheerleaders surely affirm that your quest is a valid, a noble, and an intelligent one?

Personally, libraries, when there is seriously writing to be done, are hell. They contain myriad millions of smug, completed volumes that crowd and jostle upon the shelves in order to jeer and boo. A most disquieting experience that can mortally wound id, ego and total word-count alike.

And then there’s the oft-peddled conceit of the great outdoors, its bowers, glades and peaks providing optimum conditioning for creativity. It is here, Wordsworth intimates, that sublime communion with nature, and the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, can be achieved and properly channelled. Surely a world post-Romantic, post-post-modern, and post-the height of summer will be caught, fatally, in a sticky urban web and even stickier cynicism of spirit, before attempting to deposit a tentative foot over the threshold?

So what are the ideal conditions for harvesting the mind’s ambrosial nectar, the manna of the muses, or even an artist’s bread and butter? Stephen Fry, beatific benchmark, to my mind, for anything vaguely intellectual in enterprise or proper in manner, requires seclusion, silence and early bed-times.

The great Anna Piaggi, who equally deserves elevation into the dizzy, cherub-spattered pedestals of my esteem, can get nothing done without her red 1969 Olivetti typewriter.

 Agatha Christie collated her thoughts and plotted her fictional intrigues whilst eating apples in the bath. Though not, I fear, elect of this gilded circle of true luminaries, I too have honed my own habit of craftsmanship, whilst at university, submitting a 4000 word essay each fortnight. But it’s no cavalier apple-gazing; silently shooting the breeze amid the candyfloss flurries of the hot and cold taps. No, I strongly suspect that it is a method shared with many of my nearest, dearest contemporaries.

 

For me, it’s bed-ridden, muscularly crippled in my prolonged supine state, propped up by fat pillows like some arthritic seaside aunt. I can only write in bed; cocooned, festering in a vocabulary pea-fog of perspiration. I go for long stretches of the clock without sustenance. The starvation alternative is constant sugar, in the form of chocolate usually, though I do fear I’ll resort to a drip soon, if only to rid myself of the distracting rustle of wrappers strewn, like so many shed skins, as I shift my (probably ballooning) bulk.

Solitude is unnecessary. I entreat those around me, enlisting them in serving up the countless cups of tea, black as mud, I imbibe with feverish belief in its powers, as if some genius-giving potion lurks in the grainy, cinereous dregs. I bark orders like some wounded general. Those brave enough to refuse are soundly cursed as enemies of culture, of literature and all things noble.

I don’t simply burn the midnight oil; I erect great bonfires; fashioning zero-hour pyres and huge conflagrations that involuntarily yield charred and twisted new compounds of ash and glue and feathers. If I periodically surface and arise, Triton-like, from the depths, hobbling bleary-eyed and pillow-faced into the kitchen on sloshing sea-legs, I expect a certain hushed deference from those I encounter. Courting an awed appreciation for the Herculean sacrifice I have undertaken, I deign to make the odd rare appearance (it’s actually a quest for toast), delivering solicitous salutations and zoned-out stares. When my reception is less than reverential, and comments submerged in irony are bandied forth, I am forced to affect an injured air, and gravely withdraw, (unwashed) head held aloft, to my quilted cave.

Of course, the doom and gloom and damp of the bat-bunker isn’t exactly a method embraced and endorsed among literature’s cognoscenti. We all know Keats composed his most famous poem under a plum tree one morning in glorious spring. Wordsworth matched the scansion of his metre to the earth-timbred beat of his walking boot upon the Lake District’s peaks and plains. And Eliot got a grip on The Waste Land whilst drinking deep of the clear mountain air of Lausanne.

I may remain mummified in a duvet-shroud for protracted spells, but I do crave diversion; variety; to dip my toe into the dirty pool of pop-culture. I embrace Twitter, YouTube, Grazia Daily and countless other virtual hubs of mass procrastinators to whom I proffer an apathetic hand across the ennui-void.

Procrastination as the thief of time has long been the bone in the craw of many illustrious writers; Samuel Johnson was near-phobic of this very human flaw. It haunted Virginia Woolf and spurred on Shakespeare, who as usual has the wisest of counsel: ‘Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.’ (Henry VI)

And yet as Keats’s Odes can testify to, there is a poetry in muggy stillness, a spark of inspiration submerged in the blurred dream-states of idle contemplation, amid ‘evenings steep’d in honied indolence’. But I cannot chase Keats down his daisy and violet tunnels, or trace the elevated paths of his leaps from contemplation to creation, and neither, probably, can you. His is a philosophy few can emulate. And, let’s be honest, there is nothing remotely magical or exquisite, or divinely solipsistic, in the streaming of Britain’s Next Top Model at 2am when a deadline is looming. (Though there is something of the ethereal in my favourite contestant, Joy – a pale Madeline or stricken Lamia, perhaps? – but I digress.)

So although tearing oneself away from the honey-trap of viral distractions is as difficult and distressing as snatching a kaleidoscope from the eye of an enraptured child, tear and wrench and yank I must. Necessity is, after all, the mother of invention…