A postcard from the 20th November, 2020

Morning.

I turned the radio on yesterday and the first thing I heard was a sentence that began, “Robbie Savage speaks for the whole country…” I thought it would be the weirdest thing I would experience all day but, between hearing that and typing this, I have read a tweet written by a divorced cotton bud that celebrates homophobic slurs in Christmas songs, watched the former mayor of New York accuse a man who has been dead for seven years of interfering in an election (as Just For Men pissed down his cheeks) and almost, but not quite, managed to avoid the latest stupid thing that Ben Bradley has said. This time Ben wants there to be a ‘minister for men’. Why not, I say. Let him do it if he wants one so badly. Everything has to be part of the never-ending culture war now anyway, so why not go all out and have a minister for edgelords as well?

Anyway, what have I been up to this week? Well, thinking about Fairytale of New York, obviously. It’s getting close to that time of year when the Christmas cds go on in the car and my Now That’s What I Call Christmas has the original version on it. So, what do I do with a seven-year-old in the car? She’s old enough to understand why people’s feelings could be hurt by those words but, I think, too young to have to try to navigate the minefield that is the culture war. I could sit her down and explain that, “Some people pretend to not understand how the things that they have only said because they are offensive to some people could be offensive to some people. They do it because it might lead to a appearance on Question Time which is, in the competitive space of being an disingenuous arsehole, great exposure,” but, frankly, she’s had enough shit to put up with this year. We all have.

Every seven year old should know about prejudice and privilege and equality, about their rights and their duties to others. No seven year old should ever be put in a position where they know who Nigel Farage is. Not in an ideal world.

So I’ll do what I do when I play Never Loved Elvis, I’ll have a bit of a coughing fit when the swear turns up. It’s a fudge, but until I can afford a more advanced car audio system it will have to do.

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