Germaine Greer's Happy Squid review 2006

Crumbs, it's nearly the end of the year. What better excuse for a review of the, er, best bits to date? And what better host than acerbic feminist academic, Germaine Greer? Oh, let's just get on with it.

Hello. I'm Professor Germaine Greer. During the course of my distinguished career, I've been forced to wade through some truly execrable dross. However, very few of the nuggets of cultural dung that I've dissected in the past come even close to being quite as repugnant as the so-called "Happy Squid". The language is incoherent, the illustrations (with some notable exceptions) are laughably inept, and overarching themes are notable only by their absence. It's as if the entries are regurgitated on to the page without forethought or planning, and the structure has become more and more slapdash as time has worn on.

In the early posts, there is at least some sense of continuity, with comments on internet culture leading into confusing, irrelevant discussion of board games and onwards (by way of David Icke, of all people) towards Testoni, Garros and Hawk's inadequacies with members of the opposite sex. The first two, we are told, are incapable of so simple a task as making a purchase in a newsagents without suffering crises of sexuality, while the latter cheerfully admits to book-burning, the ultimate expression of illiteracy. I wonder if this Hawk character has any idea what a metaphor is. I do: I'm Professor Germaine Greer. I might have already mentioned that.

From this point on, post follows post in an entirely illogical manner. For example, Vinnie Jones is roped in to offer highly dubious romantic advice. I know Vinnie quite well, and I can say with confidence that the kind of sexism evident in his Happy Squid contribution is entirely out of character. I can only assume that his comments were taken out of context; they may even have been partially fabricated, since I remain to be convinced of the blog's journalistic integrity. This is followed over the months by succession of celebrity interviews and transcripts of their conversations. These are mainly posted by Testoni, who remains evasive about his sources, so their veracity is in some doubt. The hot-blooded response of Andy Murray to Testoni's taunting seems quite plausible, however. Other victims include: Tim Wheeler from Ash dispensing nonsensical martial-arts guidance; Boris Johnson and Jamie Oliver debating government policy whilst locked in a cupboard; American Beauty writer Alan Ball selling the rights to Six Feet Under to some suspiciously unenlightened Australians; George Galloway and Tommy Sheridan talking utter bollocks; David Beckham attempting to stimulate youngsters' interest in fluid dynamics; and J. J. Abrams pitching for the next Bond film. Most of these pieces descend into farce, and contribute nothing to the sum of human understanding. I find it appalling that such serious minds and respected role-models should be represented in this inane way, but the lack of discernment and concentration among internet surfers allows such transgressions to go unpunished, I imagine. Terrible.

Worse still is the complete absence of female input to the blog's content. Women are portrayed either as terrifyingly unapproachable figures of fear (quite right too) or as hapless, acquisitive bit-players. This duality of representation is presumably indicative of the authors' total sexual confusion and inadequacy; perhaps there's too much soy in their diets. Testoni in particular seems utterly perplexed by female influences, while simultaneously struggling to define himself as a man. A fifteen per cent man with an acute fear of women must indeed struggle in social situations, which presumably explains why he has so much time to devote to spewing his cretinous mind-puke over his unfortunate readers. He's also a massively regressive individual, claiming to be in his mid twenties, and yet resorting to Lego as his chosen medium for story telling.

The first of these Lego creations is the charmlessly juvenile Pirates. If the blurry, over-lit photography isn't enough to send you running for the Ikea catalogue, the pointless "plot" and anachronistic dialogue will do the trick. Eighteenth century sea-dogs should not be speaking like P. G. Wodehouse characters, and they certainly shouldn't be alluding to Beautiful South singles from 1989. It's sloppily researched, poorly conceived and entirely offensive to feminist readers. The token female pirate, Nigella, is fatuous, rash and obstinate, which of course is totally unlike any woman I have ever met. Sickening.

The second tale to be told through the medium of Danish plastic bricks is a superfluous retelling of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (navigate to parts 2 and 3 from the "previous posts" list on the top right of the page). This Kevin Costner classic was one of my all-time favourite films until this lobotomised remake tarnished its purity. If it weren't for the fact that Testoni is clearly a joyless idea-leech, I'd be tempted to say that there's an air of flippancy in the story, which is not at all appropriate for material of such gravitas. The characterisation is hopelessly weak: the evil witch has a bunch of red flowers protruding from her head, this cheery floral adornment presumably being synonymous with wicked misanthropy in the writer's underdeveloped mind. Once more, the female presence is minimal, but Maid Marian is reduced to a simpering damsel in distress. Why couldn't it have been more like Tony Robinson's brilliant Maid Marian and her Merry Men, where Marian was in charge? Instead, we're expected to make do with some lyrics from the theme tune of this wondrous television programme being guilelessly shoehorned into the dialogue. A missed opportunity, and an unsightly blemish on the reputation of a cinematic great.

Testoni's iconoclastic butchery spreads beyond the world of film, however. On several occasions he takes it upon himself to experiment with poetry. The excruciatingly dreadful A Cautionary Poem about Drugs provides lucid testament to his lack of rhythm, rhyme and knowledge of his chosen subject matter. I quote:

And I'm sorry if this seems depressing
But herein lies a valuable lesson
About not doing weed, speed, acid, smack, crack
Or crystal meth
Or skunk, junk, crunk, Ker-Plunk

Cleary his fixation with childish games permeates even his efforts to tackle serious subject matter. As for My Heart is in Prison After Cardiac Arrest, I refer you to my comments above about confused sexuality. Here's a sample for those of you with strong stomachs:

I had a dream featuring John Nettles
In a bath full of red rose petals
And I don't wish to seem to be griping
But he was wiping himself with my flannel
And the flowers were blocking the piping
And beginning to stain the enamel
"This is how we bathe in Midsomer!" he cried
"In that case, I'd best call the plumber," I replied

I feel nauseous just thinking about it, and not just because of the inconsistent rhyme-scheme and metre.

There's also some more pop-based rhyming from All Saints, but I'm above such frippery. Money mad, those girls:

I’m no saver
But I’m sure I ain’t done nothing wrong
Do me a favour:
Wedge a few banknotes in my thong

Nice to see this successful girl-group doing their bit for the fight against negative female stereotyping (that was a sarcastic comment, by the way, you thickos).

The Happy Squid also features some drawings. These are divided into two categories: good (the ones by Garros) and pitiful (scrawled by Testoni, who can't even be bothered to colour them in). This poster by Garros is so good that I'm going to have it printed on a t-shirt and wear it on Starkey's Last Word. This one (visual Happy Mondays tribute) and this one (the Beard of Destiny) are brilliant, too. The less said about this one (constant, do you see?), though, the better. Let alone this one (a slow day for ideas, even by Testoni's non-exacting standards).

All of the above constitutes a fairly comprehensive round-up, except for a of rogue entry by acclaimed novelist and thinker, Ian McEwan. It goes on for ages, and I doubt anybody's actually read it, but I'd advise you to give it a go if you enjoyed his last book, Saturday. Material from a Booker Prize-winning author is an oasis of articulate wisdom on this website of linguistic horrors, and the spoon imagery is quite exquisite. For those who prefer their fiction with a flavour of nineteenth-century urban reality, a long-forgotten extract from an unpublished novel of the era provides an eye-opening snapshot of youth culture in the days before i-Pods and the culture of apathy. The Happy Squid is at its best when proper writers such as this are given the reins.

So that's it. Just enough time left to let Mark Kermode out of his box and ask him what he thought of the Happy Squid. What's that, Mark? You say that this site is clearly written by smart-arse students and recent graduates who aren't as clever as they think? You detect a hint of irony? You think it's supposed to be funny? Oh, Mark; you are contrary. Fancy crediting these blogging idiots with the capacity for independent thought. Get back in the box, or I'll make you go back and work for Radio 1. You don't want that, do you? People respect you now.

Good boy.

I've been Germaine Greer, completely disgusted. Happy New Year, you morons.

2007 yo

Well, to all readers, the best wishes for the new year, may yours be filled with merry Squid and copious biscuits.

And for a much-belated Christmas present, check out one of the prettiest comics on the Interweb.

Copper

Tinker, Tailor, Soldiers, Pi

Le Carré on regardless.

Ahhh the Internet, free speech ftw.

Allow me to quote, if you will, Jim Rutz as he shows us "The Big Picture" in his worldnet daily exclusive commentary:

"A devil food is turning our kids into homosexuals
Posted: December 12, 2006
1:00 a.m. Eastern

There's a slow poison out there that's severely damaging our children and threatening to tear apart our culture. The ironic part is, it's a "health food," one of our most popular.


Now, I'm a health-food guy, a fanatic who seldom allows anything into his kitchen unless it's organic. I state my bias here just so you'll know I'm not anti-health food.

The dangerous food I'm speaking of is soy. Soybean products are feminizing, and they're all over the place. You can hardly escape them anymore.

I have nothing against an occasional soy snack. Soy is nutritious and contains lots of good things. Unfortunately, when you eat or drink a lot of soy stuff, you're also getting substantial quantities of estrogens.

Estrogens are female hormones. If you're a woman, you're flooding your system with a substance it can't handle in surplus. If you're a man, you're suppressing your masculinity and stimulating your "female side," physically and mentally.

In fetal development, the default is being female. All humans (even in old age) tend toward femininity. The main thing that keeps men from diverging into the female pattern is testosterone, and testosterone is suppressed by an excess of estrogen.

If you're a grownup, you're already developed, and you're able to fight off some of the damaging effects of soy. Babies aren't so fortunate. Research is now showing that when you feed your baby soy formula, you're giving him or her the equivalent of five birth control pills a day. A baby's endocrine system just can't cope with that kind of massive assault, so some damage is inevitable. At the extreme, the damage can be fatal.

Soy is feminizing, and commonly leads to a decrease in the size of the penis, sexual confusion and homosexuality. That's why most of the medical (not socio-spiritual) blame for today's rise in homosexuality must fall upon the rise in soy formula and other soy products. (Most babies are bottle-fed during some part of their infancy, and one-fourth of them are getting soy milk!) Homosexuals often argue that their homosexuality is inborn because "I can't remember a time when I wasn't homosexual." No, homosexuality is always deviant. But now many of them can truthfully say that they can't remember a time when excess estrogen wasn't influencing them. . . . . "

(I shit you not, check out the main article)
--------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris promptly burns all of his soy milk (harder than it sounds) and is finally able to explain to himself why he'd been casually eyeing up those dresses in M&S . . . From now on it's nothing but raw streak and steroid shots for me.

Words fail me

The Adventures of Laconic the Hedgehog and Monosyllabic Rabbit

Genius at work.

Old news

In the absence of any more original ideas, this is the Happy Squid News on Friday 8th December, with Patrick Emphatic, Hilary Histrionic and a load of half-arsed gags stolen from The Day Today etc. Our main headlines tonight:

[Bong] A shocking thing happens.
[Bong] A financial company collapses.
[Bong] Obesity is still on the increase.
[Bong] And in sport, England is rubbish.

Patrick Emphatic: Good evening. Britain was rocked today by a truly SHOCKING event. For more details on this SICKENING story, let’s cross to our catastrophe correspondent, Damien Sensible. Damien, what’s happening out there?

Damien Sensible: Well, Patrick, there’s certainly a little bit of public unrest, but the police seem to have the matter well in hand, and with the main instigators in custody, I suspect the crowds will start to dissipate shortly.

PE: You’re telling me there’s nothing APPALLING to report?

DS: Not really, no.

PE: Not even the tiniest SHOCKENING detail?

DS: That’s not even a word, Patrick.

PE: I suppose it isn’t. Thanks, Damien. Now, over to Hilary for news of a CALAMATOUS collapse in the world of business finance.

Hilary Histrionic: That’s right, Patrick. Today a well-known financial institution collapsed under the pressure of unprecedented credit-card borrowing. City analysts are predicting a domino-topple effect. That’s probably too technical for you to understand, so we’ve provided an illustrative diagram.

Look, they’re all falling down! That’s what happens when you borrow too much money, you selfish, selfish people!

PE: Thanks for that. Next, yet more bad news about Britain’s SPIRALLING OBESITY CRISIS. Scientists estimate that 120 per cent of children aged fifteen will be SUPERMASSIVELY overweight by 2010. Let’s talk to eminent holistic dietician, Dr. Keith McGillian. Dr. McGillian, what’s your response to these findings? 120 per cent of teenagers to be REPUGNANTLY OBESE by 2010?

Dr. Keith McGillian: Well, clearly, these figures don’t make any sense at all.

PE: You mean that these children are throwing their health away senselessly?

Dr McG: No, I mean in terms of simple proportions…

PE: These teenagers have GROSS proportions, doctor.

Dr McG: You’re twisting my words. I’m trying to say that you can’t have more than 100 per cent incidence of any phenomenon within a population.

PE: Don’t try to blind us with science; these statistics clearly have DISASTROUS implications for the nation’s youth, and yet you’re unable to answer a SIMPLE QUESTION.

Dr McG: All I mean is…

PE: That’s all we have time for, I’m afraid, Dr. McGibberish. Back to Hilary now for the sport.

HH: Thanks, Patrick. Greg McMurrayman has CRASHED OUT of yet another tennis tournament in the second round: he’s crap.

Also crap are England’s cricketers, who are hoping to salvage some pride after being comprehensively out-cricketed by some foreign Johnnies.

And in football, a team that everybody thought was good got beaten by a team that nobody thought were good enough to beat the other team, the one that everybody thought was good, remember? This was very exciting, because big successful football teams are EVIL, and it’s fun to laugh at them when they lose.

That’s tonight’s sport.

PE: Thank you, Hilary. Let’s have a recap of the headlines.

[Headlines are recapped]

PE: And finally, our obligatory trivial closing story that nobody cares about. The videogame WAR heated up today with the release of Nintendo’s new console, the Wii. I’m assuming that’s a misprint.

HH: Apparently not, Patrick. Gaming fans have been camping outside retailers all week to be among the first to get their hands on the new machine. What a bunch of w**kers. I was forced to go to HMV on Oxford Street at MIDNIGHT to speak to some of them. Play the clip.

Excited gaming fan: Wow! This is the single greatest day of my life! I’ve been queuing here since October to be first in the line, and now I’ve fulfilled my life’s ambition. Plus I got to meet Pat Cash: best night out ever! I’m just going to grab a shower, then I’m getting back in the tent; the Playstation 3’s coming out in March, and I don’t want to lose my spot.

HH: T**t.

PE: Hmm. That was the Happy Squid News; goodnight!

Half the weekend muddled: a turd, say?

Very big news, this: critically acclaimed, Booker Prize-winning author Ian McEwan has written an exclusive short story for The Happy Squid. It’s entitled Steven makes a Cup of Tea. Enjoy.

===

Steven pushes open the heavy oak door and steps into the kitchen. Fumbling blearily along the wall with his tired right arm, he locates the switch and bathes the room in light from the compact halogen spotlights mounted in the ceiling, a rare concession to modernity in this traditional Victorian town house. The harshness of the glare pierces his vision, and his pupils, formerly dilated in the darkness, are reduced to pin-heads of blackness perfectly centred in the milky blue of his irises. Involuntarily, the orbicularis oculi muscles in his face contract to narrow his vision, leaving him with an almost comic look of intense puzzlement. He remembers discussing the wave-particle duality of light with his friends from the physics department at Oxford, and for a moment he imagines that he can feel the infinitesimal force of individual photos bursting against his flesh, imparting their packets of quantized energy as they do so. Although Steven was a talented student of English Literature during his university years, his natural intellectual curiosity has led him to a broad understanding of almost all aspects of the physical and metaphysical universe.

As he stands in his kitchen, adjusting to the light, he allows himself a brief moment of nostalgia for his Oxford days; that innocent time before the demands of his job as best-selling novelist and highly respected cultural commentator began to weigh on him. It was as an undergraduate that he had met Flora, now his wife of twenty-one years. On the day she first caught his eye, she had been handing out leaflets in protest at the Falklands war, a startling concoction of ill-fitting clothing and free-spirited black hair, spraying and whipping in the wind like the tentacles of an upside-down jellyfish in choppy waters. She had smiled coyly as he passed her by, and despite his naturally conservative predisposition, something in the naivety of her liberal peacenik demeanour created a perturbation in the usually calm surface of his temperament. She had pressed one of the pamphlets into his hand, and, his defences momentarily disrupted, he had meekly accepted it. Steven felt a twinge of warmth permeate his being at the memory. It was this exchange, the offering and acceptance of a tokenistic baton, which had effectively sealed the contract which still bound them. Unbeknownst to Flora, he had kept the leaflet, crumpled and yellowed with age, in a box in the attic. ‘War is bad!’ its headline read. Steven had written a five-hundred page novel expressing a similar sentiment only last year; it had been a best-seller. He had, of course, dedicated it to his wife.

He is growing accustomed to the light by now, and surveying his surroundings. His ruminations have caused him to forget the reason he has come to the kitchen; an experience that is becoming increasingly regular as he progresses into middle age. Steven is often haunted by the sense that his youthful alacrity of thought is deserting him, and now a moment’s melancholy lingers on the periphery of his mood, before dissipating into the broad pool of indifference that he has cultivated over the years. After several seconds spent scanning the worktop surfaces for clues, his gaze alights upon the kettle. Recollection floods his consciousness in a manner which reminds him of the levees breaking in New Orleans; associations of this type are typical of Steven’s ability to create topical similes relevant to modern audiences. Such is his excitement at having remembered his kitchen-based intentions, however, that he barely has time to congratulate himself on his exemplary grasp of rhetoric. What he really wants now is tea. The urge for liquid satiation is upon him, the most primal and urgent of human needs, and other thoughts are pushed peremptorily aside. During the three strides that lead him to the kettle, he feels a sense of atavistic purpose; an invigorating flash of hunter-gatherer instinct that millennia of evolution have failed to bury. He reaches the jug, and snatching it firmly from its cradle, he transports it briskly to the sink, and begins to fill the vessel with water from the tap.

The mere physical twist required to commence the flow has the effect of releasing Steven from his Neanderthal trance. It is as if a valve has been opened in his reservoir of perception, allowing the modern world to flow back in. The comforting pressure of running water playing against the base and sides of the kettle calms his psyche. The liquid turbulently froths where the pressurised stream meets the surface of the liquid, and Steven notes that this is very much like life: an unpredictable torrent of eddies and vortices created at a boundary between the static and the dynamic. He makes a mental note to use this image in his new novel about Scientology.

Judging the kettle to be sufficiently full for his purposes, he returns it to its power-giving base and presses the switch. The agonising ritual of waiting now begins. Some of his writing contemporaries have suggested that the anticipation of tea is better than the drinking of tea itself, but Steven sighs disdainfully at their pretentiousness. Despite his academic credentials, he is a man who takes pleasure in life’s simple, intellectually undemanding acts: food, drink, sex, Iain Banks. Regardless of his views, he knows he has at least sixty seconds to wait before the heating element completes its work. While he stares fixedly at the hissing appliance, he is struck suddenly by a sense of its beauty. The ergonomic curvature of its outline is surely the result of many years of design refinement; its free-standing base a stroke of genius – it is hard now for him to imagine going back to the days of plugging and unplugging the thickly insulated wire manually. Steven’s cerebral synapses fire into life, and a panoply of other modern inventions suggest themselves to him: e-mail, television, digital music, Ker-Plunk. All of these things make our lives more convenient and enjoyable, and yet bloated western society takes them for granted. Steven adds this to his list of things to point out in his next book.

He is roused from his thoughts by the climactic click of the kettle reaching boiling point. The swirls of steam emanating from its spout and drifting in translucent white spirals towards the ceiling bring to mind a sexual association that Steven cannot quite place. However, he has already gleaned plenty of new material for his novel this morning, so does not mentally pursue the matter. Instead, he reaches into the cupboard level with his head and retrieves a mug. In the smaller unit to his left, he locates a box of teabags, and plucks one expertly from the cardboard shell without disrupting the others. He begins to feel the giddy rush of creativity that has inspired all his best writing to date, and with practised ease, he tosses the bag into the mug, before sweeping his throwing arm over the surface and hoisting the kettle once more from its resting place. He allows himself a moment of dramatic hiatus before deluging the receptacle with his steaming fluid, then surrenders to the timeless joy of watching the papery sack become saturated and rise with the incoming flood, browning the water as it goes.

The spectacle is so stimulating that saliva begins to pool in Steven’s mouth. His primitive thirst has returned, and he stoops hurriedly, impetuously, towards the fridge, opens it, and grabs the milk like a man possessed. He does not even pause to ponder the small miracle of the magnetised vacuum-sealed door, or the perfectly temperature-regulated microclimate that the refrigerator represents. Impatiently, he wrenches a drawer open, the sensual slide of the mechanism reduced to a hurried jerk, and thrashes his fingers through the front compartment of the cutlery tray for a teaspoon. The cacophonous racket of clashing metal irritates Steven, and though he subconsciously acknowledges that he will regret it later, he pulls a fistful of spoons from the drawer, sending several scattering across the linoleum floor like steel penguins cruising across plasticized ice.

He pulls a single implement from the bunch in his fist, and dumps the remainder back in the tray with furious emphasis. Almost singular now in the pursuit of his hot beverage, he scoops the sodden teabag from the mug and flicks it on to the countertop, creating a chaotic dispersal of tea droplets as it strikes. Steven does not notice this startling example of physical randomization, however, since he is engaged in wrenching the lid from the plastic milk bottle, emitting tiny grunts and gasps of frustration as he does so. After what seems like minutes, but is in fact a matter of a few seconds, he manages to unscrew the green disc, but its flimsiness is no match for the force of his impatience, and it flies from his grasp, landing on the floor to skitter for a moment between the scattered spoons. Were Steven in a more receptive state of mind, he might have mentally likened this event to the opening of Pandora’s Box combined with Dante’s descent into hell. As it is, his thoughts are more prosaic. He clumsily tips the milk jug over the tea, splashing white homogenised residue over the table to join the other by-products of his endeavours. Even in his agitation, he struggles to suppress a laugh at the obvious parallels with the wastefulness of consumer society: the irony is too striking to ignore.

Finally, the elements are in place, and Steven watches with satisfaction as the clouds of creamy paleness soften the brown of the tea. The billowing, blooming nature of the milk’s diffusion has a calming effect on him, and he waits for the liquid to reach a uniform tone before breaching its surface with his spoon. He stirs serenely and smoothly, tracing elliptical paths through the fluid. The waiting is almost over.

Suddenly, a voice from behind him breaches the silence.

“Morning, darling,” chirps Flora. “I could murder a cup of tea.”

Steven’s wife glides ominously across the floor, obliviously kicking and displacing the spoons that litter her path. A sense of impending doom washes over Steven, but he has been caught off guard, languishing in a reverie of pre-potable distractedness. He watches helplessly as Flora sweeps up to his position, kisses him lightly on the cheek, and wraps her slender fingers around the handle of the mug. With an almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes, she dares him to challenge her. Steven is beaten; a broken man. Flora knows this, knows her husband’s weakness of spirit, and makes a defiant retreat from the room, daintily picking her way over the widely-strewn cutlery as she leaves.

Steven falls to his knees, landing awkwardly on a spoon as he does so. He barely registers the sharp jab of pain, so deep, so complete, is his despair. His head slumps on to the counter, his hair smearing the puddle of milk as it cushions his fall. Dimly aware of the resistant metal that is pressing into his right patella, he reaches down to languorously pluck the spoon from its resting place. Raising it to eye level, the inverted reflection he sees in its concave surface confirms that his world has been turned upside-down. His former euphoria at the convenience and ingenuity of technology has faded to incredulous disillusion. One phrase pushes its way to the forefront of his mind, the phrase that also provided the title for his insightful debut novel:

Life is cruel.