He’s everywhere. He has opinions on everything (says She). He’s a tart of a commentator, a slut of a reviewer, the whore of cultural criticism – he’s even started his children off on the art of using the name to churn out whatever the unimaginative editors of the liberal broadsheets and Radio 4 wish to see and hear. He’s very clever. Terribly clever. We all know that. He’s even quite dishy: I saw him once blowing smoke over his child’s head outside a caff in Farringdon’s meejah market, known otherwise as Exmouth. Sometimes I wonder if he really writes all those books – he spends so much time popping up here and there expounding this, booing that, whipping up them. Maybe he pays someone else to do it. Today on Today he was injecting some highly desirable negativity into the Harry hysteria. ‘Even my nine-year-old tossed it aside,’ he said (or something very similar), adding, ‘because it was boring.’ Self himself has not read the books. I myself have not either. Nor have I read any Self books. So I can’t slag the man off. But I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s a media tart. He is the celebrity of celebrities. How ironic, today on Today, that he should be so concerned about the mass market of Harry, when he himself is slowly but steadily becoming a product for the masses. Today’s presenter (Auntie’s economics editor who, when presenting Today, makes it sound like news for kids – or kidults, as Self suitably says) even had to remind himself to call Will by both names. ‘What do you think, Will?’ PAUSE ‘err, Self. Will Self.’ There all mates ya see. We all know who Will is, just like we all know who Harry is. Less the Self and the Potter makes no difference. What? Less the Self and the Potter makes no difference. That said, were I Lex or one of the others, I would swiftly change my name as soon as I could. Lex Selfless, perhaps?
P.S. A few weeks ago, when I first read Self & Son piece and nearly vomited all over my clean white duvet, I was going to write a blog condemning the endless stream of famous fathers and their golden sons, who are slowly being groomed to become father. Think Snows, think Blairs, and now think Selfs. Where are the famous mothers and daughters? was what I wanted to ask (or scream). But frankly, it was pure jealousy. I’m not a boy. My father, though successful, is not famous. And unfortunately, I’ve never wanted to become a fertility expert. And thinking further, I suspect it is a curse to be the son of Self. You are damned if you do and if you don’t. Forever compared to Dad. I can’t think of much worse, especially if he carries on on his cultural sideshow of mass media pleasing.