Someone asked me who I write this blog for. The only person I write this blog for is me in one month. I want to ensure that as I write this blog the me-in-one-month is someone I want to be.
Trying to write a ‘clever’ blog parodying Matthew McConaughey’s Oscar acceptance speech that acknowledges that I am writing this a month after the event is more convoluted than it should be.
Without the previous paragraph the first paragraph makes no sense. Robbed of context it just sounds like me talking bullshit. Which it is, admittedly.
Playing catch up with these blogs pretty much robs me the notion of contextual comment – that I could expect someone reading to understand. It’s a helpful element of writing thousands of words a week with the nearest thing to a narrative arc being the flimsily realistic notion of a human’s existence.
I’d say there was my own life, commenting on something in the public domain and occasionally just writing utter nonsense. Probably a 45%, – 52% -3% split. If we ignore the large amount of commenting on what I write about, everyone hates those fucking wank entries though so I try to limit them. The problem is when I do it I enjoy it and can’t stop myself etc.
McConaughey’s speech was both amazing and passionate and somewhat moving. And ridiculous. Mainly ridiculous. Because I don’t speak other languages I don’t watch awards ceremonies in languages other than English. So I don’t know what goes on outside of England and America – and really does anyone care? But how do Americans sound OK making God a leading character in their thankyou narrative?
There is no way it would happen at the BAFTAs. There is no way a British actor would proudly apportion some of their success to a God or their faith. British people only find their voice when the situation is significantly sadder than winning an award for pretending to be someone.
I was angry that Steve Coogan didn’t get an award for his Philomena screenplay even though I haven’t seen it*.
*I have seen it, but I hadn’t when I should have written this.