On Friday the 8th I downloaded the new David Bowie album and listened to it at work. On Monday the 11th, I got up at 6ish, uncharacteristically checked twitter before breakfast, and discovered he was dead.
It’s a testament to how profoundly irrational human emotion can be that the death of an oldish multimillionaire I never met could wallop me with such a sense of quiet desolation – not boo-hoo sadness, but shock, a sort of stunned, un-showy, rabbit-in-the-headlights inability to compute the information.
“Are you alright? You look devastated?” half-joked the usually anything but serious woman who sits opposite me at work, finding me staring blankly into space. What was I supposed to say? “A 69-year old pop star died”?
Why did I, a crazed hippy eco-communist with little or no patience with the flouncier sides of art and high culture, feel so strangely attached to a warbling tax dodger who got abominably rich off the back of ordinary people paying him to distract them? Continue reading
I started writing something about the Corbyn-Kuenssberg-Dugher-Doughty debacle myself, but then found this post by Media Lens which basically says all I wanted to say better (and more exhaustively researched) that I could.