Charlie Brooker’s one of the reasons I buy The Guardian. He has, I think anyway, natural skills as a writer (and there’s a lot of competition) and is a quirky, funny and penetrating observer of the things which animate our lives.
Writers tell us more about our lives than any daft scientist finessing data in East Anglia. And I guess, imagine, there’s a point in a writer’s life where they need to move on to other stuff. They need to pay the mortgage. I’ve no idea how that’s done, but I presume they make their own call. Keep the column but take a few months off to write something funny, aware, life-enhancing. Whatever, there are plenty to choose from and so it’s a risk, however famous on a day to day or week to week basis they might be.
But some can now choose a middle option. That’ll be the telly. One comedian described …. . In ccc Charlie B came over all .. Hyslop. Sneeringat the stuff folk watch from the perspective of some blokey guy who’s actually an insider’s insider.
Maybe it’s because he’s blank on what to write that’s going to last beyond tomorrow. That’s what happened, as far as I can recall, to the man who might have been one of the writers we talk about seriously, rather than just the now boringly ironic Clive James.
But for now, I’m bored not with Brooker’s Guardian columns, but about his choice to be Ian Hyslop of the left (ish). It’s his call. If I were him, I’d say goodbye to sneering. But I guess it’s all a matter of money.