Dylan Moran is a wonderful man. He’s probably actually very nice in real life, but I’m more interested in his personas as Bernard Black in Black Books and his stand-up performances. In both he portrays a mildly alcoholic, bitter Irishman utterly unconcerned with other people’s issues and harbouring a deep hatred for nigh-on everything in the world. And sadly, I find myself drawn to this view of the world. Everybody has days when they want to take a potato peeler to the skin of all their enemies, friends and gardeners, simply because they NO LONGER CARE about everybody else’s issues. This seems great to me; I can listen to some people’s issues, but when people are complaining about ferrets invading their mind and turning it into a miniature replica of Midgar, that’s me done, I’m finished, the door is right there, stand there while I hit you with it.
However, this viewpoint also stretches to the way you feel about your personal possessions. A memorable scene in Black Books is the occasion when Bernard, who has spent every episode in the same black suit jacket, black shirt and black trousers, has his clothes washed by a well-meaning visitor. Coming into the room, looking slightly disgusted, these clothes are found to be a bright white. “Who shaved me? Who washed my clothes!?” Cries Moran, with the tone of somebody who had been recently violated, and left in a ditch. It’s not so much the fact that his filthy suit has been washed, it’s the fact that Somebody Else Has Touched His Things. I share this. They are my things; I don’t want you putting your filthy well-meaning balanced individual hands on my things. I don’t even want you inside my personal space, because IT’S MINE, and I’m the only person worth talking to in here.
Also, I like the idea of spending most of my life in a bookshop, drinking copious amounts, though I can skip the chain-smoking.
P.S: Like Dylan Moran, I’m not really like this in real life. I like to imagine I would be, but if that was so I’d have nobody to talk to, or indeed read this.
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