I deludedly thought I was buying this book for my partner. After seeing Richard Ayoade on Graham Norton and giggling hysterically, I learned he had written a book about maybe the worst film ever made, starring the inimitable hawker of vaginal eggs (see below) and ridiculous smelling candles: Gwyneth Paltrow. As my partner, has an advanced degree in film making, among others, i thought - Perfect Gift!
But the humor is simply too British for someone who hasn’t had the delight of living there, and so he didn’t find calling Gwyneth “one pickle short of a ploughman’s” funny at all. Much less mucking through the British slang; gurn, guff, frig, bonce - most Americans probably couldn’t tell you the difference between a shag and a snog. Indeed a wise person once said “The UK and the USA are two countries separated by a common language.”
So i read it. And I will have to keep it, if just for the Index. Few books have indices that, standing alone, are mightily risible:
“...bathroom, animal-print-lined, 119
baton, suavely swirling Thousand Island dressing with a carrot, 29”
bearhug, unsolicited, 28…”
But, first, the book:
“Here was a protest against the narrative of victimhood that has come to pervade today’s Complaint Culture. If you want to succeed, the film bravely asserts, put on a short skirt and go into the service industry!”
With flawless comic rhythm Ayoade deconstructs:
“...here, the film seems to ask whether ‘going places’ is the same as ‘going to a place’. The first is a perpetual cycle. Sisyphus is going places, it’s just that the route is quite up and down.”
After a particularly non-subtle scene:
“Sometimes the rapier is more effective than the blunderbuss.”
Or a simple, perfectly-turned, description:
“Sally is wearing capri pants, whose softly iridescent gun-metal hue speaks of an elegance beyond those common folk who scrap it out in the scrum of the quotidian.”
On the origin of stewardesses (ellipses his):
“The idea was audacious. Women...looking after people...and getting paid for it!”
And on Paltrow’s vag-egg-mongering:
“Vaginal eggs are the result of taking the name of a body part and placing it next to the name of a breakfast item. Vaginal eggs are no more real to me than penis toast or anal pancakes. As my mother would always say to me, nothing that can hatch belongs in your vagina.”
From the Index:
pancakes, anal, 39
There was actually a lawsuit (which the vag-egg-wallah lost) because of the false claims made about these - proof that fools are indeed born continuously.
Not at all related to the above:
“I’m not saying we don’t need lawyers. But that’s only because I’ve been legally advised not to make that statement.”
I would love to read more Ayoade, but the international postal service here is on indefinite hiatus. So I’ll end with this delightful silliness:
“An era has passed, as all eras must. What is left to say, except the answer to the question, ‘What do you call Gloria Estefan vomiting in a taxi?’
Sic transit gloria.”