The dissection of the dissection of great things

This little passage is in ode to those I would like to describe as the dRY HUMPING PUNDIT.

You’re first experience of the pundit usually takes the guise of a secondary (or unluckily for some primary school) english literature teacher.

The method of choice will probably be shakespeare and in it They’d get the biggest hard*on and psycho analyse something that perhaps if you asked Shakey-Bakey himself, he would have no friggin idea it had any deeper meaning.

Your next experience may be some Kont at university with a che guevarra t-shirt or a trustafarian at a festival. You’ll probably notice a few of them being in the queue ahead on you when you just want a simple rom com with your spouse on orange wednesdays, they are the ones who have read the director’s commentary, read the original book, read the book adaptation of the film, read what stephen fry has to say about it and have wiped their bum with the director’s toupe they saved up to by on ebay. don’t worry, they won’t hear you sighing at their pretentiousness, they have their heads too far buried up their friends’ poo holes, trying to come off as sophisticated.

Nowadays, these dry humping fug nuggest have spilled out of their normal confinements and now run around telling you how ‘AMAZING’ shit is. First came myspace, then facebook, then twitter and now they’ve jumped on the bandwagon of dvd boxsets (the wire and Lost), cult tv (peep show) overhyped bands (artic flunkeys) and wannabe art gurus who go on about  fucking fucking BANKSY!!!

You see this is our inante problem as society.

We are very quick to explain why we like something, and the greater you like something the greater a piece of work is dissected. We spend far more time honouring something than the creators spent making it.

Can we not just stand back and take greatness at face value as purely being great? Do we have to spend time assigning a ‘tangible value’ to the ‘abstract’ response it provides?

As I type this with a great sense of satisfaction, a hoarde of these pundits ultimately start building in numbers and form a small resistance in my mind. Their anthem being one of Mouse T’s understated works(is it cos I’m cool). I start to fear for the worst as my reality collapses infront of me..

And then suddenly I realise I’m one of them. They are my art and where I find impossible to highlight their good parts, I happily find solace in desconstructing their inate flaws. Even so, I find greatness in their weaknesses.

Life is cruel. I’m off to get a PGCE in secondary school english…