Yesterday I had an interview. You know what that means. A JOB. Out came the vile interview suit and vile interview shoes. And hold-ups. Bleugh. Guess what they asked me?
‘Have you read any books recently and what did you think of it or them?’
Books! That’s all them shagging librarians ever think about. Ever go to the cinema, people? Watch telly? They’re so obvious it’s embarrassing. Naturally I flubbed it. I breezed through the rest of the thing, gabbing on happily about the democratisation of literature and having a community forum for this and that and the transience of something and the marginalisation of something else- I can’t rightly remember what I said now but at the time it was brilliant. Interview gold. And up comes the easiest, dumbest question ever and I practically swallow my tongue.
‘Lucky Jim’ I finally spat out. ‘Liked it.’ That’s not so bad, surprisingly it’s actually true. Yes my critical analysis isn’t exactly going to be scaring the shit out of Harold Bloom anytime soon but hey, he’s more than likely not in the running for this particular job.
But I couldn’t leave it there. For some reason interview-genius* Lucy decides that Lucky Jim isn’t impressive enough. ‘And Ulysses. Liked that too.’
Well done, shithead. No one, bar poncey literature students and maybe Declan Kiberd or someone, has just read Ulysses. And it’s a lie. I skipped right to the dirty bits and found them wanting. Pah. This is why I avoid carrying out conversations sober.
*Ha. Sometimes I spell right, sometimes I spell not so right.