First, enamel-stripped teeth, then a prolonged bout of dysentery/high-end diarrhoea, YouTube has not nurtured me as she once did. But like Ant Music before her, she remains a demanding mistress, who refuses to release me from our ancient pact of fidelity.
I have charted here my progress in finding better resolve to deal with unknown foe – i.e., everyone else, but it remains for me to convince myself, and the empty hours are as difficult as they ever were. So, I have reverted to my old counsellor once more to discover the guru’s view as to how to construct a durable carapace.
But this time the purveyors of good advice have disappointed me. Their consensus coagulates around this point: that to be tough, you must be a good egg; that when someone says something vile to you, you take it in good spirit and show that it has not hurt you, that in fact you’ve gone along with the joke – the ultimate proof that they’re not getting to you. This is WRONG. That very tactic has seen my undoing – to accommodate the boor’s bad attitude is to show him that you accept your role as the underdog and apologist in the relationship. Telling him that he is an unfunny cove takes courage and puts him where he needs to be. Imagine where you’d be if you laughed at all of Big Eggo’s jokes? I’ll tell you; you’d end up the meat in a YouTube shit sandwich, that’s where.
The show, which is to be called A sock in the eye by the way, is getting rubbed and polished. We’ve added a couple more enhanced features to the basic chat show formula since last time; the best of them, which is included as a sop to populism lest we’re considered too high-brow and inaccessible, is to have a member of the ignorant masses on a raised dais at the edge of the set who’s allowed to shout out anything he feels like saying to reflect the common view of the debate in hand. Over time, we may add more groundlings, so that the celebrity bottom feeder is forced to face an authentic slice of their real audience.
The name’s a horrible pun based on a literal translation of Glasnost, but that makes it work from a few angles – not least because Dominic will make them take off their shoes at the front door as they enter his house. We have been commissioned to do a pilot only at this stage. I am the credited writer, Fips has dissolved to the background, and I find myself working with a production assistant to put the show together. Norman Thrush is no Fips, but he has no compunction about using his experience in the game to assume seniority. The prick thinks that he’s instructed me to deliver a risk assessment for the show by next Friday. That seems to be to be a waste of my creative talents, and though Fips has given me a more compelling instruction not to ruin anything up by being uncooperative, I feel that I will be ignoring his advice, as I will that on YouTube, and that Norman will find the new daytime me as callously indifferent as the Cum-Bot ever was himself.
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