But I Digress …
by Darrel Bristow-Bovey
(Zebra)
I can understand David Bullard’s frustrations, I really can. It’s just not fair! What kind of a world is it where talent gets rewarded, and the also-rans get relegated to the trash heap of motor car reviews? Not the kind of world I want to live in, frankly. And recently, for a brief, wonderful moment, that world appeared to have changed. We should all have been able to get on with taking over Bristow-Bovey’s columns, now that he’s been bust as an alleged plagiarist (odd sort of crime, alleged plagiarism) and, even worse (as revealed in a shock exclusive in the Sunday Times by the aforementioned David Bullard, ace reporter), is apparently channeling the spirit of Hansie Cronje. The field should have been wide open, now that newspapers and magazines have cancelled his contracts.
Alas. In a final kick of the dying bullshitter, Bristow-Bovey has released an absolutely brilliant collection of his columns. Once editors read this book, and are reminded of the vast gulf that exists between the wit, intelligence and craftsmanship of a Darrel Bristow-Bovey and the plodding attempts of everyone else, they’ll be clamouring to have him back again.
But I Digress … showcases the best of Bristow-Bovey’s television, sport and lifestyle columns from the past six years. I defy anyone not to cackle aloud as they read this book. It’s full of Bristow-Bovey’s insightful, cynical takes on situations that the rest of us might find merely tiresome. Writing about a charity function where Christopher Reeve is wheeled on stage: “The audience rose to give him a standing ovation. A particularly thoughtless tribute, I would have said.”
And who can forget Bristow-Bovey’s description of Big Brother presenter Gerry Rantseli as “a glove puppet who has escaped from its hand and is joyously planning to flee across the countryside”.
It would be a mistake to reduce Bristow-Bovey to the role of a funny man, though. He is an astute social commentator, and much of his writing has a depth that does not rely on acerbic wit alone. I was almost moved to tears by his description of a televised interview with a reticent World War II Victoria Cross hero, a beautifully written, if saccharine piece that is perfectly calculated to convey the power of really good television.
And perhaps this is the true value of Bristow-Bovey’s work, and what he does best. For his readers, he makes television (and televised sport, of course) into a text to be interacted with, rather than just a product to be consumed. Many viewers of the exhaustive coverage of Princess Diana’s death, which contrasted markedly with the relatively minimal attention paid to the death of Mother Teresa, would have missed this startling insight into their own characters: “How about this for the perverse power of the popular media: the vast majority of common people around the Western world imagine they had more in common with the noble-born Princess of Wales than Mother Teresa, the champion of the poor.”
As accurate and thoughtful as this insight is, its unabashed support for Mother Teresa is indicative of a streak of conservatism that runs through Bristow-Bovey’s writing. No one would ever accuse him of harbouring feminist thoughts, and indeed he unabashedly confesses to his misogyny when writing on female boxing. “I do not enjoy all-female boxing … for reasons of taste and aesthetics and values that are these days disgracefully old-fashioned and … perhaps even sexist.”
The Bristow-Bovey persona is defiantly old-fashioned, and his writing style reflects this. You won’t find many contractions in his oeuvre. He’ll always say “I am”, rather than “I’m”, “he is” instead of “he’s”. Besides being a useful trick of the trade for writers who get paid by the word, it also at times invests his writing with a plodding grandiloquence that can pass for gravity. At his best, though, Bristow-Bovey’s words do carry weight, and a mark of his talent is that he is almost always at his best.
Lest I be accused of worshipping fallen idols, let me also point out that Bristow-Bovey can be a thoroughly nasty writer as well. The fact that his targets invariably deserve his scorn doesn’t always excuse the venom with which it is delivered, and some will see poetic justice in the way he has been knocked from his pedestal. Perhaps they are right.
One thing is certain, though — this funny, entertaining book proves it was a pedestal he was justified in occupying, and a very high pedestal at that. All we can hope is that Bristow-Bovey is allowed the space to begin the arduous journey of clambering back on to it, from where he can once again educate, outrage, and above all entertain his many fans.