The TV series Clarkson’s Farm is not to everyone’s taste, but I’m partial to the show. I particularly like Jeremy Clarkson’s sidekick, Kaleb Cooper, the farm manager.
Kaleb knows his stuff when it comes to crops and machinery, but is gloriously uninformed when it comes to the things everyone is supposed to know. When a James Bond film comes up in conversation, he doesn’t have an opinion. He’s never seen one.
When the Irish band The Corrs are booked to play at a local venue, he wonders who they are. He’s never heard of them. He also draws a blank when asked about Fleetwood Mac, David Bowie and Robert De Niro.
Oh Kaleb, I am so with you. There’s some impulse in our culture to assume everyone is signed up to the same email. We are required to know certain names, to recall certain facts, to watch certain TV shows. Anything else and you are considered a bit weird.
My local bus stop is outside the newsagency. For decades, waiting for the bus, I’ve spent my time studying the posters advertising New Idea, Woman’s Day and Who. I am always left with so many questions.
I knew, back in 2005, that divorce had struck Brad and Jennifer, but who were they? Then, years later, divorce struck Brad and Angelina, but was it the same Brad (poor fellow) and who is this Angelina?
If you gave me some surnames, I’d have a vague inkling. I’m not a complete Kaleb. If you said “Brad Pitt” on the cover of the magazine, I’d understand the divorces involved Hollywood actors rather than some lesser-known British royals.
Speaking of which, I understand that I’m required, as if by law, to know the names “Will and Kate” but do I need to know the names of their children? I’ve just looked them up, and they are apparently named George, Charlotte and Louis. Well, that’s lovely for the family but am I some sort of ignorant oddball if I’ve failed to commit them to memory? Ditto the children of “Meghan and Harry”, who, I have now informed myself, are called Archie and Lilibet.
This week, outside the newsagency, I sank into my usual state of bafflement. According to the current crop of magazines, “Angus” has let his fiancée down. Apparently, this “Angus” is connected to something called MKR, as the headline has the letters MKR next to the name “Angus”, but whether MKR is a TV show, an American rapper or some new make of Chinese electric vehicle, I remain unsure. I’m also told that “Lynne and Ada” have had a “shock fallout”, over which I’d express sympathy if only I had the foggiest of who they were.
The magazine posters are only one example. The phrase “Everybody’s talking about…” is used constantly by politicians and journalists in order to force-march you into being interested in whatever topic they wish to discuss. You are an embittered loser should you talk of anything else. Just in the last few weeks I’ve been told that “Everybody’s talking about the price of jet fuel”, “Everybody’s talking about the rate of inflation”, and even “Everybody’s talking about European rugby.”
I must confess to occasionally mentioning both jet fuel and inflation over the kitchen table, but I firmly deny ever nattering about the state of European rugby.
Shouldn’t we celebrate that we are all interested in different things, and to different degrees?
Adjacent to the phrase “Everybody’s talking about…” are the conversational kick-offs “Everyone’s reading…” and “Everybody’s listening to…” These have been around for some time. People say, “Well, we’ve all read the Harry Potter novels”, and I stand around and nod because it would be thought weird if I said: “I’ve never read them. Why would I? Aren’t they for kids?”
Or, more recently, someone would say, “Well, we’ve all tried to book tickets for Taylor Swift,” and again I nod and quietly think: “Well, she’s pretty good, but not at that price. Now, if she was on at the local RSL and it was happy hour prices on the beer…”
Shouldn’t we celebrate that we are all interested in different things, and to different degrees? You may be talking endlessly about European rugby, but I celebrate never giving it a single thought.
Here’s a big claim: I don’t think I’m alone. This assumed knowledge is not as widespread as some people seem to think. There are, I contend, plenty of people who, like me, find themselves left in the dark by the headlines: “Louis Looks More Grown Up Than Ever”; “Courtney and Sev Push Back”; and even “Lilibet Turns Five”.
You may say I’m fooling myself. The phrase, “You really are a sad, lonely bastard” may at this very moment be forming on your lips. But, according to my observations, Australians talk, in no particular order, about fishing, Trump’s body odour, the culinary idiosyncrasies of their children, and the special offer on T-bone steak at the local pub. And, very rarely, about the terrible tensions between Lynne and Ada.
On the other hand, there’s Kaleb and his refreshing individuality. He’s a person so worthy of his fame that just his first name will do.
