I saw Martin Keown in the street on Thursday evening.
If you don't know who Martin Keown is, I've included a delightful picture of him. He's a former Arsenal defended and an occasional BBC pundit.
He's also one of a certain breed of footballer: the brutal,
thuggish, troglodytic hulks that turn out to be quite thoughtful and eloquent. Iain Dowie is another example.
You would expect them to talk in grunts and snarls, so when he's very personable it's pleasing and disconcerting in equal measure.
Anyway, we saw him whilst walking in Summertown. I didn't know what to do. I don't see famous people often - but it's always a shock. There's some part of me that thinks I should make the most of the opportunity and speak to them.
But I don't really have any kind of bond with Marin Keown.
Despite periodically appearing on my TV over the last fifteen years, he hasn't drawn out any strong opinions. He was a good player and a decent pundit. But I have no affection that would drive forward a spontaneous conversation in the street.
"Excuse me, Martin? Um. I know your name."
"---"
"Goodbye."
That would be it (he speaks in Morse code).
In fact, I don't think anyone has a really strong bond with Martin Keown. He's just not that kind of person. But I bet he gets approached every day by idiots like me, looking to take advantage of a pointless opportunity, simply on the grounds that it's statistically unlikely it will ever present itself again.
I also saw Cilla Black in H&M once. Again, I don't have any opinions of her. If I were to meet someone I actually idolised, I'd find it difficult to stop myself from confronting them. Which would be a stupid thing to do. It could only go badly. I'd try to play it really cool, and just come across as a real dick (see every online comment I've ever made for examples of this).
I suppose I want them to suddenly like me, befriend me, give me a job. But to them, I'd just be some loser on the street. Daniel Kitson would politely excuse himself. Because he's a normal person, and I'd be a maniac who believes he has a connection to a stranger.
Luckily my natural cowardice won the day, as it always did. It saved me some embarrassment, even if it did cost me the opportunity of presenting a revamped
Blind Date, or playing Steve Bould in made-for-TV drama
*Shrug*: the Martin Keown Story.
***
When the Keown encounter happened, we were on our way home from seeing
A Serious Man. As you know, I'm no good with proper reviews. Let's just say: it was superb.
I'll include a picture of the main character (played brilliantly by
Michael Stuhlbarg), to provide a sense of continuity with the Keown picture. Visual aids are always fun.
The Coens have confirmed their place as my favourite filmmakers, and one of the few people who can drag me out of my normal stupor and pull me into a cinema.
There were lots of good bits. One thing Lucy and I talked about was its representation of Rabbis and Judaism as a whole.
I think the predominance of Jewish comedy has helped forge quite a positive image of Rabbis in the media. Which is an odd thing to say, as they are often totally ridiculed.
The role of Rabbis in this film, as well as in other comedies (like Woody Allen movies, or
Seinfeld) is to play a sort of profound existential buffoon. The intelligence of the Jewish creators demands a certain skepticism of religious dogma, and an instinct to mock. But by presenting Rabbis as thoughtful, humourous and ultimately unhelpful is actually quite a compliment.
It means Judaism is shown as a religion unable to answer important questions. Which is great. Because it
is impossible to answer them. I'd rather have a religion where the authority beats about the bush, revels in a story, and leaves you exasperated. You don't want someone who has definite answers because they're inevitably wrong.
Perhaps the history of antisemitism is in reality a history of utter exasperation at not being given a straight answer, and the inability to understand that
that is the whole point of the thing.
***
Speaking of twisting in existential circles of knowledge, ignorance, enlightenment, determinism, freedom, impotence and epiphany (as I believe we were), I just finished reading
Notes from Underground by Dostoyevsky.
It's great. Hey, why don't we do another picture!
The first part is a beautiful rant, and the second is a slightly disturbing anecdote. The narrator is all fiery and bitter. He expounds his philosophy with a lot of humour and venom.
He justifies himself, despises himself, despises everyone else, and ties himself in so many knots of rage and virtue that he becomes almost admirable.
There are two quotes (both in the span of a couple of pages) that I really like. Despite the character being slightly loathsome, I think these two quotations could be used as my life mottos.
The first one I have already Tweeted:
"After all, the direct, immediate, legitimate fruit of heightened consciousness is inertia, that is, the deliberate refusal to do anything."
The second one is also really good:
"Oh, gentleman, perhaps the only reason I consider myself a clever man is that I have never in all my life been able to either begin or finish anything."
That's beautiful.
I consider myself a humanist and an optimist, so I shouldn't really empathise with this character. But I suppose I'm probably a bit more dysfunctional than I give myself credit for. After all, I secretly like unanswered questions and Martin Keown's wild forehead and Wildean wit.
Though seemingly not connected, I've just started re-reading The Catcher in the Rye. I used to read it every year, and it became part of my pre-Christmas ritual. I like reading stories in the appropriate season. Conversely, I can't handle anything Christmas-themed outside of December (Die Hard is a possible exception).
But thinking about it, the two stories are similar. Both involve a narrator trying to come up with grand theories; at the same time naive and defensive.
I think that kind of adolescent, churning inner-monologue appeals to me. I don't know why.
(See every other post in the history of this blog for examples of this).
For closure, I'll stick a photo of Salinger in here. But not JD. I'm talking about Matt. Who will ever forget his appearance in this masterpiece of a film?
God Bless America.
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