Vapid chunderings

[Dave Monroe]

>From The Times
February 7, 2009
Beta male
Not since 2005's "whining effeminate drivel" attack have I had such
high-level invective
Robert Crampton


A number of people have been kind enough to say my new byline
photograph makes me look younger. Coyly, I agree. I'm 44, and I reckon
this new picture shaves at least 18 months off that. I shall stick
with it: 42 and a half is a good age at which to call a halt to the
ageing process, don't you think?

The column, however, unlike the photo, resolutely fails to improve. A
month ago, I wrote what I thought was a rather good one, detailing the
violent local history that has occurred along my route to work. Good,
perhaps, but not good enough. That column contained a bad mistake.

I wrote that the destruction of Hughes Mansions in Bethnal Green, East
London, in March 1945 was caused by a V2, also known as a doodlebug.
Not so: the projectile was indeed a V2, but a doodlebug was the
nickname for a V1, something else entirely. I apologise.

Upwards of 100 readers, and the corrections continue to detonate in my
inbox, have pointed out the error. The vast majority of these mails
have been friendly, jocular, self-mocking, benign. I am grateful. One
or two veered towards the pompous, but then we're all allowed a
measure of pomposity once in a while, and as many correspondents were
living in London towards the end of the Second World War, slack must
be cut.

One mail, though, went way beyond a mere ticking-off into the realms
of a calculated kicking. So magnificently offensive, indeed, was this
mail, that it deserves a wider audience.

I like to cater for allcomers and, aware there are readers who, with
Mr Dean, the writer of the mail, masochistically (and somewhat
mysteriously) continue to read this page even though they evidently
dislike both its author and its contents, today's offering is for
them.

"Sir," Mr Dean begins (always an ominous start, experience having
taught me the more formal the honorific, the more unbridled the abuse
to follow), "the V2 was not the Doodlebug. The Doodlebug was a
self-propelled bomb… [which] …fell silently on to its target. The V2
was a ballistic missile… If you were to read Thomas Pynchon's
Gravity's Rainbow you would find an entertaining reference to this
weapon's deployment."

Actually, that's fair play so far, isn't it? Mistake identified, bonus
point for extra info, take it like a man. Yet in the next sentence
matters take an abrupt turn for the worse.

"I would urge you," continues Mr Dean, "if you insist on churning out
your vapid, meandering and utterly uninspiring chunderings, that they
at least be accurate when dealing with serious issues."

Vapid chunderings, eh? That's quality. Although I do wonder if Mr Dean
really does mean chunder, as in Australian for vomit, rather than
chunter, as in to mumble in an inarticulate fashion. Either way, it's
not good. Not since the celebrated "whining effeminate drivel" attack
of 2005 have I been the recipient of such high-level invective.
Although the man who wrote to say he wished I'd been blown up in Iraq
in 2007 came close. Respect to Mr Dean!

He may not be pleased to learn, however, that he has done me an
enormous favour. Often, when people at parties ask what I do for a
living, and I tell them, their next question, feigning interest, is,
"Oh, what sort of column is that, then?" I've always been stuck as to
what to say. Entertaining? Occasionally. Informative? Seldom. Weighty?
Certainly not.

Now I have my answer. "Well," I shall reply, "the best way to describe
it is as a collection of vapid, meandering and utterly uninspiring
chunderings." We can then get back to talking about which company went
bust this morning.

Vapid chunderings. It sounds like the name of a retirement villa
tucked away in a quiet cul-de-sac, bounded by emerald lawns and
immaculate privet. Or possibly a town in the American Midwest, or the
Canadian plains.

I went on the trans-Canadian railway once, Calgary to Montreal, summer
of 1981. We stopped at Moose Jaw, Medicine Hat and, now that I think
about it, Vapid Chunderings. Very disappointing place, Vapid
Chunderings. A meandering, utterly uninspiring kinda town.

Of course, Mr Dean's substantive complaint, not just his colourful way
of sticking the boot in, is spot-on, too. Accuracy when dealing with
serious issues is vital. Indeed, it's not just the nickname of the
weapon that extinguished the lives of 134 people you've got to get
right, it's the so-called frivolous issues too, the so-called trivial,
the stuff in which I prefer to deal.

Get the detail right (would-be vapid chunderers who write for advice
on breaking into the vapid chundering game, take note) and you may
catch people's attention. Get the detail wrong and you're lost. If
there's one thing I've learnt these several years, it is that. Plus
this: take your work seriously, but never yourself, or your enemies.
Yes indeed, I may not be getting any older, but I do get a little
wiser.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/article5678584.ece