Literally nothing.

Since assuming the role of Editor of Unsubstantiated Opinion and Head of Reckless Comment here at Culture Vultures my life is not my own.

Most evenings I am called upon to review a play, attend an opening, preview an exhibition, promote a festival, or generally simply grace a cultural event with the sheer gravitas of my presence. All I ask for my tireless services to the arts is a reserved space next to the free bar. Nibbles would be nice.

With indispensability, however, comes great responsibility. Let me give an example of a typical scenario. Of the kind of thing that happens far too frequently.

I am trying to have an evening off. Or at least an hour or two of anonymity and relaxation free of the burden of relentless opinioneering. I want to be just one of the audience. A normal punter. But something is wrong, awry, amiss. Not quite tickety-boo. I can feel it even before there’s any indication from the stage. Things stop suddenly and the manager or director rushes from backstage in a fluster and turns to the assembled crowd . . .

“Is there a blogger in the house?” he cries.

I hesitate a moment in the vain hope that I am not the only one here, one of the elect. Then, the moment passes as the moment always does, and I face the fundamental enormity of the fact that I truly am the only one capable of answering the call, the only one here who has signed the oath (sworn to the gods never to pass an opportunity to make my opinion known, at length and in grandiose detail, without fear or favour, and never spare an adjective) I raise my hand and sigh as the spotlight rakes the seats. I stand, resigned but exhilarated, and step down to the front, only too accustomed to having my evenings sacrificed to the desperate public need to know each and every thought that flits across my mind.

“Thank heavens you’re here,” says the person in charge, leading me off to a secluded room where we can converse uninterrupted. “We’re in a bit of a pickle,” he says, “all the interns are refusing to fetch coffee, the communications officer has run of with a lighting technician, the Arts Council have reduced the funding for the rest of the season, the audience is too slow interacting in Act Three, and we have just discovered dry rot in the fourth wall.”

“Bloody lucky I decided to come tonight,” I reply, “sounds like you are in desperate need of some irrelevant, tangential, unnecessary personal opinions forcefully expressed with a smattering of smutty jokes. Just my forte,” and I settle myself squarely into the comfiest armchair, pointing at the unopened bottle of Glenmorangie, “that won’t open itself!”

“Let’s see now, interns. It perturbs me greatly that so called intelligent young people, recently graduated, apparently cannot grasp, cannot comprehend even, that servile compliance with the diktats of whatever brilliant, successful, creative organisation that deigns to take them on is absolutely essential if the arts in this country are to thrive and flourish. Not that I entirely absolve the management of arts organisations either. In fact I make a point of resolutely not coming down on either side of the argument, there’s always equal amounts of blame to go round.

“Which reminds me – and isn’t it the bloggers job to be reminded? of something else about ourselves, something we simply must share – of the whole subject of creativity – the creative industries – the industrialisation of creativity, production line creative production, if you like – a hot topic if ever there was one. Positively incendiary. Now I am well known for my controversial views on the topic – passionate views, even – views that are controversial and passionate and entirely unlike any views expressed in the mainstream media. I believe passionately, and entirely controversially, that “creative industries” is a contradiction in terms – but then, very well I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes, and so on and so forth. Tomorrow I may passionately and controversially believe exactly the opposite with an equal and opposite passion – after all, there are a great many things to be said for both sides of the question, a great many things I’ve not thought about – I’m an amateur, I do it for the sheer love of it, and I love – adore even, if adore is not too strong a word – adore my opinions, passionate and controversial opinions! And I’m not going to be cornered into making any conclusive argument, as I believe, believe with passion, that very careful consideration should be given to both sides of the question before we leap to any unwarranted conclusions.

“Pretty outspoken, eh! I don’t shy away from controversy, not when I’m this passionate about the things I have a passion about. But we have to recognise that’s the sort of world we live in nowadays, and we must have an opinion – and all I know is that my opinion will be different to anybody elses – louder, brighter, edgier, more controversial. I mean, who would bother reading a blog if the opinions were tame and samey, and tempered by kindness. Fairness. Rational evidence even? Not me.”

By the time I get to the question of arts funding and the best way to deal with the metaphorical undermining of a metaphorical structure, the cultural crisis I have encountered would be practically solved, and all parties concerned – the slacking interns, the errant employee, the funders, the hapless audience and the menders of the fourth wall – will be gathered round, huddled together in hushed expectancy, entranced by my Pied Piperish flow of mellifluous verbiage.

“What do you think of the recent work of Scroobius Pop?” they enquire woozily. “Do you believe in Morphic Resonance?” “What do you make of the revisionist history of the sinking of The Belgrano?” “Can General Semantics be applied to support a non-Aristotelian overhaul of the local council voting system?”

“Hmm,” I reply, swirling the whisky in my tumbler “I think a reappraisal of the Belgrano incident is long overdue. And I’m sure – no, I’m passionate about replacing the current Yes/No electoral sausage machine with a more nuanced, new age Both/And/or Maybe kind of thing, a pasta thing, you know, linguine, tastier, more to my taste at least, though whether the voters, the general public in general, would comprehend the subtleties, the tangle of ingredients . . . And does the natural world elicit an underlying pattern? I’m inclined to agree with the proponents of Ayurvedan biology. . . Anyway, what is science? . . . that Popper guy, sheesh, wasn’t he hard to please! . . . Pip! Popper, ha . . . And do I say my fly is half done up, or my zipper half down? Well, I’d say the normal guy, the bloke on the street . . . by the way, is it getting stifling hot in here? I’m hot. Or do I really, controversially and passionately, believe that the Belgrano was biffed without belligerence, while my fly – it’s a button fly, dammit – had no relevance to the question, half up I’d say, being the eternal optimist, though I would say the current voting system was prejudicial to the creativity of communities, which ought to be unleashed, communities let off the leash . . . but look, immorality is becoming the norm, not noticeable no more, and cuts cuts cuts are the austere splendour of our current coalition in a world which is, well in my limited personal, partial view at least, a universe, cosmos even – a blogosphere – that’s just one massive, seething, spitting, septic mass of passionate controversy. . . ”