Dawn of the Dumb

Dawn of the Dumb

by Charlie Brooker

(2007)

P
olite, pensive, mature, reserved…Charlie Brooker is none of these things and less. Rude, unhinged, outrageous, and above all funny, “Dawn of the Dumb” is essential reading for anyone with a brain and a spinal cord. And hands for turning the pages. Picking up where his hilarious “Screen Burn” left off, “Dawn of the Dumb” collects the best of Charlie Brooker’s recent TV writing, together with uproarious spleen-venting diatribes on a range of non-televisual subjects—tackling everything from David Cameron to human hair.

PROLOGUE

Towards the end of 2004, during the US election, I wrote a review of the televised Presidential debates which got me into a bit of trouble.

The dumb show

[23 October 2004]

H
eady times. The US election draws ever nearer, and while the rest of the world bangs its head against the floorboards screaming ‘Please God, not Bush!’, the candidates clash head to head in a series of live televised debates. It’s a bit like
American Idol
, but with terrifying global ramifications. You’ve got to laugh.

Or have you? Have you seen the debates? I urge you to do so. The exemplary BBC News website hosts unexpurgated streaming footage of all the recent debates, plus clips from previous encounters, through Reagan and Carter, all the way back to Nixon versus JFK.

Watching Bush v. Kerry, two things immediately strike you. First, the opening explanation of the rules makes the whole thing feel like a Radio 4 parlour game. And second, George W. Bush is…well, he’s…Jesus, where do you start?

The internet’s abuzz with speculation that Bush has been wearing a wire, receiving help from some off-stage lackey. Screen grabs appearing to show a mysterious bulge in the centre of his back are being traded like Top Trumps. Prior to seeing the debate footage, I regarded this with healthy scepticism: the whole ‘wire’ scandal was just wishful thinking on behalf of some amateur Michael Moores, I figured. And then I watched the footage.

Quite frankly, the man’s either wired or mad. If it’s the former, he should be flung out of office: tarred, feathered and kicked in the nuts. And if it’s the latter, his behaviour goes beyond strange, and heads toward terrifying. He looks like he’s listening to something we can’t hear. He blinks, he mumbles, he lets a sentence trail off, starts a new one, then reverts back to whatever he was saying in the first place. Each time he recalls a statistic (either from memory or the voice in his head), he flashes us a dumb little smile, like a toddler proudly showing off its first bowel movement. Forgive me for employing the language of the playground, but the man’s a tool.

So I sit there and I watch this and I start scratching my head, because I’m trying to work out why Bush is afforded any kind of credence or respect whatsoever in his native country. His performance is so transparently bizarre, so feeble and stumbling, it’s a miracle he wasn’t laughed off the stage. And then I start hunting around the internet, looking to see what the US media made of the whole ‘wire’ debate. And they just let it die. They mentioned it in passing, called it a wacko conspiracy theory and moved on.

Yet whether it turns out to be true or not, right now it’s certainly plausible—even if you discount the bulge photos and simply watch the president’s ridiculous smirking face. Perhaps he isn’t wired. Perhaps he’s just gone gaga. If you don’t ask the questions, you’ll never know the truth.

The silence is all the more troubling since in the past the US news media has had no problem at all covering other wacko conspiracy theories, ones with far less evidence to support them. (For infuriating confirmation of this, watch the second part of the must-see documentary series
The Power of Nightmares
(BBC2) and witness the absurd hounding of Bill Clinton over the Whitewater and Vince Foster non-scandals.)

Throughout the debate, John Kerry, for his part, looks and sounds a bit like a haunted tree. But at least he’s not a lying, sniggering, drink-driving, selfish, reckless, ignorant, dangerous, backward, drooling, twitching, blinking, mouse-faced little cheat. And besides, in a fight between a tree and a bush, I know who I’d favour.

On 2 November, the entire civilised world will be praying, praying Bush loses. And sod’s law dictates he’ll probably win, thereby disproving the existence of God once and for all. The world will endure four more years of idiocy, arrogance and unwarranted bloodshed, with no benevolent deity to watch over and save us…

That’s not where the column originally ended. No. It ended with a variant on the old ‘Guy Fawkes, where are you now that we need you?’ graffiti gag. It’s an old, albeit tasteless joke that’s appeared many times before—on soldiers’helmets during the Vietnam war, and on bumper stickers during the Clinton years, to name but two examples
.

Unfortunately, in this case, it also appeared on the globally accessible
Guardian
website, where the usual context of the
Screen Burn
column—i.e. a TV preview page in an AS ENTERTAINMENT SUPPLEMENT—wasn’t clear, especially to overseas readers, who could be forgiven for mistaking it for a ‘serious’ op-ed article. End result: an old joke was interpreted by some as an earnest call for assassination, including the
Drudge Report,
which ran it as a headline
.

This didn’t do the
Guardian’s
reputation any favours—nor mine, come to that (although in retrospect I’m mainly embarrassed I was giving the daft ‘Bush was wired’ conspiracy some serious consideration). The article was removed and replaced with a (sincere) apology for any offence caused. But, encouraged by a series of right-wing websites, outraged emails flooded in, hundreds of them: some abusive, some baffling, and some downright hair-raising. Here’s a random sampling:

‘We have sent your name to the FBI and Secret Service along with a copy of your wonderful article. Death threats are punishable and I am sure we can extradite you if need be since you are an American.’

‘Bush will go down in history as one of the greatest presidents ever…while your name will be like a drop of water lost in the ocean…NOTHING.’

‘I hope you get jail time…I am complaining to your embassies, businesses that advertise with anyone who consorts with you, and our law enforcement over this matter. Concerned American Citizen.’

‘You have been reported to the Secret Service and I have urged that you be placed under arrest upon any entry to our country.’

‘We don’t give a flying fuck what you stupid Brits think. There was a reason we kicked your ass in the Revolution…you’re all just a bunch of fucking sissy asses. I can’t wait to watch as you and the rest of the European faggots turn into Third World countries that you all aspire to.’

‘May those in your life survive under the curse you wish for others. Let them live long miserable lives. I look forward to reading your obituary on the back page of a paper sooner than later…You deserve the severest punishment that can be meted out. May the queen be soon rid of scum like you.’

‘Come on over for a nice visit to the US. Let me know where you’ll be, and I’ll come and beat you to death.’

‘Just to let you know I have forwarded your article to the US secret service who take these threats seriously. I can assure you that you will now be on the Homeland Security watch list. You can look forward to being hassled at every airport in the world from now on…Enjoy your life.’

‘Die of AIDS, scumbag.’

‘Look, shitface, I suggest you never try to come to the US…You will be under constant surveillance by the Secret Service should our incompetent immigration agents even let you slip in. Stay home and fuck your mother—and the horse she rode in on. Don’t show your cretinous face here, scumbag. Many of us pack, you know. And the Tony Martin case would not happen here since we are not the decadent country England has become under the Guardianship of crypto-Communists. I can’t picture twelve good men and true convicting any American for blowing you away.’

‘Do you remember Jill Dando? And she was innocent! Have a care, cretin.’

‘Your
⁹
/
₁₁
is coming soon. We both know it. I’ll be sure to telephone you when it happens and see if you’ve been personally affected. I can only hope.’

‘Watch your back.’

And so on. And so on. Laughable now, but seriously disturbing at the time, especially given the sheer weight of complaints and death threats
.

Later, I realised this is how modern campaigning works: partisan websites whip up a storm of controversy (wilfully misinterpreting the facts if necessary), then encourage people to email in their thousands. It’s intimidation. And it works: initially, at least. But in the long run, it’s an impotent howl: an angry, protracted bovine hoot. The Secret Service never contacted me. They have better things to do. Nor did the authorities place me on any sinister ‘list’: I’ve visited the USA several times since, had no trouble obtaining a visa or entering the country, and had a wonderful time while I was there. In fact, every American I’ve ever met in the flesh, at home or abroad, has been delightful
.

But the neo-cons with email accounts? Bleh
.

CHAPTER ONE

In which Nicky Campbell is mistaken for the Antichrist, John McCririck is likened to a womble, and Sir Alan Sugar makes his debut.

Dripping with menace

[20 November 2004]

N
icky Campbell: what’s that all about then? If Judge Dredd burst in and ordered you to write down a list of all the household names in Britain, chances are you’d forget to include him. Campbell hovers somewhere just outside the mind’s field of vision, yet in reality he’s never far from eye or ear shot. So why doesn’t he stick in your head?

Because he’s the Antichrist, that’s why. Now this is just a theory, coupled to an opinion, trundled into battle on the back of a vague feeling…but I reckon Nicky Campbell might be the most evil man in the universe. There’s no evidence to support this, but come on—there’s just something about him, isn’t there?

Stare into his eyes and you’ll be chilled to the core by the cavernous hollow within. They say true evil is fundamentally banal: that the wickedest serial killers operate unnoticed thanks to their blank, unremarkable nature. Campbell’s fronted everything from
Wheel of Fortune
to
Panorama
, from Radio 1 to Radio 5, and yet you’d forgotten all about him, hadn’t you? Doesn’t that say something?

If you don’t believe me, check out his regular performances on
Watchdog
(BBC1), which he hosts in the style of a man linking stories in a 19705 portmanteau horror movie. It’s screamingly over-the-top, yet passes without comment. Dripping with menace, he stares straight down the lens, delivering lines about fly-by-night timeshare companies as though discussing the Third Reich. He’s got to be taking the piss. Perhaps the whole tiling’s an arch joke, devised for his own amusement. Well, I’m not laughing. No. I’m hearing the theme from
The Omen
looping endlessly in my head.

Do you think Campbell really gives a toss about any of the issues raised during the average edition of
Watchdog? I
certainly don’t, and I’m a Quaker, for pity’s sake. It’s virtually impossible to care about the kind of whingeing shitsacks on display here. They’re idiots: idiots who express genuine surprise when the diamond ring they bought for tuppence from a satellite shopping channel turns out not to be worth £1,300 after all: idiots who jerk with indignant rage when the knock-off
Finding Nemo
cuddly toy they purchased in dumb faith from a ramshackle pound shop falls apart at the seams, revealing a collection of rusty metal shards that scrape their children’s eyes out.

And they’re ugly. Unbelievably ugly. Hideous, puffy-eyed, bloated, blotchy-faced organisms with dry hair and lips as thick as forearms, droning away in their dull, grotty voices—droning and whining and grousing about the petty injustice of it all, in the vain belief anyone else gives a toss. If they really want to complain about something worthwhile, they should stand on top of a mountain waving an angry fist heavenward, loudly demanding to be told why God saw fit to curse them with a face like John Merrick’s ballbag.

Still, as far as these clueless, dribbling sea cows are concerned, Campbell’s a knight in shining armour, galloping into combat on their behalf in the show’s most uncomfortable section—the bit where a shifting, blushing, dry-mouthed company spokesman gets an over-the-top grilling. Campbell seems to secretly relish these encounters—as well he might, being the Prince of Darkness. (Sometimes co-presenter Julia Bradbury does the honours—although since she possesses an indefinable quality that makes you suspect she’s probably quite mucky in the bedroom, her interviews are less sinister and more like a sexually charged pre-shag tiff between two tipsy adulterers.)