#54 Plan_C - where do all the in-jokes go?
I am pondering opening an exhibit of lost in-jokes
Does this ever happen to you? Do you see something on TV or while you’re walking around you overhear a snippet of conversation from another set of ‘another-wholesome-walk-again’ trudgers, and your eyes widen in recognition and amusement you think - oh I cannot wait to tell them about this?!
Then you realise you can’t because you don’t really talk to them anymore and you can’t text them out-of-blue to say, “Donald Glover impression by white woman, problematic? Y or N?” and die laughing at the volley of mad responses
These people aren’t in your life any more by chance or by choice or reaching-out would invite an oddness that is too tiring to deal with - so you just…don’t.
Where do those in-jokes go? They just seem to wither in the ether with all that non-destroyable energy I vaguely understand from GCSE physics.
I am a notorious haver of in-jokes, callbacks and nicknames that go far back with my friends and loved ones. I am a rememberer of birthdays, of the specific detail of funny times, of your favourite musicians, writers, shows and things you mentioned that I know you like. I have filing cabinets in my brain where this stuff just neatly lives, put there by an overly efficient PA years ago without me having to ask.
It is probably A Lockdown Thing that I feel this way. I am passing off a lot of things as A Lockdown Thing at the moment. Judging people in these sort-of-now-normal-times is pointless, like aliens drawing conclusions about humanity by only observing them on Christmas day - it just doesn’t really extrapolate beyond these very specific circumstances. Who knows if I will still wear my birkenstock clogs when real shoes can be worn? (Actually, I do know. No, they won’t.)
It has been a while since I have seen my oldest friends, or indeed had enough time with any kind-of-friend, and that specific feeling of being stewed in the familiar and the shorthand you have with someone who has laid on the floor with you and tried to stretch your hamstrings against the door because an article in The Sunday TImes Style said, or danced with you in the kitchen to Pure Shores or watched you fail epically at beer pong and still let you play on their team.
I have these moments where I wish you could have a 30-minute window to chat to these now-non-contacts about the in-jokes, muse over a work problem with their sharper views on people, gain their perspective on the casing that I can’t budge on the smoke alarm to change the battery - and what I should try bar smashing it in to smithereens with a hammer, and yes I have changed my hair again - do you think it is ok? I can never settle between blonde and brunette, what do you think? Did you watch the end of Bojack? Did you like it? Did you see the aquarium episode of Bob’s Burgers? It was so loving and it is exactly how dads should be right? My dad isn’t well and it will probably be fine but can I muse my worries out loud with you because you always know the right thing to say about these things? Is everyone ok? Are you ok? Did you get that thing sorted? Is this a good car? Can you remember that taxi driver that time? Brilliant wasn’t it? Yeah tell them I was asking after them, I think about them from time to time and hope they are having a good time. I like your hair like that, you look more and more like that picture of your grandfather, that’s nice.
But you can’t, it is too much, too out-of-step with life and despite the agnostic nature of the contact , I know that the significance is just too charged with unwanted meaning and you have to respect that. So, all of those stupid in-jokes just hang about somewhere, next to wherever it is that odd-socks, biros and hair bobbles go cluttering up the universal side tables and neglected fruit bowls of…I don’t know Big Conscious energy? Alien Sims game? Again, I only have GCSE physics which really means I know how to covertly attach crocodile clips to gas taps. Maybe, I can make an exhibit and collect up all of the lost in-jokes because the world understands weird art better than lost connections.
One day I will get to be with my people again, we will stroke each others faces like that woman making Lionel Ritchie’s face in the ‘Hello’ video, I will admire their new bathrooms and haircuts and marvel in person about how they got 3 desks in the living room and retained the dining table, “a genuine feat!” I will exclaim.
I am really looking forward to it and all of the horrors and terrors of being known.
Director and actor Olivia Wilde - she who directed the adorable Booksmart/gorgeous lead in one of my favourite films Drinking Buddies and/terrible tattoo-sporter, havoc-wrecker, Marissa-kisser while somehow being a high-school student (ha!) Alex from The O.C - has the audacity of dating everyone’s internet boyfriend Harry Styles.
I sighed when I saw the pictures, not because Harry is now in the arms of another beautiful woman that isn’t me, but because she will be vilified to hell.
Her film, a notoriously tricky thing to get made, will instead be viewed through the lens of this relationship. Her age will be questioned, her children will be “concerned about”, some die-hard fans will do some weird online things and they will be scrutinised for monetiseable clicks.
Alongside this, Styles has cultivated a “treat people with kindness” mantra and been an unproblematic star to boot, treading the incredibly narrow line of being a mainstream popstar and weird alt-art guy, superlative dresser and good opinion haver despite every relationship he has being hounded to an unhealthy degree (see Caroline Flack, Taylor Swift et al) a rare and kind thing for an insanely rich young man to be, sadly.
Anyhow, this article was a breath of fresh air and mentioned quite neatly the age difference thing with a wry nod to the boys of Hollywood.
“In the canon of age differences, the 10 years between 36-year-old Wilde and 26-year-old Styles is hardly glaring. I rarely hear anyone noting that Jay-Z is 12 years older than Beyoncé, George Clooney is 17 years Amal Clooney’s senior, or Ryan Reynolds has 11 years on Blake Lively. “
The real thing that we should wonder isn’t about their relationship but how the hell do you dress when you’re stepping out with Harry Styles and his Gucci fabrics and money at his disposal? Liv can’t be just defaulting to my lazy attempts at dressing-up in Topshop jeans and a nice jumper from Sezane now can she?
God speed to that woman the the absolute lewks she will be having to pull together.
“Why do they make nice jumpers without sleeves? It is so silly” replied my friend Steph when I text her a picture of me in a sleeveless jumper with a neck that irritates me so much that my local dry cleaner is cutting it off and overlocking a new seam as we speak.
I have a number of sleeveless knits these days and I still want this one, layered over a blue shirt for now and with my pale arms exposed when the weather picks up.
I had a pink tank top (as we called them in 2002) when I was 15 that I used to wear over a blue shirt and massive blue flares so…nice to be old enough for everything to come all the way back round. Sort of.
INTERIOR SHOT - Carly is typing at her laptop for hour 14 of her working day, around her are piles of neatly folded jumpers and cardigans. She glances down at her phone for the 17th time in 15 minutes. She smiles when she sees a message from her pal, leans pack in her chair and picks it up -
Pal: Flood, how are you doing?
Me: same as everyone else. I have just bought an outrageously expensive cardigan to fend off the madness.
Pal: Every time I ask you this you have just bought obscenely priced knitwear! Every. Single. Time.
Me: I know. I have a tab open on my phone about how to look after cashmere. There is this one that Nick Cave has designed with Bella Freud and it is beautiful but just like a lot of money. But perfect. And gorgeous. I want it so much. What do you think?
Pal: I am not facilitating this. Have you watched It’s a Sin yet? I wanted to talk about that.
Me: Ok. Yes, it is truly excellent! Who is your favourite? How much did you sob?
6music and podcasts are my daily soundtracks, just before I go in to another online meeting I yell “Alexa Stop!” to make the dulcet tones of Mary Anne Hobbs hush. They are truly keeping me sane.
Tom Allen on Fortunately was an erudite tonic and when he said this, I am agreement with Tom Allen’s dad very much.
Clothes mean a lot to me and sometimes I feel shallow and vain for this expensive pastime but the truth is they make me feel good and a new dress (or a really expensive jumper) just means a lot to me, Tom Allen and Tom Allen’s dad.
I really miss dressing up for work. And nights out. And parties. And everything.
Bonus Bon Mot for the internet fatigued the effort involved in debunking internet myth is so much more than the effort of putting it out there.
Try and stay the course fellow fact fans.
