writer's moll

An unusual attack of introspection from A.A.Gill in this week’s TV review column has him trying to work out why he has such an ‘utterly phobic’ reaction to Newsnight Review ('it makes me want to poke my eyes out with a rusty boy scout and wander rural Shropshire humming Benjamin Britten’s English folk songs in falsetto') and though he admits it’s totally irrational, he cringes with embarrassment at the preening opinions aired on the programme. He concludes that it’s because it’s too close to what he does and who he is. You hate what you fear.

Yes, well spotted, which reminds me of something else that a lot of people are quite phobic about, which is blogging - obviously not you, dear generous readers of this blog. But opinions never fly thicker or faster than when someone ‘confesses’ to being a ‘blogger’ (though admittedly I don’t mix in the sort of circles that casually throw in topics like whether you swing as serious contenders for heated debates). And they all say the same thing: ‘I just don’t get blogging’. Well I don’t get stamp collecting or watching Grand Prix racing, but I’m happy for those who do to charge round the countryside looking for a glimpse of a Penny Black or a Lewis Hamilton.

A lot of the things I do could be considered pretty pointless - chatting over a glass of wine, playing Scrabble, watching TV to name a few - but blogging comes into a different category altogether. Reaction to it is something akin to dying your hair blonde. You can dye your hair red, brown, black or even pink and that’s just a bit of fun or a necessary adjustment to ageing. Dye it blonde and you're suffering delusions of glamour.

And so it is with blogging: 'why d’you think anyone’s interested in what you're doing?'; ‘I think it’s a bit sad communicating with strangers when you could be talking to real friends'; ‘why would you want to write for free?' are some of the questions people ask.

A Times columnist, who ‘didn’t get it’ either, started her own blog to see what all the fuss was about and began with a post about what she was making for supper that night. Doesn't that say it all? When already there's not a single meal whose name everyone can agree on, apart from breakfast and even that’s brunch sometimes - with lunch for some being dinner for others, who then have tea which the other lot call dinner - she throws in supper, which seems to be posh for dinner, rather than the cheese on toast or Weetabix of my childhood supper, but still eaten at home, since restaurants never serve supper, except perhaps a nightcap, which has, I think, to be liquid.

So the journalist remained a non-believer, complaining that, despite posting another five times (including a riveting account of watching the protest at the Olympic torch relay) she got zero comments and so pulled the plug.

So if anyone has any ideas about why blogging gets up so many people's noses, I'd love to have them.