Whose text is it anyway?

French philosopher Jacques Derrida. Photo: S-USIH

The 2015/16 academic year represented 20 years since I left home for uni. In the first year I barely did any work. I marked the anniversary by publishing nothing here. It wasn’t intentional, of course. Indeed, there were several ideas and I started two blogs but scrapped them both, the second at the last minute; I actually got to the stage where I was sourcing images. I won’t mention content in either because bits might appear in a future blog. Funnily enough I scrapped the first one because I thought it was too vulgar and childish, whereas the second one became overly serious and too close to home. 

I’ve mentioned before that to an extent uni was a waste of time; for a start I did the classic degree that meant nothing and was designed for people who didn’t have a direct career path in mind: Media Studies. There were tons of us in the same boat – over 200 – and with random people taking random modules with only 20 people per post-lecture seminar, getting to know people from my course properly was extremely difficult. In fact, there were one or two I bonded with but barely saw again until the graduation ball. 

This vagueness made nights out somewhat awkward at times if it meant I recognised someone but they didn’t recognise me or vice-versa, and to be honest the music was ridiculously repetitive at student nights. There were only so many occasions I could stomach ‘Alright’ by Supergrass before I wanted to hang myself. I wanted upbeat synthpop but the only places I could get that were gay bars (probably) and my luck with women was barely improving as it was.

That’s all for another day, though. Because actually when I look back at events from 2015/16 maybe my degree wasn’t quite as irrelevant as I thought. Even more shockingly, it took me back to what I thought was the most pointless module I ever studied: 'deconstruction', one of the many theories coined by French philosopher Jacques Derrida. The briefest and least complicated definition of deconstruction is that it is the reader, not the author, who writes the text. Because the text will always outlive the author, interpretation is the winner. There are other branches of this theory but let's stick with this one. Until recently I thought this was complete pretentious bollocks but actually over time I’ve realised that maybe the theory does hold some water. 

Take music. On the most basic level, ‘You’re gorgeous’ by Babybird has been generally adopted as a love song even though, according to songwriter Stephen Jones, the song is actually about the exploitation of female models. But that intention has been gobbled up by romantic comedy soundtracks, wedding DJs and drunken blokes trying to serenade the chicks at karaoke nights. Sure, Jones has made a few quid but there must be occasions when he thinks, come on guys, listen to the lyrics in finer detail. The same can be said for Bruce Springsteen's 'Born in the USA'; laughably used by some American politicians in presidential campaigns as a patriotic anthem despite the song being a Vietnam War rant.

Then again, it would be wrong for me to take the moral high ground. I consider Jona Lewie’s ‘Stop the cavalry’ to be the finest Christmas record ever made - except he doesn't consider the song to be a Christmas record. It contains classic seasonal production with sleigh bells with the focus being on Christmas but he insists he wrote the song as a war protest. Now obviously I should respect that because I didn't know that at the time but to me it will always be the best Christmas record ever made. End of. Then there are cases where songwriters can officially be mugged from the start, perhaps the most famous being ‘Ironic’ by Alanis Morrisette.

So what happened that alerted me to this topic, then? Illness. I'd been diagnosed with a brain tumour in 2008 following a sudden seizure but learning it was stable meant treatment focused solely on medication to control seizures, which were minor but happening on average five times a month. Despite the addition of various tablets, my seizures continued until one combination cracked the code for 18 months and I thought everything had been sorted. I was OK now, wasn't I? My neurologist had his feet on the desk, my biannual MRI scans showed no changes, and brain experiments revealed I was in the top 5% ability-wise of people suffering the disease.

But the seizures returned and increased. I noted when and where they were happening. My diaries changed and I began to blame myself. I wasn't drinking enough water, I was too tired, my sleeping patterns weren't good enough. My neurologist was slightly cynical but one MRI later and he looked a little flustered; a rush of blood had entered the area of the tumour and he and his colleagues wanted to make sure the tumour hadn't been misdiagnosed. Er, great.

One biopsy later and the feet were temporarily back on desks, to the point where I had to work hard to actually request another MRI. My seizures had increased to the point of occasionally two a day with slightly weird and even amusing slow motion characteristics: the sound of Alan Shearer ranting about his beloved Newcastle’s terrible defending mixed like an 80s hip hop DJ with a stereo effect.  

I didn't know what was going on but I knew things weren’t right. Even with a draining commute the hunger for buying a new home wasn’t as strong as it should have been; I needed more and more sleep; and considering my stamina levels should have been the highest, they were lagging behind my other half and any helper when it came to moving anything. Sure enough, the MRI revealed a significant growth in my tumour and the need for action. Suddenly I was receiving letters from the MacMillan Cancer Centre. At least the University College Hospital of Neurology and Neurosurgery had sounded cool. After being so open with everyone about any developments on the illness, suddenly I found myself hiding from the world.

And that was when I thought, who was that twat I studied at uni. I couldn't believe I was googling 'deconstruction'. To me my strange brain was in control but if I’d written down my thoughts in a stream of consciousness format in a two-minute burst and four people analysed what/how I was feeling, they probably would have come up with four different theories. The blanket of dead cells had been removed and the newly active ones had apparently also started threatening my speech patterns, according to my neurologist, who was stunned when I told him I was still working full time. A compliment, of course, but its backhandedness left a touch of humiliation hanging over.

The truth is I hadn’t a clue what I was supposed to do or how to feel about the news, hence why I hibernated for several months. I entered MacMillan – a hugely impressive new building – for the first time and was hit with the double-whammy of reality and guilt. I felt guilty because I was by far the ‘healthiest’ looking patient there and struggled to make eye contact with any of the sick ones but knew one day that could and maybe would be me. It was a horrible mixture of temporary relief and resigned heartbreak.

When you do speak to people on the outside, they either have anecdotes or reveal similar issues in their own lives. It depends on the tone of the response, of course, but there have been occasions when – if it’s the latter – I’ve felt competition for my own health. Perhaps justification for me lying low in the first place.

"Nice haircut, young man!" Photo: Duchy

Interpretation is ultimately healthy, of course, as it keeps your brain in gear; even if in my case paranoia has dominated recently. I went to Waitrose in Coulsdon a few weeks back to buy a ready meal for lunch having had a fairly radical haircut – from beyond ear length to number four back and sides and a hefty chop on top – and was minding my own business at the till when the woman serving me gave me a cheeky but somewhat startled smile and said, “I almost didn’t recognise you with that haircut. You look really smart!”.

“Aw, bless you!” I replied and walked out with a smug ‘still got it’ grin. However, by the time I reached the office I thought, ‘that’s actually a bit snobby and patronising, isn’t it’. For a start I’d barely even shopped there. Maybe she previously thought I was an Aldi imposter. So I’ve not been back since.

Perhaps I was wrong; maybe it was genuine kindness and you can't take that for granted. It's always a massive boost when somebody emails or sends a message based on something that reminded them of me, however innocuous, or involves me as part of an anecdote. Perhaps the most heartwarming moment in recent times was a Facebook message in late 2015 that flattered me to such a degree that I never questioned why. I had a couple of theories but I didn't want an answer. The Derrida effect.      

As well as work being an unwittingly safe haven due to it being a big company and therefore populated by others who have suffered similar traumas, my job as a sub editor has a Derrida-esque slant in that to a vague extent I can become a partial author if it’s truly terrible, especially if facts are obviously wrong and I don’t have to seek approval to correct them. I can’t claim the author’s expertise of course but I can take a paragraph and say to myself, that phrase is shit, that quote is in the wrong place, and you’ve already said x, y or z three paras above. Sub editors are sometimes mocked for being frustrated authors after all.               

Having had a flick through my previous blogs, Life inside an inbox is possibly the closest I’ll get to being Derrida. The shock of re-reading not the blog itself but the emails that inspired it revealed a different person. My own text will outlive me and the millions (snigger) who read it after I've gone will have a free hit as far as deconstructing it is concerned as even I don't know what I was thinking.

Obviously it would be wrong to question the theory's future as a whole, as deconstruction has many other strands, but text is already being diluted by the world of the emoji, which allows people to put feelings or opinions across in text in a direct manner with smileys, handclaps and hearts that is far less likely to be misinterpreted than with plain text, where irony and raised eyebrows can easily be missed in what looks like a seemingly innocent paragraph. Maybe people these days, even if only subconsciously, are scared of being misinterpreted. Perhaps technology will dumb down text completely.

But while Shakespeare remains on the A-list at schools and universities, along with leftfield works by the likes of Harold Pinter and Joseph Conrad; and a student walks out of a lecture muttering, 'what the fuck was that about?', like I did two decades ago, basic deconstruction should still have a part to play. Now where's the seminar?

Southern bastards

Every morning, the Jubilee Line, runs like

clockwork to London Bridge for 8.29.

A triple escalator climb later to the concourse

and it’s full as crowds form for information,

fuming of course at the chaos and non-communication

from the shit for brains world of Southern Trains.

Even the dot matrix is bemused, confused

as expected times roll forward and back.

Then gimmicks attack as some stations, destinations,

journeys that survive cancellation function

but are branded ‘fast’, leaving aghast those who

wait for New Cross Gate or Norwood Junction.

A glance at the platforms, some trains are there.

Pity about the staff, an ironic laugh, commuters swear.

Conductors are absent, ‘sick’ or late inbound.

Relays cause delays if only one team turns up or around.

So check online, stay in bed, work from home instead.

No train ticket to Gatwick, get a cab, pay per head.

Back into London from Reigate, Three Bridges, or Tonbridge is

the same, or worse, as services fall like dominos.

“It’ll get better!” is the ominous wail. But it’s a curse.

When weather isn’t to blame, statistics loom, logistics arguably fail.

Groans, gloom, inaudible advice. But one thing is nice;

beyond angry hustle and bustle I’ve realised this:  

I can shout, “You Southern bastards!”, with no prejudice.