Editors can play a most constructive role—such as gently suggesting that it might be inadvisable to use the word “wombat” three times in the same sentence, or explaining the legal repercussions of slagging off evil xenophobic Tory bigots. On my blog, however, as the attentive reader [singular, eh? Mrs Ivy Trellis I presume—Ed.] will have noticed, the main role of my imaginary editor is to constantly snigger at my pretentious ideas and take the piss out of my slavish devotion to PC.
So perhaps we can find some clues to the character and tastes of this elusive figure—like Elena Ferrante, being of indeterminate gender, I like to think of her/him as Ermintrude or Algernon.
The notional editor likes to nominate me for a Pseuds’ Corner Award for passages such as:
I was just admiring Messi weaving his way through yet another helpless defence, and recalling his time at Barcelona, comparable only to Bach at Leipzig…
or in my tribute to Stewart Lee:
he reformulates motifs from previous work, just like Bach and Miles Davis.
Waxing lyrical about Dream a little dream of me,
reminiscent of Mahler’s sudden revelation of alpine pastures adorned with cowbells, or an incandescent Messiaen meditation suffused with ondes martenot [Steady on—Ed.].
Pondering my early exposure to the ouevre of Godard:
my musical tastes were already imbued with Ravel, Messiaen, and Boulez [Weirdo—Ed.]
On flamenco:
Like Lorca, [Name-dropper—Ed.], my taste draws me to the intensity of cante jondo “deep singing”.
In one of my posts on cuisine, Ermintrude/Algernon sniggers at
my legendary dinner parties [legendary in the sense that they never existed?—Ed.]…
On the 94 bus:
As the fleet plies its trade between East and West, like a medieval caravan along the Silk Road weaving its way through the bustling markets of oases like the fabled Bush of Shepherds [That’s enough now—Ed.]
Some of my finest fantasies are met by a suggestion of inebriation:
“I didn’t get where I am today” [at home with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire—Ed.] by peddling such flapdoodle.
Often when I seem to overreach myself, a sarcastic put-down suffices—such as a raised eyebrow when I claim familiarity with these new-fangled Popular Beat Combos:
my new acquaintance with Turkish-German rap [Yeah right—Ed.]
The editor’s disinterested eye can be useful, as here:
We shouldn’t allow our fascination with iconography [Speak for yourself—Ed.] to detract from documenting people’s actual religious observances.
Ermintrude/Algernon tries to keep me in check:
One evening after doing the Monteverdi Vespers, or should I say Vespas [No you should not—Ed.]
On Tibet:
Could it be that emissaries called out “da-yig!” to announce their arrival, a custom that eventually found its way to Venice via the Silk Road, becoming the gondolier’s cry of O-i? [No it couldn’t. Stop it.—Ed.]
My obsession with Chinese folk music surfaces in the most unlikely places, like this on Irish fiddlers:
What a wealth of creative wisdom under all those nimble fingers, immersed in the style, each with their own lineages and influences, full of regional and personal variation—like shawm players in north China [I was afraid you were building up to that—Ed.].
Some comments hit home:
I may be rebuked for levity, as in this aside:
the iconoclastic early punk band Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove [Behave yourself, Dr Jones—Ed.]
But sometimes Ermintrude/Algernon seems to join in the fun:
I’m always tickled pink [Best possible colour to be tickled—Ed.] by
and on visual culture:
Craig and any other art historians who have managed to read this far might care to exact revenge by writing Specious Flapdoodle [famous 19th-century Baptist pastor—Ed.] about early music or Daoist ritual…
In my tribute to Myles:
His intolerance of cant (and doubtless Kant) has brought him a cult following [Autospell running amok?—Ed.].
On film criticisms by GDR censors:
the buildings look sad, inhospitable, dirty, and unkempt [Tripadvisor review for Tory Britain?—Ed.]
My elusive critic sometimes takes a rather laidback stance on grammar, as here:
I found myself on the courtyard outside SOAS at midday, where whoM [Pedant—Ed.] should I bump into but…
Ermintrude/Algernon’s rebukes over my sexism seem to be tongue-in-cheek—such as this comment on some favoured limericks:
The young man from Calcutta, The young man from Japan, and The old man from Peru [Typical bias against the middle-aged woman—Ed.]
the splendidly-named Ronald Binge, creator of Mantovani’s “cascading strings” effect [Persontovani, please!—Ed.]
And I am just as likely to be criticised for being unduly Woke, as in my choice of baroque composers:
we should adjust from our image of Barbara Strozzi and Artemisia Gentileschi [PC gone mad—Ed.]
Even my violin playing comes in for sarcasm:
… it feels great to Become One with the instrument again [Again?—Ed.]
At times Ermintrude/Algernon can be rather too literal:
Call me a nerd [You’re a nerd—Ed.], but taxonomy and indexing can be so funky…
Under this constant bombardment, I sometimes get a tad shirty at the editor’s comments:
I climbed aboard at Chiswick High Road to find an old codger [Around your age?—Ed.] [Look, I’ve warned you about this—SJ]…
I’m always intoxicated [Now read on—Ed.] [That’s enough of your lip—SJ] by the mood of Irish music.
But in all, I feel most fortunate to have such a tolerant editor, something of a kindred spirit…[Philately will get you nowhere—Ed.] [Hey, that’s my line!—SJ]
At least no confusion in proofreading arises such as befell Guangdong Arts and Crafts when preparing their half-page advertisement for the China Daily:
Stephen Jones: a blog 