Richard Dennen –The Worst Columnist in London… bar none.
Okay guys here’s the deal.
Every Tuesday, every frustrating and agnosing Tuesday, I have to read this god awful article in the back of the London Evening Standard. It is about a guy, who is gay, writing 400 words out of his arse about sleeping with people who you’ve never heard of and talking about posh places you don’t care about.
If you want an example of his articles please click here and open a new window. Now half your laptop page so his London Evening Standard article on the right, matches with this article on the left. Read his as you are reading mine, and you’ll see pretty vividly why this man annoys me.
(I have more or less had to change every word for legal schmo, but the meaning is there I hope)
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It’s February 22nd and I’m mildly annoyed. I’m not mildly annoyed because it’s February 22nd, I am just mildly frustrated because this is the worst opening to an article ever written ever.
However, this shouldn’t be my main concern right now. This is because I am currently having an argument with this guy I’m seeing, the person who you have never heard of but I have mentioned maybe twice before. I’m not really sure what the fight is about, and you don’t know him of course ROLF, but we haven’t talked for so long now I feel obliged to tell 500,000 other Londoners my true feelings for him. You can hear my ego squirt across this newsprint and no one’s quite sure if the other side (that’s you reader), is going to hang themselves or punch my sweaty face in the picture above with your fingers.
It began Saturday evening. I was at another gay friend who I have never referred to before, for supper, which was nice, it was like some posh pretentious narrow minded public SCHOOL BOY ERROR venue, transported to fit in with all of the other posh pretentious narrow minded public SCHOOL BOY ERROR venues, so all the posh boys can boast about it to people who don’t care too. No *INSERT WELL KNOWN CELEBRITY* or *PEOPLE YOU’VE DON’T DESERVE TO KNOW* to invade my ego here.
It was toned down, 22nd-millennia society pretentiousness, *let’s insert something here in German or French* jeans and a Anna Korna Kova & Teapot Top and my favourite icon you cannot afford, Sophia Hesketh, unraveling herself like a mongoose prancing in golden leaf to reveal something expensive thing that would make you puck-ey.
Surreptitiously, I gleefully went out to SMS the man who you’ve only heard about twice, and asked him something as this article had until now lost all sense of meaning and direction. No, the man wasn’t busy. I ventured in gawping at someone I hadn’t mentioned yet but I feel obliged to add to the guest list, star of a play(?!) (possibly), who I been sitting with because I’m high-class and shit. I then SMSed this person you don’t care about, shall I leave this guest fest and see him or a movie? All the people who take yachts to work were going to a party in a building related to royalty, followed by some heavyweight boxing.
No, I wasn’t allowed to come over. He was exhausted. And so are the readers.
YAAA, how can this man, who you share feelings about obviously, be watching a movie? Had I done something more flamboyant and aggravating than writing this joke of an English language in the last 24 hours I pondered? Was this a pun that had no meaning? What was this unknown Londoner’s problem with me? Am I exhausted because I can afford this flamboyant lifestyle every night whilst you cry over real things like trying to better yourself in life with idiots like me stepped in the way?
It’s true, my throat sounds dry and am beginning to sound like a book I hadn’t read. I am a wreck. Maybe all these cocks I’ve been hanging out with are like Robert Pattison and every time they talk to me a bit of my soul gets twilighted-ted. That worked yah?
My head, and the readers, is all over the shop. I am pissed off. “Do you think you’re just picking a fight?” asked yet another person who I have never made a reference before. “No,” I spitted back, “I just think I’m a writer, the person reading this is a reader, it will be nice, very nice, for me to unnecessarily write up this entire episode in a newspaper column next week and get it published because I am rich and privileged, even though it hasn’t got an ending and the story doesn’t make any sense.”
“What newspaper is it?” she asked, which I think was missing the point because it is the Evening Standard OBVIOUSLY.
A week later and you’re surprised this column is still here.
(this article is dedicated to Sarah Cantello who inspired me about this after we bitched about this)
Scott – not a posh twat – Bryan has captured the said Richard – I proudly prove I am a twat every week – Dennen very very well indeed! I honestly could not understand why he is allowed to keep writing awful articles that no-one gives a flying fudge about until I spoke to a friend tonight… I simply said “do you read the column by the gay twat from Chelsea?” He said “yeah! i love it!” I said “what?! i hate it!” And he proceeded to explain… “cos its HIlarious!” And I just thought, yes it is funny if unlike me you don’t have a vendetta against public school educated sloans, you might actually believe he was taking the piss himself…
Then I just remembered what the real gripe of it is… its BORING. week in, week out, same column just different expensive night spots, new celebs and new dating dilemmas thrown in.
Mover over Richard… step forward Scott…
I did indeed lul ^.^
I agree with every single word. Does the editor at the Standard ask writers to take a posh test instead of a writing test these days? He’s just so banally boring.