The following occured during the summer, when I was still waiting to embark on the MA I have now started. It looks ahead to a time which I have finally reached, from where, in turn, I now look back to what I was once expecting. I put it up now partly because I havn't been bothered to do so thus far, and because I now have a slightly clearer idea about what cultural studies is. And that question, dear reader, is of troubling concern to this me of yesterday. Not that it matters, i now realise, for half the time my associates concern themselves with discussing what cultural studies is and is going to be. No one really knows, you see.
*
I am soon going to London to study. This summer is mostly spent in the westcounty, somewhere between a state of preperation and anxious academic malnutrition. A heavy dose of procrastinaiton accompanies me, even though I have nothing to do. I was asked by the man, as he peeked up at me from his position on the floor, So why are you going to london?
To do a Masters.
Oh right, he said. Is that in a subject?
It is - Cultural Studies.
'Oh right. And eh. So eh, what does that involve?' He was protecting his eyes from falling dust. His rounded glasses were on the floor beside him. He had blue overalls, and a head shaped like the Isle of Wight.
It was a question frequently asked of me by people enquiring about the future. They would invariably not actually care, but still felt obliged to be clear on the matter. An ambiguity shrouded the name, Cultural Studies. Understandably so, I guess, for what is culture? Only, like, everything.
So I said: well, things like the philosophy of art, political theory, literary theory, media studies -
'Oh yeah,' he said wiping his brow. 'My sister's in media. She's a caterer, works on set. Does walk on parts from time to time, yeah. Not easy getting into media. She was lucky, met a weatherman, bought a dog off him. Though, a Masters has got to help ey.'
'Yeah, well, I mean, it's not media per se. It would be more . . . studying the media from the peripheries, and -'
'Lots of opportunities as a weatherman. Or woman, I might add. High turnover, you see. The only keepers are the ones with the right names, you know? Like Jon Snow, David Frost, and there's eh, Dan Snow. Yep, they've been reporting the weather for years, for years.'
He continued: ' . . . but not many stay on, 'specially with regular names. There was that one, that woman, a real looker she was. Sarah, eh. Sarah something. You know the one?'
Alas I didn't.
'Where is she now?' he mused. 'See, they dont hang about for long. They get into the meteorological department, away from the public. The public hates them, you see, always have done. The British and the weather. There's some magical connection, there is. The English await the weather like the lonely old woman awaiting her visiting grandchildren.' He sat up, as if suddenly happening upon something unmissable in the corner of his mind. 'And the weather report is like a card, or phonecall saying - "we're on our way". Nothing worse than the wrath of disappointed grandparents, we all know it. So the weathermen are the bringers of good, but misleading, news, Cos they're always wrong, right? The grandchildren always have better plans.'
'How's it coming on?' I asked. He stood up and looked at me. He held a blackened tissue.
'See, not many people know it,' he said, 'but the first day of summer, traditionally the 3rd wednesday of May, is national "taunt the weatherman" day. It came about because news anchors were getting bitter about the attention the weatherman was getting, back in the sixties, this was. So they started changing the script, or putting up messages on the screen behind them. You could get away with anything on TV then. Yeah, they'd have a report of a fine day ahead, a fine day, and you'd have sun plastered all over the country, with bits of blue tak. But he'd be saying, "so get out yer raincoats, if your heading out today, because this weather is set to stay." The chap on the newsdeck would be creasing up. These days, on the third wednesday of May, they do things like that. April fools for weathermen, and women, I might add. Well, won't be long now mate. Just got to check the eh -
'But now,' he said turning back to me, 'It's a bit sinister. If you're a weatherman you better get used to abuse on the streets, that's right, on the streets. "You said it would be sunny," they screech. "My washing's on the line!" Oh dear. They throw fruit, they throw pasties. Depends where you are - what shops are nearby I suppose. I think I'd throw a spanner. Although that might hurt. No, I have no issue with the weatherman. So, do you come at it from the media, or the meteorological, angle then, you prospective weathermen?'
'Well I don't want to be a weatherman, I'm studying Cultural Studies.
'Right, well we're almost done here. You're semi-converter plasma conducter was shot, so I replaced that. And the old jig ramp could do with a greasy make-over. But that's your perogative, son. Last thing I want to do is sell you a greasy make-over - '
I nodded.
' - but in all honesty, without a make-over your ramp will fail and your jig flap could fall off on the way home.'
'OK, well. Do what you need to do.'
He shuffled off, continued in silence. No more did we speak. I looked down the road, pretending something interesting was down there. Tomorrow, I'll have the same thing with the boiler man.
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