Sensation: Redaktøren havde ret!

i at ændre min overskrift i anmeldelsen af John le Carrés En delikat sandhed fra

Droner er ikke lunkne

(jeg havde tidligt, inden jeg gik i gang med min anmeldelse, skullet pitche en tegnelig pinte, til WA's gode tegner Lars Vegas og tænkte desperat noget med (Spionen der kom) Ind fra lunkenheden, og så kunne John le Carré dukke op af en radiator, men som jeg skrive mig ind, blev jeg mere og mere lunken ved den lunkenhed, som jeg jo imildertid var forpligtet på, fordi tegningen var i færd med tegnet, så derfor den ulunkne drone (og måske er faktisk droner lunkne!? det ved jeg virkelig ikke)

til

Britisk idealisme ved stuetemperatur

(der er så nogle meget små syntaktiske rettelser til det værre nede i teksten, som det ikke giver mening at nævne, men hvis I synes noget knirker klodset (i ikke bare denne tekst!), så er det derfor, altid! - nej, vent, der er faktisk lavet ret meget om til sidst, hvor der burde stå:

Det siger meget, at troskyldige  og derfor overvejende komiske Kit Proby, i og borte fra sin lille, provinsielle idyl, er en langt mere overbevisende figur end karriere-fremstormende, postuleret realistiske Toby Bell; læseren tror ikke på Tobys mangel på kynisme, fordi vi bliver bedt om at tage hans idealisme alvorligt. Kun komisk idealisme er troværdig,

   Og vi tror mere på, at idealisten er til grin, end på, at han til sidst triumferer – men ikke hellere!)

Richard Burton er dagens største motherfucker

Bloggen skal også bare registrere de mystiske-magiske sammentræf af lykketræf, som hele tiden indtræffer, og som jeg tror mere på end alle mulige andre (tematiske ...) sammenhænge, som nu det herlige hit på John Grants nye plade Pale Green Ghosts, jeg ret monomant hører for tiden (selvom du lige nu forsøger at overdøve med nogen, der hedder Wans, som "like to party"), "GMF":

Half of the time I think I'm in some movie.
I play the underdog of course.
I wonder who they'll get to play me.
Maybe they could dig up Richard Burton's corpse.

I am not who you think I am.
I am quite angry--which I barely can conceal.
You think I hate myself, but it's you I hate
Because you have the nerve to make me feel.

But I am the greatest motherfucker
That you're ever gonna meet
From the top of my head
Down to the tips of the toes on my feet.

Der træffer en artikel af John le Carré i det nye nummer af New Yorker om dengang Richard Burton spillede hovederollen som Alec Leamas i filmatiseringen af The Spy Who Came in for the Cold, og hvornår har jeg sidst tænkt på Richard Burton? Carré bliver fløjet ind til filmsettet for at holde Burton med selskab:

Somebody has to look after Richard, David. Richard's drinking too much. Richard needs a friend.
  Richard needs a friend? Hadn't he just married Elizabeth Taylor? Wasn't she a friend? Wasn't she there with him, holding up the shoot every time she arrived  on the set in a white Rolls -Royce, surrounded by other friends, such as Yul Brynner and Franco Zeffirelli; such as visiting agents and lawyers; such as the reputedly sventeen-strong Burton-Taylor household, which occupied the whole of one floor of Dublin's grandest hotel, and included, as I understood it, their various children by different marriages, tutors for said children, hairdresses , secretaries, and, in the words of one disrespectful member of the unit, the fellow who clipped thier parrot's claws? All these, and Richard still needed me?
  Of course, he did. He was being Alec Leamas.
  And as Alec Leamas he was being prowling solitary going to seed, his career had hit the buffers, and the only people he could talk to were strangers like me. . Though I scarcely realized it at the time, I was being initiated into the proces of an actor pludering the darker regions of his life for the elements of the part he is about to play. And the first element you must plunder, if you are Alec Leamas going to seed, is solitude. Which, in a word, meant that, for as long as Burton was being Leamas, the entire Burton court was his avowed enemy. If Leamas walked alone, so must Burton. If Leamas kept a halft bottle of Haig whisky in his raincoat pocket, so did Burton - and took healthy swigs of it whenever the solitude became too much for him, even, as quickly became apparent, the one thing that Burton absolutely hadtn't was a head for booze.