British as a Second Language by David Bennun

Author:David Bennun
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 2004-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Government Taste Warning: Dear God, Woman, Think What You’re Doing

Government Taste Warning: Will Make Your Bedroom Resemble A Kosovan Cathouse Knocked Together By Psychotic Militiamen With a Grudge Against What Remains of Their Society

We could learn from the Americans here. The sale of paint should be regulated by controls similar to those governing gun purchases in certain US states; that is, a mandatory, week-long ‘cooling-off’ period between ordering and receiving any colour other than white. How many heartbroken victims are even now crouching numbly within walls resembling those of an abattoir; a day-glo crèche; a little-missed local nightclub from the 1980s called the Pink Coconut; a combination of all three?

There are useful parallels in our drug laws, too. Certain items should be categorised as ‘prescription only’, including cordless drills, socket sets and grout. Others must be prohibited altogether. I recommend two levels of classification: ‘Class B’, where possession is met with an on-the-spot police caution, would cover decals, glitter, posters purchased at Athena and seashells, to discourage young people from experimenting. ‘Class A’ – the hard stuff – would include crazy paving, and fashionable, casually used, but highly addictive multi-coloured tiles. The trade in such materials is tearing British communities apart, then gluing them back together in a profoundly unsightly fashion. Civil liberties are all very well, but dammit, there are limits.

In the interests of full disclosure, I should admit that I have no taste of my own. Really. None. Not when it comes to the rooms I inhabit. In my current home, the walls remain as bare as they were when I moved in. That’s how I prefer them. My furniture is plain, wooden, minimal and of muted tones. My front room looks like an undusted corner of Ikea, the only splashes of colour provided by records, books and so forth, which came that way.

But although I have no taste, I have at least attained discernment. I know what I don’t like and don’t want around me; although for a long time I couldn’t tell until I’d already lugged it home from the shop. And I know whose advice I trust. I follow the counsel of those people, not to fool the rest of the world that I can choose wisely when it comes to carpets and sofas, but because I know from experience that the results make me comfortable. With this in mind, I find it hard to disapprove of anyone who has genuine taste of their own, however visibly rank it may be.

“To understand bad taste,” the film director John Waters famously instructed, “one must have very good taste.” Waters, sadly, was mistaken. That may have been his own avenue to bad taste, but few others take such a scenic route. The popularity of kitsch, for example, has grown enormously since I arrived in Britain (although the two things are not, I think, related). Kitsch, in the current understanding of the word, began as a form of amused contempt among high-culture buffs for the tastes of the wider public.

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