For those who have never heard of John Waters (and they are many) let me explain. This is a fellow who has an enormously inflated sense of his own journalistic importance and infallibility.
No. He isn’t the Pope, but he’s the next best thing, having once dallied with Sinead O Connor. This unhappy coupling, whence a child issued, has provided Waters with a highly-profitable sense of grievance ever since, on which he has battened and on which he has written extensively.
(Incidentally, this is also the man who famously claimed to be “crying as I type this” when writing about Katy French. A new low in Irish Times standards.
Waters has recently started to make a complete fool of himself by attacking the entire bloggosphere, while at the same time conceding that he knows almost nothing about the internet and never reads blogs. He has claimed, inter alia, that bloggers couldn’t string three words of English together, and in revealing his prejudice, has also exposed a lamentable inability to tell the difference between the medium and the message, bless him.
John Waters isn’t the Ronaldinho of writing. He’s not the Wayne Rooney and he’s certainly no Roy Keane. I suppose he might be Mick McCarthy: a basic hoofer denouncing street football in case somebody might do it better than he does.
It seems he doesn’t like the idea of unqualified people writing. Now, I don’t know what John is qualified in, but he doesn’t strike me as a particularly well-read man, or a particularly gifted writer. I’ll lay you odds I know at least as much as he does on many things, and I can probably express myself at least as clearly as he does. For one thing, I don’t have the urge to quote a German philosopher every three lines, but that’s probably just a hangover from his student days when such pretentiousness might get a guy laid.
John, it seems, would like to have a licensing system in place before you’re allowed to express an opinion, and the new freedom provided by the internet offends him to his elitist, authoritarian core.
Somewhere along the way, he seems to have become a fossil, trapped in the past and terrified of a medium he doesn’t understand. This, in my view, is terribly sad for a fellow who used to write for Hot Press, a magazine that engaged in more than its fair share of iconoclasm in its time.
Eventually, Waters summoned a blogger to appear before him on Newstalk FM. He doubted they’d find one who could speak three consecutive words of English, but Fergal Crehan of Tuppenceworth took up the challenge, duly annihilating the blustering old fraud. Listen here.
After that debate, I think I’ll have to sing John Waters the same thing we Munster folk sang to Lawrence Dallaglio on Saturday when he was sent off: Cheerio! Cheerio! Cheerio!
(From Green Ink Pen )