Point Of Order: I Am Not And Never Shall Be Indie

"Sigh. Yeah, that's right. Sigh. Two years ago, almost to the day, I wrote a piece about the world's bizarre insistence on marrying me off..."

Quoth the Brooker on Monday. And may I add: Sigh. That means it was two years ago, almost to the day, that I wrote this post about that piece. Here's what I said in summary back then, to avoid any unpleasant whiplash-type effects from being forcibly dragged two years into the past by your linky-click-finger: Ooh, Charlie Brooker's single! Look at all those internet losers flinging themselves at him. I flung myself at someone off the internet once, and it really bloody hurt. But still, I actually got a response and a soul-destroying total non-relationship out of it, not like you losers. Never catch me doing that again. What losers. What I meant, though, was an entirely different manner. I was, in fact, climbing into my copper suit, moistening up my joints, dragging my metal bucket of water to the top of the highest hill, shaking my fist at the sky, loudly casting aspersions on the sexual proclivities of Thor's mum, and generally willing with all my might that lightning would indeed strike twice.

Although if I really did want that to happen, I probably could have tried a little harder. I wasn't even one of the millions of tiresome indie girls who left oh-so-nonchalant "Yeah, I'll marry you, although of course I'm completely not bothered"-type comments. Only cos I'm completely not bothered, you understand. And, more importantly, because I'm not an idiot, and I realise no-one anywhere in the world could read a 20-word comment and fall head over heels in love, no matter how pithy, witty, and goddamn sexy it might be. Indie girls, take heed: The Brooker will not read the comments. He will not then look at your commenter profile, will not find your blog, will not read it all in an evening, be charmed by your turn of phrase and identify deeply with your cynical view on life's little idiosyncrasies. He will not email you saying that he didn't quite know why he was emailing a stranger but just somehow felt he had to, you will not embark on a hilarious and increasingly flirtatious email exchange, he will not tentatively suggest you meet up, and he will not see you across a crowded pub and be struck dumb by your indie stylings. He will not react, at first, in an angry and defensive way, as he is forced to re-examine all his opinions of love in the face of an unexpected onslaught of emotions he is unable to process. He will not gradually soften up over the course of a number of evenings where you discover a mutual love of various high points of low culture. And most of all, he will not eventually realise that you are the one person who could crack through his hard-bitten hack exterior and when you're there, he can finally sleep at night.

Mostly because he's probably totally married already.

So why did I write this post, then?

Oh...