There's this Guardian columnist who occasionally pops up in my timeline named Adrian Chiles. I do not know much about him, other than that he used to work at the BBC and possesses the archetypical author's photo of a wealthy, senescent Londoner. (My dad is English, I know the type well.) But unlike his sour contemporaries — Piers Morgan, Richard Littlejohn, take your pick — Chiles doesn't go viral for spouting the usual aggrieved, gutless takes about political correctness or Cardi B music videos. No, instead whenever I see Chiles' byline, he's writing 350 words about a clumsy attempt to offer a
Not that it makes it that much better, but the Chiles piece supposedly about "how he doesn't like it when delivery drivers ask to use his toilet" is in fact about the exact opposite. It features him offering a befuddled delivery person the use of his toilet, unprompted.
I think about the local film critic who wrote for my small town paper growing up whose schtick was flaming popular movies with incoherent rants and raving about awful movies. Without fail. I wonder what he's up to.
Not that it makes it that much better, but the Chiles piece supposedly about "how he doesn't like it when delivery drivers ask to use his toilet" is in fact about the exact opposite. It features him offering a befuddled delivery person the use of his toilet, unprompted.
Ironically, this flavor of out-of-touch columnist is almost certainly also the most representative of the average voter.
I think about the local film critic who wrote for my small town paper growing up whose schtick was flaming popular movies with incoherent rants and raving about awful movies. Without fail. I wonder what he's up to.