A Blissfully Brief Visit from the Land of Abominatory Codswallop

Southampton, 15th February 2008

The jury's out on Ms. Allen's generally contemptable attempt at television...

It's been a long time, and this is a short post. I merely wish to bring attention to the young media of the minute — and, yes, I am aware of the irony of her appearance in a blog named for profundity! (Although no offence against the girl personally) The dear folk at Auntie have decided, not only that BBC Three needs to be pink and "interactive", but also that a certain Ms. L. R. B. Allen should have her own high-profile chat show. Lily Allen and Friends, the website for which is at BBCi, and of which you may draw your own conclusions by viewing online on the excellent BBC iPlayer service here, features, strangely enough, Allen herself, and her "friends" (as you may or may not be aware, these are electronic "friends" from that everyday social abomination, MySpace), YouTube videos, celebrity guests, and inane questions from "friends" such as that foul, vulgar wart Chris Crocker.

As I say, I leave your judgment to you individually, but I am in the process of watching the first instalment. I'm unsure what to make of it — is it a new form of television, rooted in "new media"? Or a shocking example of declining standards in both society, and, more importantly at that fine bastion of quality the Beeb? The "newly-discovered" band is playing out, and the closest thing resembling a conclusion I have reached is that I have a largely unexpressable feeling of distaste for the whole affair. Whilst I'm at it, Rule Brittania!

God Save the Duke of Edinburgh!
D.S. B-Davies, Esq.

Tales from an Oxonian

Chelmsford, 6th January 2008

Once upon a time in Oxford

Dear Sirs,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Darren Poole, born in the fine market town of Chelmsford, student of that most glorious bastion of academia, the University of Oxford. I was most pleased to learn that I had been invited to partake in this venture started by Messrs B-Davies and Rutland, so that I might add my (oft controversial) opinion on things of profundity.

It came to pass in recent days that both myself and my esteemed friend Cpl G Rutland esq. completed our ascent of the Everest that is teendom, and have now begun our descent into adulthood, both having now turned to the ripe old age of 20 ans-de-vie.

The celebration for this festival of our aging began on this Thursday past, when Mr Rutland and I did journey to Her Britannic Majesty's glorious capital, to view the musical whimsy of Mr Eric Idle, Monty Python's SPAMALOT. It was a rather jovial affair, with much hilarity throughout, and thoroughly enjoyable I should say!

The next day saw the continuation of festivities for both myself and my dear friend, when a dozen of our dearest fellows did descend upon the Rutland residence, in the town of Witham, for assorted japery. This was an enjoyable evening, with much mirth based around the musical stylings of a certain Guitar Hero, and the viewing of comedy in its televised form.

And so, the celebrations of our twentieth voyage around the Sun complete, I shall leave you, dear reader, until I find some other cause to ramble.

Adieu
Mr D L Poole, Oxon

The Origin of Wit

Good Easter, 30 December 2007

So, gentle reader, it strikes me that my opportunity to welcome you all has presented itself — I bid you all the warmest of 'hullo's to this truly great publication, Res Profunditas – Things of Profundity. Of course, that title itself may or may not be entirely kosher, because, I must confess from the off, it is formulated from whimsical memories of A-level Latin, rather than, say, a dictionary and grammar aid (which remains in my souther residence) — I daresay I'll be forgiven forthwith, as we all by now realise — or I do, and you shall before too long of reading this fine binding of effusivities — that 'language is a strange thing, but she is my mistress' (Fry 2005).

As some of the readership will be aware, both of your esteemed hosts have maintained collexions of writings prior to this — Mr Rutland currently keeps his personal thoughts (to which the side of this page will refer you), and I did start my own, before I found that posts came too few and far between. Before our original departure from our alma mater in the town on the ford of the Chelmer, we, along with, at various times, Messrs Blore, Davis, Morris, Poole, Siggers, Thoung, and Watts, maintained our belov'd site of FirePretty, whose cadaver rests peacefully in the cyberæther — equally, there, my contributions were sparse, whereas Graham's were indomitable and legion. So, one sincerely hopes, this new endeavour will be the one to ensnare my attentions, as I venture forth with my dear cohort.

During this Christmas (or, to coin a new term, Jesusmas) holiday, as usual, that fine bastion of televisual entertainments, the British Broadcasting Corporation, has been fielding a great plurality of feature films for my viewing pleasure. These have included home-grown productions such as Oliver Twist (serialised, but a film nonetheless) and Ballet Shoes, and imported Yankee delicacies, such as Disney's Ice Princess and Disney-Pixar's Finding Nemo. I daresay I've forgotten one or two. However, one film I have particularly enjoyed this holiday was not broadcast, but, rather, called forth from the depths of the Sky Plus, whence it had languished with a blue K (for 'keep') beside it since BBC Four's Stephen Fry Night (which is quite a considerable languish-period, but not as lengthy as the Pullman-based film Ruby in the Smoke, starring Billie Piper, which I recorded on 27 December 2006, and have yet to watch...). I talk of Wilde, in which Fry himself portrays that glorious penman and renowned wit, Oscar Wilde Esq.

I must say, this film is the one I have enjoyed most so far — Fry gives a truly emotive, subtle, and faithful interpretation on a tragic man. Now, be warned, discerning reader, this film contains moments of undeniable pederasty and various other homosexual practises (not for the faint of heart), but I daresay these are forgiveable in light of the thoroughly gripping character study at the core of this work. Naturally, the film inclined me to study further this great man (on the subject of his works and wit, rather than his sordid relations), whom I had previously come across as a rally-point for gratuitous witticisms.

It now strikes me that our dear forbear was most dreadfully abused in this employment of his words — for, as I consider further, it strikes me with increasing force that this gratuitous use of his wit, or indeed any, is not contingent of wit's nature — surely gratuitous wit is simply humour. Perhaps it is witty humour, but, nonetheless, its nature is something in entertainment, in the provision of jollity, whereas, I have considered, wit doesn't have this. I believe that wit, whilst some will pronounce facetiousness its fondest users, is in fact an articulation of one's highest mental faculties — a surest signpost of some ultimate zone of mental effulgence. Thusly, this concept of gratuitous wit should be deemed a perversion, or even a contradiction in term — for, I ask you, far reader, to consider — can an utterance be deemed 'witty' if it is directed for entertainment, or some purpose outside of wit itself?

I myself am of the firm belief that 'wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure' (Rowling 2003), and that, although not a necessary quality, wit (although I am aware that Rowling and I use the term equivocally) is the measure of a great man. Speaking of whom...

God Save the Duke of Edinburgh!
D.S. B-Davies, Esq.