The Cheese Grater Autumn 2016 7
An Address to the Reader My fellow students, The eagle-eyed among you may have spotted a smorgasbord of birds as you perused this term’s copy of your beloved The Cheese Grater. Before you call Mitch Brenner [hero of Alfred Hitchock’s 1963 hit film ‘The Birds’ – Classic Film Ed], or Rod [hero of James Nguyen’s 2010 hit film ‘Birdemic: Shock and Terror’ – Modern Classics Film Ed], lend me your ears for a brief appeal on behalf of our winged friend – the bird. Birds first came to this great country nearly 80 years ago, arriving on boats from across the war-torn world. They put down roots in the great harbour towns: Leeds, High Wycombe, Notting-
ham, and the late, great Swindon. Only a handful could speak – even fewer could speak English – but the citizens of this land took them under their wing and gave them jobs in the wartime industries: wrapping Wine Gums, ploughing the great marmalade fields, and massaging the nation’s tired, tired brows. Before long, bird communities sprang up all over Britain – at that point protected from the rest of Europe by a little thing called parliamentary sovereignty – and we came to treat the birds not as strangers, but as colleagues, friends – sometimes even lovers. However, today’s world is a harsher world. A colder world. A – dare I say it – a less bird-friendly world. Here at
The Cheese Grater we have long had an affinity with birds: one of our first columnists was a heron in a sweater, and Society Bitch is currently dating a robin. I myself have just returned from our annual Cheese Grater pilgrimage to the RSPB centre in Bedfordshire. So if we can raise even one iota of awareness of our lovely feathery fellows with this issue, I will consider myself a successful columnist. For too long has journalism concerned itself with the shocking, the salacious, the sultry. Let this be the beginning of a golden age: the age of the bird. Yours in ornithology, Joseph Starling.
Charlie Brooker: The Cheese Grater interviews the man behind the Black Mirror mask Wanna B. Vice Sprawled in the middle of my living room, a virtual reality headset eclipsing his vision while he furiously masturbates into a handful of ham, sits the prophet of our age: Charlton “Charlie” Brooker. Messiah of millenials, the medicine for our mid-noughties malaise. I gently remove his headset and begin my questions. Firstly Mr Brooker, it’s great to meet you. I’m a huge fan of your work “Fans? Did someone say fans? How did you know about the huge fans? The fans on the ceiling are part of the gameshow, they make people go in them and then they’re in the gameshow. Giant fan gameshow. Giant gameshow fan. Fan... giant.... game.” You’re too kind. I’ve got to ask: where do you get your ideas? “Sometimes they come in the spaceship, or they make them come up on my phone. I have to do what the phone says,
then I can see the future. Then I know what the phone people are saying and they’ll be happy for me.” Quite. How would you describe your creative process? “It’s a way into the future, it lets me open eyes and makes the swirls all be clear. The words, they just come out, into mouths, so many mouths. Mouths full of shit and piss and fuck, make them stop chattering, please.”
writer of our generation – if not of any generation - has transcended mere human understanding. His unique and singular insight into the human condition and his stunning camera angles have rendered him a being of pure art. I leave, burdened at once with both an ancient insight and a childlike wonder. Truly, we live in an age of Gods.
[Brooker starts to salivate energetically, and rocks backwards and forwards.] “Nyaaaaaaaar” You mentioned “nyaaaaar”. Is there any way you can elaborate on that? Brooker collapses and issues a deep, rumbling moan. I put my finger to his lips and softly silence him. There is no need for words. Even from this short interview the situation is fairly clear. The greatest screen-
The legend, Mr. Brooker.
