For some time, the whole “Wil Anderson” issue has been troubling me.
What is it about him that sends me into such spasms of rage* that I have to leave the room every time he appears on the tellie (and it’s not just me. An Age reviewer summed up the Gruen Transfer as “the moment when your interest in the show overcomes your hatred of Wil Anderson”).
After much thinking**, I think I’ve hit on the answer.
Wil Anderson doesn’t exist.
He’s a construct that cannot exist in the real world, a hollow man*** with no substance, an empty suit they prop up in front of the cameras.
Have you ever heard Wil Anderson say anything that was thoughtful, intelligent or not written for him by a team of writers? Unplug him from the auto-cue or the life-support system kindly supplied by Aunty and he’d dissolve into a puddle of vile smelling goo.
He also whinged and bitched like a girl when the hateful Glasshouse was axed.
Sorry, Wil old mate, but the Glasshouse was old, stale and tired. It might have been producing a nice little earner for you and your otherwise unemployable pals but it was boring the rest of us rigid.
And calling Philip Ruddock a “right-wing pig-rooter” on the ABC is neither brave nor clever. You want respect? Call Bob Brown a “sanctimonious hippie” while doing your “edgy stage show”.
You’re the worst type of “activist”; a smug little bourgeois cunt who thinks making a cheap joke is actually doing something.
* He’s a nice enough bloke to meet in the flesh, though.
** Over a couple of beers in the backyard.
*** Another television programme I have no intention of watching.