Zoe Williams is one of the most talented columnists working for the Guardian, but you’d never believe it from the comments her columns attract. She writes everything with her tongue lodged so far in her cheek that you can’t see the links for the irony; but she seems to be read largely by humourless Daily Kos denizens. she dissembles and deconstructs everything, even as she defends it, in an almost driven attempt to turn complex problems into a blank canvas so we can mentally start again; yet the most literally-minded and thundering of the chatterati seem to be her primary audience.
This week’s sparkling, startling article begins, more or less:
Let’s leave for the time being whether or not the Tory party should refashion itself in the image of Polly Toynbee, and redirect our attention to the chorus of Polly-rage emitting from the rightwing press. It’s like watching a dog having an epileptic fit on a slidey floor – disturbing, but also, in a sick way, funny.
How can you not read someone who writes like that? A sort of Dave Spart/Charlie Brooker hybrid, carrying the torch of Linda-Smithery and adding her own dash of venom and wide-eyed faux-innocence?
Zoe, I love you. My wife loves you. Marry me. And her. As long as we can have a long-distance relationship, preferably conducted entirely in letter form.