Great Uncle Christ

I've been reading about the Taiping Rebellion on Wikipedia. I wrote about this briefly before, but I am descended from a fanatical religious Chinese civil war leader called Hong Xiuquan. That's pretty cool, by anyone's standards.

Also, he only died in 1864, so he's probably only my great-great-great-great grandfather or something.

The Taiping Rebellion was a revolt against the Qing government of China. Unfortunately it was motivated by some odd beliefs - Hong believed he was Jesus's brother. I've seen pictures of Hong. And he doesn't look that much like I imagine Jesus. He does look pretty cool in this statue, though:



Is there any family resemblance?

From the wiki article: "With an estimated death toll of between 20 and 30 million due to warfare and resulting starvation, this civil war ranks as the third bloodiest conflict in history, behind the two world wars."

Well done, pappy. When my family want shit done, they get shit DONE.

Despite this, and his evident insanity, Hong is viewed as a bit of a hero by some in China - a kind of Che Guevara figure. He rebelled against the old authority on behalf of the people, I suppose. Maybe for Communists, the enemy of my enemy is my friend (even if the former is a complete nutcase).

He established the Heavenly Kingdom of Taiping, killed loads of people, and eventually died of poisoning.

Apart from the genocide, I was wondering if there are any qualities of his crusade that I agree with, or any principles that I (as the fruit of his murderous loins) might have inherited.

I'll give a run-down of the Heavenly Kingdom's policies, and see which I support. Before starting, I'd just like to say that I think it's great for them to have 'policies'. It makes them sound like the local council. I imagine it's just the Wikipedia writer's turn of phrase. I can't imagine that term was actually used at the time.

"My village is burning, my entire family dead-! God help us all!"
"Right, let's leave that on the back-burner for the time being. I just want to tell you about our policies."
"No, not my children..! Why must you massacre us...?!"
"Now rubbish collection will become bi-weekly, but we will provide a green box for recycling."
So, here we go, the policies of my ancestor:

1) The subject of study for the examinations for officials (formerly civil service exams) changed from the Confucian classics to the Bible.

I'm not crazy about this one. Confucianism sounds alright. The Bible, especially taught by Jesus's son, sounds like a bit of an odd subject for official exams. I'd probably include some basic literacy and numeracy, maybe a section on word-processing and Excel. More useful. So, he's 0/1 to start.

2) Private property ownership was abolished and all land was held and distributed by the state.

Well, you can see why the Commies like him. I don't know if I'm favour of going this far. But my politics are left of centre, so why not? 1/2

3) A solar calendar replaced the lunar calendar.


I fucking hate the lunar calender. 2/3

4) Foot binding was banned.

Eeegh. Check the link. I think I'm opposed to foot-binding too. I might even stop wearing socks, just in case. 3/4

5) The society was declared classless and the sexes were declared equal. It was the first Chinese regime ever to admit women to examinations.


Well, there you go. He was like a proto-feminist. And a proto-Martin Luther King. What a guy! I knew we weren't so different. Heroism is hereditary, after all! 4/5

6) The sexes were rigorously separated; there were separate army units consisting of women only; until 1855, not even married couples were allowed to live together or have sexual relations.

Huh.

Yeah, that's... that's something. Probably had peoples'... best interests... um, yeah. Well, it was the olden days. Everyone's allowed one or two mistakes. 4/6

7) The Qing-dictated queue hairstyle was abandoned in favor of wearing the hair long.


Yeah, I can dig that. Long hair's cool. Free, like the wind. 5/7

8) Other new laws were promulgated including the prohibition of opium, gambling, tobacco, alcohol, polygamy (including concubinage), slavery, and prostitution. These all carried draconian penalties.


Hmm. Polygamy and concubinage I'm against. I've always said that. If there's one thing people always say about me, it's "that Paul - he really hates polygamy." I also hate slavery, so that's pretty good.

On the other hand, prohibition of tobacco, alcohol, gambling and prostitution (yes, even that), strike me as counter-productive. It doesn't really work. I hope other drugs were allowed, because you'd need to be on something to follow Hong.

But, the outlawing of slavery is good enough to outweigh the other things. 6/8

So six out of the eight policies (that's three quarters for fraction fans) are ones I'd support. Maybe he is a good role model after all. I might run for public office with these as my campaign promises (foot binding is a big issue in the Westcountry).

Overall, I'm quite please to have an ancestor that's made a mark on the world, even if it's a big, charred, blood-stained mark. I don't think I'll follow his teachings, though.

Even though it would make Jesus my great-great-great-great uncle.

I've probably got other ancestors that counterbalance the insanity with boring workmanlike lives.

I hope in a couple of hundred years, one of my descendants will write a blog post (in 3D probably, with a robot butler, eating his lunch in pill-form) about me. He can look it up on the future version of Wikipedia (which will be just as unreliable).

He'll be all impressed.

"Wow! My great-great-great-grandfather was amazing! He solved all the world's problems, cured all disease, and was the greatest guitar-player ever!

If only he could have averted the resurgence of foot binding.

It really hurts."

Back to Box

On the way to work today, I saw a woman carrying a box. It was a plain brown cardboard box - a cube.

I like that. It seems that boxes are becoming commercialised in this day and age. A logoless box is a thing of the past. Amazon and FedEx are now box kings. You give the average 13-year-old a plain, brown, corrugated cardboard box, and their brains will shut down. They won't understand. They'll look for the logo. They'll stare at you and jabber incoherently. You'll have to put them out of their misery, won't you? Yes, you will. A single bullet. Right between the eyes.

(Probably best to use some kind of gun to propel the bullet. It's difficult to generate the sufficient fatal velocity by just throwing it. Even if you're really strong.)

Cubed boxes are also rare. Too old-fashioned. "Get with the program, teach!", someone might have said once, "cubes are for squares, mofo!". All packages are now cuboid, or in some cases dodecahedral.

[Incidentally, I'd be interested in building a Dodecatherdral. I suspect that the less progressive factions in the church might be opposed to such an unorthodox shape - reflecting an undesirable emphasis on multiplicity of meaning. There isn't more than one side to the story, as far as they're concerned.]

So, to see a plain, cubed cardboard box was a real treat. It also had the address written on it in Japanese symbols, which added to the appeal. I wonder what was inside?

I know what you're thinking: "here we go again - Paul's going to offer up a wacky list of weird possibilities *yawn*".

Well, you are wrong. Firstly because you can't be thinking '*yawn*'. A yawn is a physical action, not a mental one. It is a function of the mouth and lungs.

And for you to have the temerity - the sheer gall - to claim that a yawn can be enacted as some kind of inner-process of the mind, makes me question your ability to reason as a rational being. There are no mental yawns! The very idea is preposterous!

The second reason you are wrong is....

No, I'm sorry. I just can't get past the whole yawn thing.

Even if your thoughts contained similar sentiments to those that are commonly associated with the need to yawn (boredom, familiarity, etc), to make the jump to the anatomical process of yawning itself - it's insanity. What are you doing with your life?! Why are you making these outragious claims?!

Your upbringing?

Give me a break. Show me the parent to encourages this kind of mumbo-jumbo, and I'll show you vomit. My vomit. Right in your face, you son of a bitch! (Or daughter).

Whew. I'm sorry. I'll try and compose myself.

The second reason you're wrong, is I'm not going to offer up a list of wacky box-contents options. I'm not.

I don't know what was in there. To make guesses would be facetious at best.

All I will say, is I'm almost certain that it did NOT contain a human head. And I think everyone will agree with that.

It definitely (probably) wasn't a human head. A Japanese head. A message from the Yakuza. It wasn't that.

It wasn't.

It almost certainly wasn't.

...

I know what you're thinking:

"*shrug*"

Don't get me fucking started.

HimBOX

Sad news yesterday, with the death of comedy legend George Carlin at the age of 71.

I don't know why it's important to say the age of the deceased. I suppose it's so we can determine the right level of response. Here are the guidelines for how to react to someone's death based on age:

0-10: "Oh God! Why? Why, God, why? They were so young, and therefore better than adults! Children are worth 10 of every adult human, and I'll fight anyone who says different!"

10-20: "He was such a nice boy. No-one had anything bad to say about him. I mean, people had bad things to say while the kid was still alive. The deceased was actually a bit of a dick. But now he's dead, I realise he was a little angel. Even though he beat kids up and gobbed on the elderly. Our little prince."

20-50: "*shrug*"

50-70: "Dead too young. Feel sorry for his family. Still, he died the way he lived (with alcohol in his bloodstream and a prostitute sitting on his face)."

70-100: "He lived a long life. No regrets. Sad to see him go."

100-130: "For fuck's sake. We had the Guiness World records people coming round next week. Quick! Someone get some dark glasses and invisible string! Hasn't anyone seen Weekend at Bernie's?"

So you see, Carlin was over the limit. He lived a long life. No regrets. Sad to see him go.

It's a shame that there hasn't been much fuss about it. I suppose he wasn't that famous over here. Most people probably only know him as Rufus in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure (or as the foul-mouthed priest in Dogma).

He was one of the most influential stand-ups ever, though. He was great at analysing things in ridiculous detail, and looking at our use of language, and scrutinising beliefs. He also did jokes about farts, and so covered the whole sprectrum of comedy.

Most of all, though, he was really, really funny. He'll be missed.

Reading that back, it sounded a bit serious. I won't miss him that much. I mean, he never came to my house or anything. Come to think of it: fuck him.

***

On the subject of funny stuff, I strongly suggest that everyone goes over to the BBC iPlayer and watches Adam Buxton's MeeBOX.

It's a kind of video viral/sketch show and is very funny. You might also catch it on BBC Three in the middle of the night. Buxton is reliably funny. I particularly enjoyed Famous Guy's bad cockney accent:

Wrestligion

Unusually, I have done something almost interesting recently, which should give me something to write about. I've become accustomed to just relying on stupid ideas or incoherent theories about the world to fill this blog. Having an actual event to talk about is unfamiliar, and has made me feel slightly dizzy and nauseous.

On Saturday, Lucy and I took a trip to Coventry to see some Japanese professional wrestling.

On the surface, that sounds like an odd thing to do. In fact, the juxtapostition of a strange thing (wrestling) with an amusingly mundane placename (Coventry), sounds like something a bad comedian would come up with. Well, it really happened. Don't blame me, blame God. He's really the ultimate bad comedian.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?

Because I created it! It does what I say!

Knock knock.

Who's there!

Your creator, you heretical worm!"

God's gigs never end well. He always panics, and responds to hecklers with plagues and floods. The insurance for the comedy clubs are through the roof.

Anyway, we went to Coventry. On a bus. And stayed in a budget hotel. Lucy was thrilled. I wanted to go to Paris, and have champagne and a moonlight stroll down the Champs-Élysées.

But she said no. Let's go to Coventry. How many chances are we going to get to see Mitsuhara Misawa elbow someone in the face?

And I acquiesced.

I'm not anti-Coventry, but it's a bit of a shame that, on Pro Wrestling NOAH's first trip to the UK, they are faced with an overcast, grey city.

Still, they have a fantastic Cathedral, which I will come back to later.

I suppose the wrestling aspect of the trip requires a bit of explanation. Japanese pro-wrestling (or puroresu) is a bit different to American wrestling. There's less outside-the-ring shenanigans. It has traditionally been taken more seriously as a sport (even though there's a fair deal of Japanese-wackiness as well).

The weird thing about puroresu is the audience is different. In America the audience for wrestling is probably mainly teenage and college-aged males (and also plenty of kids). In the UK, there seems to be a higher proportion of kids at the live shows.

In Japan, there are adult professionals in the audience. Married couples. In suits. It's quite odd. Although puroresu isn't as popular as it used to be, it still feels like a unique cultural experience.

Pro Wrestling NOAH is one of the biggest puroresu companies in Japan. The reason they're called NOAH is the aforementioned Mitsuhara Misawa, left All Japan Pro Wrestling to form the company, taking with him some of the best wrestlers. So it was like taking two of every animal. I don't think breeding played much part in the venture. I also don't know know if the same kind of exploitation occurred as in the original Ark, but I suspect so.

But regardless of the makeup of domestic audiences, people who go to see NOAH on a Saturday night in Coventry are almost all geeks. We could see them around the city centre. You could just tell they were wrestling fans. Lots of bad beards and comic-book t-shirts. Mostly over or under-weight. Nasal laughs. The scum of the earth.

Of course, I am a wrestling geek too. I fit most of the profile. Being in the city for a big wrestling show was like attending a family reunion. A reunion where you realise all your relations are annoying idiots. And the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Actually, I'm exaggerating a little bit. The crowd was suprisingly diverse. We arrived at the Coventry Skydome (which sounds much more impressive than it is - more of a disused ice-rink), to find a huge queue of wrestling fans snaking its way around the arena. For a foreign wrestling company to draw this many people is quite an achievement. God bless the internet.

Inside there was a huge scrum at the merchandise stand. I waited for ages, but they didn't have anything I wanted. I bought a t-shirt, just because I didn't want to feel like I wasted my time. A woman got chatting to me in the queue. She was obviously there with her son (a teenage proto-nerd, I suppose). She was one of those loud, chatty mums that I would have been torturously embarrassed by as a teen, but I quite like now. She was complaining about the queue, making jokes, chatting to everyone. Her son was cringing.

I like people like her. Because I'm quite shy, I like to have the conversation monopolised. These people are aggressively sociable. I like that, because all I need to do is butt in with the occasional quip, and don't have to shoulder the burden of conversation.

As the wrestling started, I began to lost my faith in humanity. Nerd wrestling-fans (mainly fans of the generally good, US indy-promotion Ring of Honor [the lack of a 'u' makes me wish for re-colonisation]) are notorious for starting up irritating chants. Not only are they needlessly profane - such as the 'You fucked up!' chant after every mistake - they are never funny. They're usually started by three friends who chuckle at their own genius.

A little while into the event, a couple of people shouted annoying things. Other people responded with a 'Shut the fuck up!' chant that lasted far too long. Quite how they thought this was less annoying, I have no idea.

[While all this is going on, consider how much Lucy was enjoying her day]

Luckily, this idiocy was not too pervasive. In fact, my faith in humanity was restored ten-fold by the presence of a young boy sitting behind me. He clearly only knew WWE wrestling, and had never heard of any of the Japanese stars. But he was loving it. He hated the heels and got sucked in by the action. He oooh-ed and aaah-ed at all the right places.

You can't get much better than hearing a boy, in a broad Lancashire accent, exclaiming "That were brilliant!" after a cool move.

Anyway, I won't talk too much about the specific action, as no-one is that interested. But it was a great show, enjoyed by chatty mums, naive kids and sweaty nerds alike.

Even Lucy had some fun. Although this might just have been because of the presence of the young wrestler KENTA (the capitals are necessary), who she claimed was, and I quote, "the most handsome man I've ever seen". I assume she was excluding me from that list, to give KENTA and everyone else a chance.

Here he is on the right. You be the judge: me or KENTA?

The main event featured veteran wrestler (and one of my all-time favourites) Kenta Kobashi (no relation to KENTA), competing less than a year after returning to action after beating cancer. It was pretty cool. Here's a music video of him chopping people and dropping them on their heads:

All in all, a very fun night. My wrestling geek status was confirmed. But I'm not too bothered by that. Dysfunctional though they are, I'm proud to be part of the wrestling nerd family. It's like being proud of your older brother, even though he's in prison for beating up a nurse. Admirable.

So, from the church of the wrestling ring (with Kenta Kobashi as a purple-robed, chop-throwing deity) to the more established church of the Christian faith...

We went to look around Coventry Cathedral on Sunday. The Cathedral was heavily bombed during World War II, and is pretty much a ruin. It looked pretty cool in the sunshine, and made quite a powerful statement. There were lots of monuments dedicated to peace and reconciliation. There is a statue which has a twin in Hiroshima. There are monuments displaying Coventry's ties to another war-torn city: Dresden.

Although my views on religion are well documented, it's still so tragic that the idiocy of war can wipe out beautiful things. Mankind is constantly striving for something more meaningful, and is in turn reminded of its base nature.

Next to the ruin, a modern Cathedral has been built. I like that. It's an acceptance of things having to move on, while at the same time respecting and honouring the past.

Plus, it looks cool.

The big stained-glass window at the front looks like a comic-book splash page (which can only be a good thing). I like it when churches make religion seem cool and exciting, rather than staid and restrained. If I was in charge of the church, I'd have sound effects and squibs and blood capsules in my sermon. I'd swing in like Indiana Jones, and kick a demon in the nuts.

There's a cool statue of an angel and devil hanging on one of the outside walls (see the top of the page). It looked like something from a cool Manga cartoon or, even, something from a professional wrestling match.

And here's where religion and wrestling meet.

Almost no-one over the age of ten believes wrestling is real. It's clearly choreographed. And yet annoying non-wrestling fans seem to find this really hard to accept. They're keen to point out how fake it is. "He's not even hitting him!", "The ref is so stupid!" "Why wouldn't he be knocked out after that? This is ridiculous!"

We know. We know it's not real. We know it's implausible. It's like someone who watches a Bond film, and criticises it for lacking realism. They've missed the point completely.

That is where religion should go. That's the only way forward. If they don't, they'll be left looking as ridiculous as people clinging to the idea that The Undertaker can really shoot lightning out of his bumhole.

We need to get to a stage where people implicitly know religion is fake. They know the idea of a devil and burning bushes and parting the waters is hokum. They know that the ideas of God being benevolent and omnipotent are irreconcilable. But, they can say, you're missing the point.

Religion is something that we can enjoy and feel connected to. We can take it seriously at some times and mock it at others. We can feel affectionately towards it. It can draw people together. Religion is as fake as wrestling, but we still like it.

Because when all is said and done, despite the inconsistencies and the pompousness and the carny sleaziness of it all, despite all that, that bit when God hit Satan with a steel chair was pretty cool.

***

This whole thing paints the atheist as the annoying idiot, which I'm not all that happy with. I don't know if I believe any of what I wrote. It just seemed like an interesting idea.

On the way home our bus nearly got blown off the road in gale-force winds. I suppose God was angry with me. But I'd rather face a plague from him than a roaring elbow from Mitsuhara Misawa, that's for sure:

Productive Workers

I enjoy discovering a good name. Yesterday, I found an excellent one:

Ruby Hammer.

What a cool name. I wish I had a name like that. I'm going to make sure I give my children brilliant names. Like Excelsior. Or Maverick. Or Thundergun.

Thundergun Fung.

I like the sound of that.

My kids aren't going to get teased. No, sir.

I think Ruby Hammer is good as a man's name. Lucy then came up with the equally excellent Sapphire Spanner. They're a detective duo - and snappy dressers.

I sometimes wonder what would happen if someone intercepted our emails to each other at work. They'd think we were mental patients. I sent the following yesterday:


The name's Hammer. Ruby Hammer. That's right - Ruby. Don't ask.

My dad was a big fan of Jack Kennedy, if you must know.

And also, weirdly enough, Lee Harvey Oswald.

I think he just liked men with chutzpa, you know? Men who could get things done.

He liked Jack Ruby best of all.


Kennedy - Oswald - Ruby.

'The Chain of Patriots' he used to call 'em.

...

My dad was an idiot.

HOT WAXY NONSENSE!!! LOL!

I'm wondering how to increase the readership of my blog. I'd like more people to see this, but I'm not much of a self-promoter.

I'm also a little embarrassed to be advertising what is essentially my online diary. It's really the worst of both worlds: too self-indulgent to be of interest to anyone else, and lacking in any juicy personal details they might find enjoyable.

I suppose I could invent a series of debauched escapades, but I'd probably go to far, and describe myself having affairs with Princess Diana. And fathering the children of Princess Diana. And killing Princess Diana. And writing 'Candle in the Wind'. And fathering the children of Elton John. Too far-fetched.

I think my only option is to encourage Google searches.

I could go with something obvious, like: EMMA WATSON NUDE PICS HERE!!! (the exclamation marks are obligatory). Or CAMILLA PARKER-BOWLES NIPPLE SLIP !!!OMG. That should bring them in.

But I don't just want to attract one-time visitors (who would in any case be irritated at my deception). I need to attract people who will stick around and read what else I have to say.

Geeks and losers, essentially. Pretentious ones.

PSYLOCKE & SCULLY LESBIAN ROMP AT MST3K REVIVAL - NOAM CHOMSKY WATCHES!!!

Yes, that's something. But it assumes I'm only looking to attract perverts. When, in reality, I don't want only perverts, but some normal people too. Maybe about 50/50. A healthy mix.

What do people search for a lot?

Oxford Discount Dry-Cleaners? Largest land mammal? Big Mac ingredients?

Interestingly, Big Macs are made from the meat of the largest land mammal, and eating them will result in needing to dry-clean your clothes (although, I'm sure very few people dry-clean their pants).

I think, all things considered, this whole enterprise comes off as a bit desperate.

Sorry.

BUSH VS PICARD!

KEVIN SMITH GREEN LANTERN GREENLIT!

VIAGRA! GUNS! VIAGRA GUNS!

Very sorry.

Birds of a Feather

This morning was another tough one. I remember being outraged that I was being forced, against my will, to wake up early every day. It should be outlawed in the European Convention on Human Rights or something. It's cruel and unusual. Except it's not unusual. That's the problem. It's cruel and usual. Regular as clockwork. A cruel clock. Like a rape-alarm clock. Or an abusive grandfather-clock. Or a suicide watch. Or a miscarriage clock.

Who would have thought there would be so many cruel clocks?

I don't want to oversell the ordeal of waking up in the morning. That's the last thing I want. But, in many ways, my experience of waking up early is a bit like that of young evacuees during World War II. They were torn from the comfort of their regular lives, and thrust into an unfamiliar world. Their lives were turned upside down by faceless, destructive outside forces. I'm not saying what I'm going through is as bad as the blitz. I'm not saying that. I'm just saying... same ballpark.

***

I've been thinking about pigeons and doves. They are essentially the same bird. And yet pigeons are kicked, abused, and hated, whilst doves are venerated as some kind of image of purity and peace.

The dove on Noah's ark fetched an olive branch (or something). What were the pigeons doing? I'll tell you what they were doing: they were trapped in the bowels of the ship, forced to row. Sound familiar? Amistad and Ark both begin with an 'A'.

"But Noah", they pleaded, in indecipherable cooing, "whilst we're happy to help your crusade in any way we can, surely the task of rowing would be better performed by those creatures God created with the means to manipulate an oar. Our wings are designed for flight. Rowing is not one of our key talents. Why not seek a creature with opposable thumbs?"

And Noah, laughing with indignation, kicked the pigeons. "You filthy swines (no offense, pigs)! I suppose you would have me use you as some kind of flying sentry! That is the job of the dove. The pure, WHITE dove. Not for the likes of you!"

And so it began. The lily-white dove was treated as some bird-king. The pigeon was forced to live in filthy city-streets, eating whatever refuse it could find. And all just because of the colour of its skin (feathers).

"They carry disease!", I hear you cry! Do they. They carry disease. Just like homosexuals carry the AIDS virus?! Is that what you're saying? These dirty outsiders carry disease? You sicken me. Maybe we should be looking at the underlying cause of this disease. Here's a hint - unmerited poverty, caused by discrimination.

These poor birds have been discriminated against for too long. Don't act innocent. I'm sure you've kicked a few pigeons in your time. Perhaps you've even cheered and gloated at the sight of a mashed pigeon corpse on the side of the road. But you love your precious doves, don't you. Your precious white doves.

A change is needed in the world. I'm looking to start a pigeon civil rights movement. The pigeon has been maligned for too long. All I need now is a Martin Luther Wing figure to spearhead the initiative.

I have a dream that one day young pigeons and young doves will sit side by side, defecating on national monuments, and repulsing and arousing us in equal measure.

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, they're free at last!

(And, in parting, I hope you'll raise a glass to me for not using the obvious 'coup/coo' pun. That's willpower.)

Basket Case

I find acquiring knowledge to be desirable and intimidating in equal measure. I get a real thrill from discovering a new idea or theory, but the expanse of human knowledge is so vast that it can be quite depressing.

Even if nibbling on the sweet cake of enlightenment is a delicious way to spend your time, the fact that it makes only the tiniest of dents renders the whole thing seem pointless. I sometimes feel that way about reading. There's so much literature that I'm sure I should have read. Even if I restrict myself to the 'canon', I've still only read a small percentage of it. And, rather than spurring me on, it discourages me. If I can't read everything, I say to myself, I might as well not read anything. Which is stupid by anyone's standards.

I want to understand everything. I want to know the whole story. When I was about twelve, I had a few episodes of Red Dwarf on video. I was desperate to know the whole story, though. I wanted to know how the series started. I wanted to know how everything came about.

I don't think I can ever be satisfied.

(Of course, when I did find out everything about Red Dwarf, it wasn't as impressive as I'd hoped)

Even if I read every major work of literature, I'd still be frustrated because I didn't know about all the minor works that informed them. Even if I read all of literature, I'd want to know everything about music and film and art. Then there's science and human history, and the entirety of human experience. That's more than an afternoon's work.

I've always been frustrated by the seemingly arbitrary distinctions between academic subjects. At school we compartmentalise maths and science and history and politics, when they're just bullshit lines. Knowledge is like the colour spectrum. We distinctions we make between different colours aren't definitive. Even different cultures 'see' different colours, based on their own method of interpreting light.

I suppose it would be difficult to work out a curriculum without those distinctions, though. Every day would just be five sessions of Double Everything (with the occasional bit of PE).

What makes things worse is I've forgotten things I used to know. I've just been reading the introduction to a book by one of my teachers at Exeter University, Colin MacCabe. The intro references works I studied in his classes, but I can't remember anything about them. I'm sure I learned loads of stuff as an undergraduate that I've completely lost.

The whole knowledge acquisition thing is a farce. I'm shopping in an infinite supermarket (let's say Somerfield), and I need to buy everything, but my basket is only so big. And to make matters worse, there's a hole in it. So every time I manage to pack a new meagre item in, old stuff falls to the floor. If I squeeze in a tin of tuna (Camus) I lose some ham (F.R. Leavis). That must be what hell is like (only hotter and more pointy).

Reading this book is also a bit depressing because its content seems so important. I suppose everyone who is inquisitive and passionate about change seems to take themselves and their cause so seriously. And they must have a personal life away from academia and moral crusades, where they're quite happy and frivilous.

I want to know about stuff, and I want to improve the world, but the notion of being unable to just sit back and enjoy things makes me unhappy.

I feel the same way when seeing a comedian like Bill Hicks or Stewart Lee perform. Anyone who is investigative and sceptical probably acquires a certain cynicism. I'm cynical sometimes.

But I also really like the world. I enjoy being alive, and I'm quite excited to see where the course of human history will take us. And a writer or comedian's acerbic puncturing of our expectations and complacency just ends up making me feel... guilty.

I suppose everyone has to walk that line between scepticism and trust, revolution and satisfaction. And I'm sure even Colin MacCabe can put aside his desire for change and watch cartoons in his pants every now and then.

Hint: white and creamy

Getting up today was like prying caramel out of a waffle iron. Not easy.

And now it's the afternoon, and I'm all caffeined-up. Things are different now. The me of now doesn't understand the weariness of morning-Paul. My whole day sees me being wrenched from one itineration of myself to another.

(I don't know whether itineration is the right word, but I like how it sounds good written down).

Asleep-Paul is yanked into conscious-Paul, who then gets squeezed into clean-Paul, who is mashed into dressed-Paul. The constant changes are disorienting. I'm in a constant state of trans-dimensional jetlag.

So, coffee-addled-Paul is writing this now.

The trouble with the burst of mental spriteliness that comes with a cup of java is it makes me interested in things. Everything. I suddenly want to talk about Guantanamo Bay and the moon landing and the nature of milk.

But at work, being interested in things is actually a hindrance. Because it makes mundane things seem like a waste of time. I want to do something, argue with someone, run somewhere, but I can't. It would be a bit weird to run to the other end of the office. I'd get funny looks.

Writing is ok though, because typing is a satisfying activity. The staccato rhythm and fun clicking sounds reflect my own thought processes. Handwriting is smooth and fluid and continuous. That's what I'm like usually.

But on caffeine my thoughts are jumping around like some nutcase frog. A nutcase frog could type pretty well, and would enjoy the jumping. It might not have much to say, though. But then neither do I.

So I'm thinking too much, typing too much, and I'm curious about everything.

Curiosity killed the cat. But I don't think he was curious enough. If he was really curious, he would have pondered what abstract concepts were likely to kill him. He would have run several experiments. His curiosity would have led him to purchase sophisticated measuring equipment.

Then he would have gone though several possibilities:
1) Would jealousy kill the cat?
2) Would fastidiousness kill the cat?
3) Would a sense of superiority over mice, with a corresponding, deep-seated insecurity over its own relationship to dogs kill the cat?

Then, if he was curious enough, he would eventually find that curiosity can kill the cat. Then he'd be left with a conundrum: keep being curious (a quality which has defined him) and risk death, or cease being curious and live a long (albeit complacent) life. Faced with this possibility, he would be left with no option but to take his own life.

Lacking opposable thumbs, he might, in a last curious-hurrah, devise a method of operating a revolver using a complex pulley-mechanism. Or he might just jump out in front of a van.

I know what you're thinking, or at least what you're thinking if you're as curious as I am (I'd be interested to know): why did I assume the curious cat to be of the male gender?

That's an interesting question.

I think one answer is that in creating and manipulating the thoughts and actions of a being, I feel more comfortable using a male, as it doesn't carry the same connotations of exploitation that playing with a female character would do. I might, in a liberal, Guardian-reader way, feel subconsciously compelled to avoid exerting power over the opposite sex. This is of course undesirable, as I it emphasises the distance between, and otherness of, women (and female cats).

I think the real reason I chose the male gender is one much more disturbing. I think, perhaps bred by the traditional patriarchy of the English language, I begin to see the male as the 'default'. The male is assumed, unless stated otherwise. In the same way as 'waiter' and 'actor' are the default, unless specifically negated with 'waitress' or 'actress'.

Now, the use of the term 'actress' is now discouraged, which is a good thing. But it just goes to show that there is a long way to go in terms of challenging long-held gender assumptions. These assumptions are not necessarily explicit, and not deliberately exploitative, but are still very problematic. They are both a reflection and and a foundation of gender inequality.

It highlights the fact that deliberate 'reclaiming' of words (like actor), whilst seen by some as pedantic or counter-intuitive (or even as 'political correctness gone mad'), are important attempts to redress ancient injustice.

But, in the same way as affirmative action, this raises loads of problems about intensifying group distinctions. I could talk more about that, but I think I've been curious enough for one day. Maybe later I'll go hog-wild with a few expressos (expressoes?) and write a treatise about the nature of milk.

Plug

I'm sorry for not posting here for a while. My life has been taken up with work and Euro 2008.

The trouble with major football tournaments is they take over my life. Almost all my spare time is taken up with watching every possible game. I have nothing else. There's just enough time to shower and sleep. Apart from that, it's just work and football.

I could ignore some games. The boring ones. But in the back of my mind, I'm always worried I'll miss something incredible. I don't want to look back in fifty years' time knowing I could have watched the match which ended with a pixie invasion, or seen David Trezeguet spontaneously combust, but instead I was out at a garden centre.

I don't even have a garden!

***

Whenever I have no ideas, I can resort to sharing amusing emails. Lucy did it on her blog, so I shall reciprocate.

Obsoive:


From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 05 June 2008 10:27
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE: Coulrophobia

Hey Mr Fung,

What up? I'm having cake in the etym area at 11 - it seems they have not forgotten about me, which I'm glad about because a) cake and b) I'm in that desk overlooking the etym area again, and if they started having cake without me, I would be deplorably conspicuous! On the down-side a) scary talking and socialising, b) no, there's no b), scary talking and socialising is more than enough of a down-side for me. Still, I have, weighing all the options, made the right choice. Only fate can validate it but, I think, given my knowledge of myself and others, I've made the most reasonable decision I could be expected to. My neurotic stream-of-consciousness if like a darker version of Bridget Jones'. Still, she was beloved by millions. Maybe I can be some kind of cute national pet. The neurotic mascot of the English. I could read my monologues at football matches.

From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 05 June 2008 10:39
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Coulrophobia
You are an entertaining read. Like Mike Read. But entertaining.

My favourite bit was " which I'm glad about because a) cake" - the fact you didn't say "there will be cake" makes it that much funnier.

I was thinking of list variations you could have done. I quite like: 'a) scary talking and socialising, b): a)'. Does that make sense written down? It works in my head.

I haven't got much work to do - at least none that I want to do. I think it's going to be a long one.

As the actress said to the bishop.

Quite what the actress was doing talking to the bishop, one can only guess. Perhaps she was having a crisis of faith. Perhaps she was considering leaving a life in showbiz to become a nun. But surely she should be speaking to someone a bit further down the pecking order. Chain of command is important - Daniels taught us that. She should have spoken to a priest or someone first. Unless she was a really famous actress, like Audrey Hepburn. I bet old Heppo (as she was known) had the ear of many a bishop. The trouble with bishop-ear is it's all filled with wax and ignorance.

Someone should do a 'pecking order' sketch. Loads of woodpeckers in a row, pecking one by one, but one goes a bit early, and they all shake their heads disapprovingly.

I could write comedy that starts with one paragraph, and just spreads outward with different ideas for various words, phrases and scenarios. It would be like a spider diagram.

Strive

I haven't got a life-long dream, and I don't believe anyone who says they have.

Even if you're capable of having dreams in the first few years of your life, your priorities are going to be quite different.

No one-year-old dreams of swimming with dolphins, or meeting Lemmy, or parachuting into the grand canyon. They're concerned with the acquisition of milk, soft springy toys, and the occasional nappy change.

And once you reach adulthood, these things become either undesirable (milk) or easily attainable (nappy change).

There are no life-long dreams.

Even if we discount our childhood years, we can go in the other direction and say that we can't talk about life-long dreams until we're dead.

I might believe I have a life-long dream to french-kiss Bill Cosby. But the desire to do this might wane in later life (especially when Cosby dies). It's not life-long then, is it?

You may accuse me of semantics. But without people like me, where would we be? I think a change of terminology is required.

We no longer have life-long dreams. We have priority contingent aspirations.

So when, after years of yearning, you visit the pyramids, or slaughter a horse in McDonalds, you can say proudly, to everyone who listens, "I'm so happy! This has been a priority contingent aspiration of mine!"

I don't think I'd mind as much if I had any long term goals. I've never known exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I've had vague ideas (writer, vigilante, nut salesman), but never a single objective. I think it's hindered my progress in life, as I have no clear path.

But I think I have just discovered my calling. I'm going to keep my eyes on the prize, never stray, never falter. And at the end, even if I've accomplished nothing else, my gravestone will read:

Here lies Paul Fung

He french-kissed the corpse of Bill Cosby

***

(In the future, when I google my name, this entry might seem like a mistake)

Blocks

I've just been playing Tetris and listening to jazz. It's a winning combination. I started to think there should be a jazz version of Tetris. You would get points for the interesting and beautiful shapes you produced. Perhaps there could be the image of a hip-cat beatnik who would come on screen, saying approving things like "I can dig!" or "that's real crazy, daddio!".

But then I thought maybe Tetris is already like jazz. You have all these disparate shapes, falling without rhyme or reason, and it's up to you to flip them around and move them and transform them into a pleasing whole, by dropping them into a pleasing hole.

The completed rows and blocks are the resultant music. You also have bits where you mess up, and the blocks fall untidily (which is often fun). That's the discord that contrasts with the solid stuff. So Tetris = Russian jazz.

That's probably all stupid. But it got me further thinking about video games and art. Are video games art? I think they probably are. As I've said before, I don't think there are any clear cut distinctions between art and culture and any number of other human activities conducted for their own sake.

So football and philosophy and sculpture and Mario Kart are all on the same continuum.

Of course, video games require participation from the consumer. But all art does this (and I'm not just talking about modern experimental art exhibitions). The appreciation of art is always a kind of negotiation between the art and the consumer. It's never a straight process of sensory intake. We approach all pieces of art with a preconceived set of ideals and experiences that effect how we engage with art.

I've studied a bit of literary criticsm, and a bit of aesthetics, so I probably used to know more about this. But I think meaning is constructed through a dialogue between art and consumer (and the different schools of theory just put the emphasis on different parts of the process).

So video games are a literalisation (is that a word?) of that process. It's an explicit dialogue with the piece. Instead of some internal romancing of sensory perception and mental or emotional biases, we interact by pressing the 'A' button or the down arrow.

Video games are made to elicit certain responses from the gamer. But then again, so are most films. There's no doubt that video games can be beautiful, and can (although don't often) deal with deep ideas and concepts.

The reasons games aren't respected as art, are probably:
1) They're stigmatised as kids' toys, and are seen as simple at best and destructive at worst.
and
2) A bit like wrestling, the quality of a game, and the ability to appreciate it, is based around a knowledge and understanding of the conventions of the medium. You can't judge a game based on the same critera as other media (eg, you can't say how good a game's graphics are by applying traditional fine art criticism, you can't judge the writing on the same terms as a novel etc).

It's strange that such a prevalent cultural product is neglected by much of society. But then again, maybe it's not so surprising. Video games have only been around for thirty-odd years. I'm sure it took people a while to start taking film seriously. They had to get used to not running away from the on-screen train that appeared to be hurtling towards them.

When I'm a grown up, I'll do my bit to foster understanding of games as an artform. How will I do that, you ask?

Simple.

Jazz Tetris.

You dig, daddio?