Showing posts with label Atheism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Atheism. Show all posts
Monday, 3 June 2013
Deep Cross
At the end of the Brazil-England match yesterday, the referee crossed himself Catholic-style, and Lucy disapproved.
I asked her what the problem was. I wondered if it had something to do with him compromising his neutrality. A referee should show no signs of bias. But what is an overt, public, religious gesture if not a statement of affiliation? Referees should be on the fence. Catholics aren't on the fence.
He's being partisan in a couple of ways. Firstly, in the case of yesterday's game, he was suggesting a preference for the more Catholic of the two countries. That's Brazil. They've even got a massive Jesus. The English, on the other hand, are heathens. Or - at best - mixed. Any Catholic worth his salt would be rooting for his fellow believers. He might have given Brazil a key penalty, as a way to placate their mutual God. He didn't, but he might have.
The second way that the referee was partisan was in favouring Catholicism over all of the other religions. Neutrality doesn't just apply to the teams playing on the day. It also applies to everything else. If he wanted to make a Catholic gesture, he should also have made the gestures of the other major religions: Islam (praying towards Mecca), Judaism (shrugging), Sikhism (thumbs up), Scientology (sofa-jumping), Paganism (blood sacrifice), and Hinduism (venerating cows).
If he can't do all of those things, he should be an atheist. All referees should be atheists. Rationality and objectivity are valuable attributes in an official. You don't want a referee ruling on a tricky handball decision based on superstition. You don't want a linesman refusing to adjudicate a borderline offside because it's the sabbath.
Of course, the requirements to make only evidence-based decisions would require the introduction of video replay technology. And some might argue that the scientific assessment of truth would make the game sterile, halting and lacking in unpredictability. Much like the ruthless logic of atheism makes human existence become lacking in nuance, passion, and female circumcision.
It's an interesting parallel. I suppose there's a middle ground. Goal line technology is going to be introduced, but not - or at least not yet - video replays for everything.
Similarly, atheism can play some role in regulating the idiocy of religion, but that doesn't mean we have to burn down all synagogues to make room for supercolliders.
Yes, it's an interesting parallel. Luckily, my argument has been well thought-through, and not at all meandering and contradictory. I could adapt this for the New Humanist, or FourFourTwo magazine. For money.
Also, referees should be impartial on non-religious matters, like the Coke-Pepsi debate, or whether people should tuck in their shirts. (They are allowed to have an opinion on whether Family Guy is better than The Simpsons however - we don't want them to be IDIOTS.)
This all stems from the referee's simple gesture.
But Lucy said no, it's not that. Maybe you should have let me finish before launching into that whole thing.
And I said sorry.
And she said should we be using quotation marks?
And I said no.
And she said it's not an issue of neutrality. It's one of authority.
By making the sign of the cross, the referee has tacitly implied that there is a higher power. In this case, it's some form of Christian deity. That is something a referee should never do.
If you want to officiate a football match, the buck stops with you. If a player senses that you're not entirely in control, they'll show dissent, they won't retreat the full ten yards at free kicks, and the game will descend into anarchy.
The referee - Wilmar Roldán is his name - has, by that one single gesture, abdicated responsibility. Why should we listen to him? Why should the players obey his commands? He's simply a middle man. If God is so powerful, why doesn't he referee the game? God's been around for ages. He must have refereed before. I bet he's got all the badges.
He's omnipresent too, which would mean that goal line technology would be unnecessary. You wouldn't need linesmen either. Though if you wanted to maintain the pleasant symmetry of the flags, you could enlist the Son and the Holy Ghost (the team of officials are usually all from the same country).
Roldán isn't even a priest, as far as I know.
The reasons discussed are probably why he saved his gesture for the end of the game. If he'd done it at the start - and he might have; I didn't check - all hell would have broken lose.
You'd never see an English referee doing anything so stupid. English referees are aware that, even after the final whistle, their conduct is under the microscope. To be fair, Graham Poll did once do the pretending-to-pull-off-your-own-thumb illusion. But on that occasion, both teams were composed of wizards.
Hand gestures may seem insignificant, but look how long this blog post has been.
I hope Wilmar Roldán never referees another professional football match.
After this rant, Lucy paused and took a drink of water. She was quite worked up.
Or it might have been me. It's difficult to remember these little details. In fact, it might not have been the sign of the cross that the referee did; he might have been signalling for someone to collect the corner flags.
But the point remains
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Let Me In!
Hello
Welcome to the latest edition of 'Headscissors', a web-log which takes a hilarious sideways look at modern life. Covering topics ranging from current events to literature, detouring through hilarious comedy sketches and existential ramblings, 'Headscissors' is a counter-culture phenomenon.
The author's dry wit and flair for language really sets 'Headscissors' apart from the pack, and is a reminder that genuine talent, perhaps even genius, can be found on the fringes of popular media.
If this is your first visit: congratulations. You have hundreds of fascinating and funny entries to read. You can browse them in the 'Blog Archive' section to the right of this entry.
Underneath this, you will also find a poll, asking 'What is your favourite liquid?' Please take the time to select your favourite from the options provided.
Remember, this blog is also an arena for discussion. So please feel free to enter your feedback in the 'Comments' section below each post.
Now sit back, relax and enjoy!
Regards
Paul "DiamondBadger" Fung
***
Hmm. That was strange. Hopefully that has repelled certain undesirables from reading below the three asterisks. Now it's just us: the cool kids.
***
An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 15
Books, books, books. Let's take a look(s, looks, looks).
Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
***
J.L. Mackie - The Miracle of Theism

I think this will be quite a serious entry, so might have to stick some knock-knock jokes in here somewhere.
YOU'RE ALL GOING TO HELL
No, you're not. Well, some of you might be. Though I imagine anyone with the good sense to read this blog has an unblemished moral character.
Also, I don't believe Hell exists. I am an atheist.
I've been struggling to describe the various stages of my religious feelings, but it has been slow going. So maybe I'll leave it for another time, when I'm ready to bore a large number of people. So this won't actually be serious.
Though that doesn't mean you don't get any knock-knock jokes!
Knock knock
Who's there?
Chuck
Chuck who?
Chuck Me My Shotgun, There Are Zombies Out Here
That's an interesting surname. What is it, Dutch?
No, seriously. There are zombies. They're getting closer.
If you're in serious trouble, why did you engage with the whole 'knock-knock' conceit to begin with?
[SOUNDS OF FLESH BEING EATEN]
Chuck? CHUCK?!
I'm finishing this entry on Good Friday, which makes me think I'm being irreverent. I assure you, the significance of the date is unrelated. But I need to get this finished.
This book was recommended reading on my Philosophy of Religion module at University. I was taught by a cool tutor who reminded me of Stephen Fry. It was my favourite subject.
This book outlines the various arguments people have put forward for the existence of God - ontological arguments, cosmological ones, arguments from design, etc - and goes through various interpretations and objections. Mackie comes down on the side of atheism, but isn't at all dismissive or patronising towards the theist.
Theists have to work really hard to support their arguments, engaging in all manner of linguistic gymnastics. Which makes it all very interesting.
I suppose it's not exactly easy, holiday reading, but it is very clearly explained and not as difficult as a lot of philosophy.
I should be disciplined and write about my own views, explain the arguments that interest me the most, and outline my conclusions.
But it's sunny outside.
I can be serious sometimes, but I need to be in the right frame of mind. And that frame is a long way away from where I am now. And the beginning of this post has been sitting in my 'Drafts' folder for a couple of days. I need to move on.
Knock knock
Who's there?
Locksmith.
Locksmith Who?
No, the locksmith. I'm the locksmith. Did you call for a locksmith?
Yes. Yes I did.
What seems to be the trouble?
I've been trapped in here for three weeks. The door won't open.
Right.
People keep coming to the door, but they won't help me. They think I'm making a joke.
Is that because you keep saying 'Locksmith Who?' and things like that?
Yeah, exactly.
Well, don't worry. I'll get this door open in no time.
Thank you, thank you.
That's OK.
I'm Kieran, by the way.
I'm Jorg.
Jorg Who?
Jorg Unnadie!
I'm sorry?
Jorg Unnadie. You're gonna die. I'm going to leave you here, because I'm also insulted by your jokey attitude.
Oh. I understand.
Sorry, Kieran. Nothing personal.
Welcome to the latest edition of 'Headscissors', a web-log which takes a hilarious sideways look at modern life. Covering topics ranging from current events to literature, detouring through hilarious comedy sketches and existential ramblings, 'Headscissors' is a counter-culture phenomenon.
The author's dry wit and flair for language really sets 'Headscissors' apart from the pack, and is a reminder that genuine talent, perhaps even genius, can be found on the fringes of popular media.
If this is your first visit: congratulations. You have hundreds of fascinating and funny entries to read. You can browse them in the 'Blog Archive' section to the right of this entry.
Underneath this, you will also find a poll, asking 'What is your favourite liquid?' Please take the time to select your favourite from the options provided.
Remember, this blog is also an arena for discussion. So please feel free to enter your feedback in the 'Comments' section below each post.
Now sit back, relax and enjoy!
Regards
Paul "DiamondBadger" Fung
***
Hmm. That was strange. Hopefully that has repelled certain undesirables from reading below the three asterisks. Now it's just us: the cool kids.
***
An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 15
Books, books, books. Let's take a look(s, looks, looks).
Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
***
J.L. Mackie - The Miracle of Theism

I think this will be quite a serious entry, so might have to stick some knock-knock jokes in here somewhere.
YOU'RE ALL GOING TO HELL
No, you're not. Well, some of you might be. Though I imagine anyone with the good sense to read this blog has an unblemished moral character.
Also, I don't believe Hell exists. I am an atheist.
I've been struggling to describe the various stages of my religious feelings, but it has been slow going. So maybe I'll leave it for another time, when I'm ready to bore a large number of people. So this won't actually be serious.
Though that doesn't mean you don't get any knock-knock jokes!
Knock knock
Who's there?
Chuck
Chuck who?
Chuck Me My Shotgun, There Are Zombies Out Here
That's an interesting surname. What is it, Dutch?
No, seriously. There are zombies. They're getting closer.
If you're in serious trouble, why did you engage with the whole 'knock-knock' conceit to begin with?
[SOUNDS OF FLESH BEING EATEN]
Chuck? CHUCK?!
I'm finishing this entry on Good Friday, which makes me think I'm being irreverent. I assure you, the significance of the date is unrelated. But I need to get this finished.
This book was recommended reading on my Philosophy of Religion module at University. I was taught by a cool tutor who reminded me of Stephen Fry. It was my favourite subject.
This book outlines the various arguments people have put forward for the existence of God - ontological arguments, cosmological ones, arguments from design, etc - and goes through various interpretations and objections. Mackie comes down on the side of atheism, but isn't at all dismissive or patronising towards the theist.
Theists have to work really hard to support their arguments, engaging in all manner of linguistic gymnastics. Which makes it all very interesting.
I suppose it's not exactly easy, holiday reading, but it is very clearly explained and not as difficult as a lot of philosophy.
I should be disciplined and write about my own views, explain the arguments that interest me the most, and outline my conclusions.
But it's sunny outside.
I can be serious sometimes, but I need to be in the right frame of mind. And that frame is a long way away from where I am now. And the beginning of this post has been sitting in my 'Drafts' folder for a couple of days. I need to move on.
Knock knock
Who's there?
Locksmith.
Locksmith Who?
No, the locksmith. I'm the locksmith. Did you call for a locksmith?
Yes. Yes I did.
What seems to be the trouble?
I've been trapped in here for three weeks. The door won't open.
Right.
People keep coming to the door, but they won't help me. They think I'm making a joke.
Is that because you keep saying 'Locksmith Who?' and things like that?
Yeah, exactly.
Well, don't worry. I'll get this door open in no time.
Thank you, thank you.
That's OK.
I'm Kieran, by the way.
I'm Jorg.
Jorg Who?
Jorg Unnadie!
I'm sorry?
Jorg Unnadie. You're gonna die. I'm going to leave you here, because I'm also insulted by your jokey attitude.
Oh. I understand.
Sorry, Kieran. Nothing personal.
Monday, 10 March 2008
In Defence of Scientology
I've had two moments of personal connection to the media today.
One was whilst watching Lewis tonight on ITV and seeing the Mansfield College chapel made up as a sleazy night club called Kommunion. I wish it really was a nightclub. That would be good. All churches should become sleazy places at night (brothels, crack dens, killing floors, etc) so that when it's time to worship, there's some real sin to expunge. It's like a cleaner having to sweep the floor: it's much more satisfying when it's filthy. It seems like you're getting stuff done.
Of course, I've never been a cleaner. But it seems like that when I sweep up in our flat. I'm sure it would lose its therapeutic qualities if I had to do it for a career.
I like watching Lewis. It's usually quite fun, and there's the obvious feel-good element of recognising places and saying "we've been there!". It's obviously not as good as Inspector Morse, as it lacks the right level of exasperation, but Laurence Fox's character is good.
Today's episode was a bit of a mess, though. Lots of crazy soap-style expositionary dialogue, and some incredible gay stereotypes. Plus, I solved the mystery pretty early, whereas I'm usually really dense about these things, and have only just learned everyone's name by the time the murderer is revealed.
The second media mention was Adam and Joe reading out my email on their radio show (Saturday mornings on 6Music)! They read my name and everything! I just wish I'd had something more interesting to say... I was wondering if that's enough to get me my own radio show. I reckon it is.
***
I'm not really going to defend Scientology (is it appeasment to capitalise it? - probably not, I'm sure you even capitalise cults). It's clearly insane.
But the trouble with people scoffing all the time when it's mentioned is that it makes this 'religion' sound crazy and out there, and separates it from the other religions. The established ones. The sensible ones. The ones with the fire and brimstone and talking snakes and flood myths and lightning bolt vengeance.
Scientology is ridiculous, but the only real difference between it and the proper religions is it hasn't been around as long. Maybe in a couple of hundred years, it will have respected institutions, and people will picket the courts if anyone criticises L. Ron Hubbard.
What's scary is that two thousand years, there was probably loads of people writing blogs on stone tablets, rolling their eyes when everyone talked about Jesus rising from the dead.
We'd better be careful.
Anyway, I suppose my point is you'd better not spend all your ridicule on one source, while other, equally deserving, sources are left unscorned.
One was whilst watching Lewis tonight on ITV and seeing the Mansfield College chapel made up as a sleazy night club called Kommunion. I wish it really was a nightclub. That would be good. All churches should become sleazy places at night (brothels, crack dens, killing floors, etc) so that when it's time to worship, there's some real sin to expunge. It's like a cleaner having to sweep the floor: it's much more satisfying when it's filthy. It seems like you're getting stuff done.
Of course, I've never been a cleaner. But it seems like that when I sweep up in our flat. I'm sure it would lose its therapeutic qualities if I had to do it for a career.
I like watching Lewis. It's usually quite fun, and there's the obvious feel-good element of recognising places and saying "we've been there!". It's obviously not as good as Inspector Morse, as it lacks the right level of exasperation, but Laurence Fox's character is good.
Today's episode was a bit of a mess, though. Lots of crazy soap-style expositionary dialogue, and some incredible gay stereotypes. Plus, I solved the mystery pretty early, whereas I'm usually really dense about these things, and have only just learned everyone's name by the time the murderer is revealed.
The second media mention was Adam and Joe reading out my email on their radio show (Saturday mornings on 6Music)! They read my name and everything! I just wish I'd had something more interesting to say... I was wondering if that's enough to get me my own radio show. I reckon it is.
***
I'm not really going to defend Scientology (is it appeasment to capitalise it? - probably not, I'm sure you even capitalise cults). It's clearly insane.
But the trouble with people scoffing all the time when it's mentioned is that it makes this 'religion' sound crazy and out there, and separates it from the other religions. The established ones. The sensible ones. The ones with the fire and brimstone and talking snakes and flood myths and lightning bolt vengeance.
Scientology is ridiculous, but the only real difference between it and the proper religions is it hasn't been around as long. Maybe in a couple of hundred years, it will have respected institutions, and people will picket the courts if anyone criticises L. Ron Hubbard.
What's scary is that two thousand years, there was probably loads of people writing blogs on stone tablets, rolling their eyes when everyone talked about Jesus rising from the dead.
We'd better be careful.
Anyway, I suppose my point is you'd better not spend all your ridicule on one source, while other, equally deserving, sources are left unscorned.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Confession
So, I mentioned the anti-revelation in the last post, but I've decided this is too ugly an expression. Maybe I should go with antipiphany.
Anyway, this refers to an experience I had before leaving Devon. Lucy's parents were down and by way of providing activities, we took them to a concert by the Sidmouth Gospel Choir. As you might imagine, I wasn't thrilled with the idea. My feelings on religion have been well documented. But I went along, as I was told they wouldn't be performing in the church itself, but in the church hall.
Plus, it's only a gospel choir, not a service or anything. So I thought I'd be fine. I was well wrong.
When we arrived, we found out it was going to be in the church after all. "Shit," I thought. And the music was all very religious. I know, I know, I should have realised that by seeing the words 'gospel' and 'choir', but I naively thought it would be more cool, like going to see an Al Green concert or something. I was well wrong again.
As soon as the performance started, I knew that I was in trouble.
The reason is: I have an irrational reaction to being in church. It is almost like having a panic attack. It's happened for ages, and I remember having to leave a service when I was a kid, because it was stressing me out. And whenever I've been conned into attending a carol service or something, I always feel the same.
I start feeling agitated. Powerful waves of panic wash over me. I begin to feel physically nauseus. I can't sit still. I keep longing to leave. What's more, hatred overcomes me. I hate everything that is being said, I wish I could shout out in condemnation of all the bullshit, I feel anger at being forced to listen to this nonsense, and at the same time shame at being an imposter; a fake; a pretender, or (God forbid) a hypocrite.
The important thing is that this isn't just an atheist's distaste for religion. I feel that all the time. It's not just annoyance or self-righteous indignation. It's a reaction on a far deeper level; in my very bones. I'm not reacting out of a thoughtful rejection of organised religion (although this probably doesn't help), I'm reacting as though I want to physically expel the poisons of faith.
I start to think things that I would never ordinarily think. Usually, even though I dislike religion, I still value the tremendous art and architecture that has sprung up around the church. I can appreciate the beauty of paintings and music that are explicitly religious. But when I'm in church, and overcome by this feeling, I want it all gone. I want the churches demolishes, the stained-glass smashed, the paintings burned. I look at the hymn books and want to tear them up. I'd open my veins if it meant drowning the congegation and staining irreprably the oppressive evil of the church.
This is clearly stupid (and a bit melodramtic). But that's how I honestly feel at those times. This is why I think of it as an antipiphany. It's atheism working at a far more spiritual level. And I don't think that makes any sense.
The whole thing wasn't helped by the mostly shit music of the gospel choir and the young woman leading the group saying "We're not all Christians. Some of us believe what we're singing about and others don't. I suggest you DO believe it. It will change your life!"
It will change your life. Yes, it probably will. But so will becoming a heroin addict. And I'd rather hang out with Lou Reed than Cliff Richard.
I got through it in the end, but it dragged like a motherfucker. I don't think I'll be conned into going again.
I think this experience might relate to a dream I wrote about here before. Maybe my distress can be traced back to some childhood trauma. Maybe I was bummed by a priest or got a crucifix stuck in my eye or something.
Although this makes me sound like a mental patient, it only affects me when I'm in church, which is about once every five years. So I think I'll be ok. The rest of the time I'm relatively normal. I did once hunt down Jim Caviezel, stick a false beard on him, and force him to walk across a glass of water at gunpoint. But we all go a bit funny at Christmas.
Damn you God for making me this way! And you don't even exist, which just adds salt to the wounds! Your holy non-existent salt in my heretical brain wounds!
Anyway, this refers to an experience I had before leaving Devon. Lucy's parents were down and by way of providing activities, we took them to a concert by the Sidmouth Gospel Choir. As you might imagine, I wasn't thrilled with the idea. My feelings on religion have been well documented. But I went along, as I was told they wouldn't be performing in the church itself, but in the church hall.
Plus, it's only a gospel choir, not a service or anything. So I thought I'd be fine. I was well wrong.
When we arrived, we found out it was going to be in the church after all. "Shit," I thought. And the music was all very religious. I know, I know, I should have realised that by seeing the words 'gospel' and 'choir', but I naively thought it would be more cool, like going to see an Al Green concert or something. I was well wrong again.
As soon as the performance started, I knew that I was in trouble.
The reason is: I have an irrational reaction to being in church. It is almost like having a panic attack. It's happened for ages, and I remember having to leave a service when I was a kid, because it was stressing me out. And whenever I've been conned into attending a carol service or something, I always feel the same.
I start feeling agitated. Powerful waves of panic wash over me. I begin to feel physically nauseus. I can't sit still. I keep longing to leave. What's more, hatred overcomes me. I hate everything that is being said, I wish I could shout out in condemnation of all the bullshit, I feel anger at being forced to listen to this nonsense, and at the same time shame at being an imposter; a fake; a pretender, or (God forbid) a hypocrite.
The important thing is that this isn't just an atheist's distaste for religion. I feel that all the time. It's not just annoyance or self-righteous indignation. It's a reaction on a far deeper level; in my very bones. I'm not reacting out of a thoughtful rejection of organised religion (although this probably doesn't help), I'm reacting as though I want to physically expel the poisons of faith.
I start to think things that I would never ordinarily think. Usually, even though I dislike religion, I still value the tremendous art and architecture that has sprung up around the church. I can appreciate the beauty of paintings and music that are explicitly religious. But when I'm in church, and overcome by this feeling, I want it all gone. I want the churches demolishes, the stained-glass smashed, the paintings burned. I look at the hymn books and want to tear them up. I'd open my veins if it meant drowning the congegation and staining irreprably the oppressive evil of the church.
This is clearly stupid (and a bit melodramtic). But that's how I honestly feel at those times. This is why I think of it as an antipiphany. It's atheism working at a far more spiritual level. And I don't think that makes any sense.
The whole thing wasn't helped by the mostly shit music of the gospel choir and the young woman leading the group saying "We're not all Christians. Some of us believe what we're singing about and others don't. I suggest you DO believe it. It will change your life!"
It will change your life. Yes, it probably will. But so will becoming a heroin addict. And I'd rather hang out with Lou Reed than Cliff Richard.
I got through it in the end, but it dragged like a motherfucker. I don't think I'll be conned into going again.
I think this experience might relate to a dream I wrote about here before. Maybe my distress can be traced back to some childhood trauma. Maybe I was bummed by a priest or got a crucifix stuck in my eye or something.
Although this makes me sound like a mental patient, it only affects me when I'm in church, which is about once every five years. So I think I'll be ok. The rest of the time I'm relatively normal. I did once hunt down Jim Caviezel, stick a false beard on him, and force him to walk across a glass of water at gunpoint. But we all go a bit funny at Christmas.
Damn you God for making me this way! And you don't even exist, which just adds salt to the wounds! Your holy non-existent salt in my heretical brain wounds!
Friday, 7 December 2007
He came unto me
I had a very powerful dream last night.
Generally, I find hearing about other people's dreams really tedious. Mark Lamarr did a good stand-up bit about the kind of people that think the thoughts in their heads are of any interest to anyone else. ("And they always say the same thing: 'But this one's a really good one!'")
But, as writing a blog is essentially an exercise in self-indulgent masturbation (as opposed to heroic masturbation for the greater good), I thought I'd write about it.
I think it came as a result of reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and bombarding myself with religious ideas. I've spoken about religion quite a bit here recently.
Anyway, the dream was long and convoluted and distressing, and at the end of various meaningless bullshit, I found myself in a church.
I'd accidentally wondered in there, away from a talk on wrestling in another room: indy wrestler Chris Hero giving a talk about blading (cutting yourself open to draw blood). If you know Chris Hero (and I'm 100% sure you don't) the idea of him giving a presentation, perhaps with accompanying PowerPoint slides, is a good one.
So, I was in the church, and it seemed to be a Catholic ceremony (lots of Latin) and loads of people from my school were there. I was getting distressed by the service, and they were all bored by it and started giving the priest the 'slow clap' of contempt. I felt, even though I didn't want to be there, that we should be a bit more polite.
Anyway, the crux of the dream was that after all my nightmare tribulations, I tried to leave the church, but was overcome by a fit of despair and began to weep. I was right at the front of the church, overcome by sobbing.
Although I was weeping because of the situation (or because it was a stupid dream) I became terrified that the priest (who was Dax from Deep Space Nine, but that's not important) would think that I was having some kind of spiritual epiphany or revelation. Not only that, but I was afraid I WAS having something like that. I looked into the face of the statue of Jesus and was really afraid. Luckily he didn't wink or spit or anything.
So then I woke up.
Possible interpretations:
- a simultaneous respect and disdain for organised religion
- a fear of the existence of God
- a determination to hold fast in my atheism
- Terry Farrell is really God
If I was religious, I'd probably think the vividness (vividity?) of the dream meant it was a message from God. He sometimes speaks to people in dreams, apparently. Of course Chris Hero also spoke to me in a dream, so I don't know what to believe.
I've been having loads of long and densely symbolic dreams lately (dont worry, I won't write about them anymore). I don't know why. Maybe I should stop swallowing an Edam whole before going to bed.
And a whole Eagle at lunch.
***
To appease the Almighty, I'll engage in some Christmas activity.
Paul's Christmas Wish List:
A Nintendo Wii (I know you can't find them anywhere, but I'm dying to play Super Mario Galaxy. Maybe I'll steal one...)
World Peace
An end to famine
Socks
Pyramint
A secret underground cave full of cushions and high-end electronic equipment
A tiger cub
For Santa to NOT fulfil this list (Paradox! Paradox!)
A really tall hat with a snake inside
I'm rubbing my hands with anticipation.
Well, I say hands...
Generally, I find hearing about other people's dreams really tedious. Mark Lamarr did a good stand-up bit about the kind of people that think the thoughts in their heads are of any interest to anyone else. ("And they always say the same thing: 'But this one's a really good one!'")
But, as writing a blog is essentially an exercise in self-indulgent masturbation (as opposed to heroic masturbation for the greater good), I thought I'd write about it.
I think it came as a result of reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and bombarding myself with religious ideas. I've spoken about religion quite a bit here recently.
Anyway, the dream was long and convoluted and distressing, and at the end of various meaningless bullshit, I found myself in a church.
I'd accidentally wondered in there, away from a talk on wrestling in another room: indy wrestler Chris Hero giving a talk about blading (cutting yourself open to draw blood). If you know Chris Hero (and I'm 100% sure you don't) the idea of him giving a presentation, perhaps with accompanying PowerPoint slides, is a good one.
So, I was in the church, and it seemed to be a Catholic ceremony (lots of Latin) and loads of people from my school were there. I was getting distressed by the service, and they were all bored by it and started giving the priest the 'slow clap' of contempt. I felt, even though I didn't want to be there, that we should be a bit more polite.
Anyway, the crux of the dream was that after all my nightmare tribulations, I tried to leave the church, but was overcome by a fit of despair and began to weep. I was right at the front of the church, overcome by sobbing.
Although I was weeping because of the situation (or because it was a stupid dream) I became terrified that the priest (who was Dax from Deep Space Nine, but that's not important) would think that I was having some kind of spiritual epiphany or revelation. Not only that, but I was afraid I WAS having something like that. I looked into the face of the statue of Jesus and was really afraid. Luckily he didn't wink or spit or anything.
So then I woke up.
Possible interpretations:
- a simultaneous respect and disdain for organised religion
- a fear of the existence of God
- a determination to hold fast in my atheism
- Terry Farrell is really God
If I was religious, I'd probably think the vividness (vividity?) of the dream meant it was a message from God. He sometimes speaks to people in dreams, apparently. Of course Chris Hero also spoke to me in a dream, so I don't know what to believe.
I've been having loads of long and densely symbolic dreams lately (dont worry, I won't write about them anymore). I don't know why. Maybe I should stop swallowing an Edam whole before going to bed.
And a whole Eagle at lunch.
***
To appease the Almighty, I'll engage in some Christmas activity.
Paul's Christmas Wish List:
A Nintendo Wii (I know you can't find them anywhere, but I'm dying to play Super Mario Galaxy. Maybe I'll steal one...)
World Peace
An end to famine
Socks
Pyramint
A secret underground cave full of cushions and high-end electronic equipment
A tiger cub
For Santa to NOT fulfil this list (Paradox! Paradox!)
A really tall hat with a snake inside
I'm rubbing my hands with anticipation.
Well, I say hands...
Friday, 30 November 2007
Hello
This morning on the bus, I was reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (aren't I special?) and there was a long description of what Hell is like.
Being on the lower deck of a bus carrying loads of school children, I thought Hell was just 'upstairs'. The bottom deck is just purgatory; teaching me a lesson for not having a car.
Anyway, the long explanation of the minutiae of the fire and brimstone was making me a little bit angry. Very angry, in fact.
When I first questioned religion, there was doubt and confusion, then I began to feel more strongly opposed to the idea of God and the Bible. At first, atheism is a pretty good stage to reach. You feel pleased to be free from falsehood, like taking off a heavy, ugly hat. But this smug satisfaction is soon replaced by anger: anger that the human race has wasted SO MUCH TIME on this bullshit. Think of what we might have accomplished it, instead of focussing on crazy mythology as fact, we'd been intellectually unencumbered and open minded.
Of course, this idea of a free, inquisitive world is not only hypothetical, it's most likely false. I'm sure our ideas would have been replaced by some other bias or superstition. In fact religion and faith are responsible for some incredible works of art, architecture and literature. So maybe I'm talking nonsense.
But reading about the stories told to people to control them still makes me angry. I hate the idea of people being driven by fear and subservience. Not wanting to go to Hell seems like a pretty shit reason to be good.
Anyway, the ideas I was reading were explicitly Catholic and old-fashioned (if that's not a tautology). Principles of New Testament forgiveness and charity are pretty good, I guess. I just wish they weren't wrapped up in all this ridiculous stuff about demons and dark fire and writhing.
To be fair, given that I hate commuting, I could have been reading anything at the time, and still would have been angry.
"Thomas the Tank Engine puffed into the station? Fuck Thomas!"
***
Following on from my confusion about whether to spell neck with a k (kneck), I went on to discuss the other words that begin 'kn'. It was a slow work day. Know, knot, knit, knife, knickers, knuckles, knoll, knave, knackered, etc.
I then thought of Evel Knievel.
I hope, perhaps even more than the whole John Nettles thing, I hope, I hope, I hope, that someone, somewhere has pronounced his name 'Evel Nievel'.
The 'K' adds an element of danger that isn't really there for 'Evel Nievel'. Without it, he sounds like a cartoon rodent or something. Kids all over the world would be put off following his death-defying antics if he was Evel Nievel.
Perhaps more uncool-named people should add a 'k' to improve their reputation. Phil Kollins, for example. Or Kliff Richard.
And I'd certainly tune in at 5:35 every weekday, if I could see the cool, cutting edge Aussie soap Kneighbours.
And I expect you would too.
Being on the lower deck of a bus carrying loads of school children, I thought Hell was just 'upstairs'. The bottom deck is just purgatory; teaching me a lesson for not having a car.
Anyway, the long explanation of the minutiae of the fire and brimstone was making me a little bit angry. Very angry, in fact.
When I first questioned religion, there was doubt and confusion, then I began to feel more strongly opposed to the idea of God and the Bible. At first, atheism is a pretty good stage to reach. You feel pleased to be free from falsehood, like taking off a heavy, ugly hat. But this smug satisfaction is soon replaced by anger: anger that the human race has wasted SO MUCH TIME on this bullshit. Think of what we might have accomplished it, instead of focussing on crazy mythology as fact, we'd been intellectually unencumbered and open minded.
Of course, this idea of a free, inquisitive world is not only hypothetical, it's most likely false. I'm sure our ideas would have been replaced by some other bias or superstition. In fact religion and faith are responsible for some incredible works of art, architecture and literature. So maybe I'm talking nonsense.
But reading about the stories told to people to control them still makes me angry. I hate the idea of people being driven by fear and subservience. Not wanting to go to Hell seems like a pretty shit reason to be good.
Anyway, the ideas I was reading were explicitly Catholic and old-fashioned (if that's not a tautology). Principles of New Testament forgiveness and charity are pretty good, I guess. I just wish they weren't wrapped up in all this ridiculous stuff about demons and dark fire and writhing.
To be fair, given that I hate commuting, I could have been reading anything at the time, and still would have been angry.
"Thomas the Tank Engine puffed into the station? Fuck Thomas!"
***
Following on from my confusion about whether to spell neck with a k (kneck), I went on to discuss the other words that begin 'kn'. It was a slow work day. Know, knot, knit, knife, knickers, knuckles, knoll, knave, knackered, etc.
I then thought of Evel Knievel.
I hope, perhaps even more than the whole John Nettles thing, I hope, I hope, I hope, that someone, somewhere has pronounced his name 'Evel Nievel'.
The 'K' adds an element of danger that isn't really there for 'Evel Nievel'. Without it, he sounds like a cartoon rodent or something. Kids all over the world would be put off following his death-defying antics if he was Evel Nievel.
Perhaps more uncool-named people should add a 'k' to improve their reputation. Phil Kollins, for example. Or Kliff Richard.
And I'd certainly tune in at 5:35 every weekday, if I could see the cool, cutting edge Aussie soap Kneighbours.
And I expect you would too.
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
God and TV Cookery
Howdy y'all!
I've pondered wrtiting about religion here before, but I usually chicken out. No-one wants to read a poorly planned essay on the subject anyway. But I will give a couple of reasons why I'm an atheist, as I feel they should be vocalised (or textualised). These ideas don't logically imply the non-existence of God, but I find them incredibly persuasive. The fact that they are grounded in intuition rather than reasoned argument meant that I could never put them in any academic essay, but as blogs are about as reliable as the twitchy man with blood on his hands and animal hair in his mouth telling you he hasn't seen your dog, I think it's safe to voice them here.
1) There aren't any convincing reasons for me to believe in God, but there are so many good reasons why the human race might have invented Him. That doesn't mean they're right, but does tip my instinctive scales. God as a way of explaining the unexplainable, as a means of social control, as a compensation for the facts of death, as a moral arbiter, as a good luck charm, as an agrandising element for the human race, as punisher (not him), as sanctuary.
Of course the human race would invent a God. I'd be surprised if they didn't. But the need for Him doesn't entail His existence. I can't get past the fact that I have so many good reasons for the existence the concept of God, but no reasons for the existence of the being Himself.
(Sorry for all this 'him' talk; but I might as well combine misogynist and theist delusions here)
2) When studying my philosophy course, and reading the various reasons for God's existence, it struck me that theist's have to work so hard to convinve people. The ontological argument seems like such an elaborate, round-the-houses piece of gymnastic reasoning. Surely if God existed, he'd make things a bit easier for His followers.
Sorry about that, but I think that has bought me a few entries of crude jokes and TV talk.
***
Why are TV chefs always so weird? They're always either incredibly annoying or seem like they come from a different planet.
Anthony Worrall Thompson is like some seedy, sleazy, dead-beat dad. Charlie Brooker is right when he says he has 'a voice so nasal he sounds like a bee playing a kazoo in an envelope'.
Nigella is not of this world. I think she was invented by a team of pipe-smoking inventors in the 1950s: glazed, euphoric eyes; breasts like zeppelins; a well-spoken and indulgent baking engine. But she rebelled. Probably killed one of her creators (drowned him in butterscotch sauce), and they unplugged her and buried her underground like Burgos's Human Torch. In the nineties, she escaped somehow, perhaps excavated by desperate TV executives, and is now trying to live a normal life, even though everyone can tell she could kill a rhino with her bare hands. And she has a kid who looks like Frodo Baggins.
In a similar vein is Rachel Allen. Lucy and I enjoy watching her programme on Saturday mornings. She is the ideal Irish, homely woman. She's attractive and seems competent, but there's something about her that makes you wonder what lurks underneath. If I found out that she'd flipped out, stripped naked and run around scalding passers-by with hot stew, I wouldn't be surprised.
Aroused, certainly. But not surprised.
Why the profession of 'TV chef' attract so many weirdos? Perhaps they realise that the beauty of food is mainly conveyed through smell and taste, and that televison is unable to convey this, so they made a pact with Satan to allow them to communicate the its goodness through telepathy, but it didn't work, and just made their brains vibrate at a different frequency to the rest of humanity, so they can't conduct normal conversations or understand hats.
I think so.
I've pondered wrtiting about religion here before, but I usually chicken out. No-one wants to read a poorly planned essay on the subject anyway. But I will give a couple of reasons why I'm an atheist, as I feel they should be vocalised (or textualised). These ideas don't logically imply the non-existence of God, but I find them incredibly persuasive. The fact that they are grounded in intuition rather than reasoned argument meant that I could never put them in any academic essay, but as blogs are about as reliable as the twitchy man with blood on his hands and animal hair in his mouth telling you he hasn't seen your dog, I think it's safe to voice them here.
1) There aren't any convincing reasons for me to believe in God, but there are so many good reasons why the human race might have invented Him. That doesn't mean they're right, but does tip my instinctive scales. God as a way of explaining the unexplainable, as a means of social control, as a compensation for the facts of death, as a moral arbiter, as a good luck charm, as an agrandising element for the human race, as punisher (not him), as sanctuary.
Of course the human race would invent a God. I'd be surprised if they didn't. But the need for Him doesn't entail His existence. I can't get past the fact that I have so many good reasons for the existence the concept of God, but no reasons for the existence of the being Himself.
(Sorry for all this 'him' talk; but I might as well combine misogynist and theist delusions here)
2) When studying my philosophy course, and reading the various reasons for God's existence, it struck me that theist's have to work so hard to convinve people. The ontological argument seems like such an elaborate, round-the-houses piece of gymnastic reasoning. Surely if God existed, he'd make things a bit easier for His followers.
Sorry about that, but I think that has bought me a few entries of crude jokes and TV talk.
***
Why are TV chefs always so weird? They're always either incredibly annoying or seem like they come from a different planet.
Anthony Worrall Thompson is like some seedy, sleazy, dead-beat dad. Charlie Brooker is right when he says he has 'a voice so nasal he sounds like a bee playing a kazoo in an envelope'.
Nigella is not of this world. I think she was invented by a team of pipe-smoking inventors in the 1950s: glazed, euphoric eyes; breasts like zeppelins; a well-spoken and indulgent baking engine. But she rebelled. Probably killed one of her creators (drowned him in butterscotch sauce), and they unplugged her and buried her underground like Burgos's Human Torch. In the nineties, she escaped somehow, perhaps excavated by desperate TV executives, and is now trying to live a normal life, even though everyone can tell she could kill a rhino with her bare hands. And she has a kid who looks like Frodo Baggins.
In a similar vein is Rachel Allen. Lucy and I enjoy watching her programme on Saturday mornings. She is the ideal Irish, homely woman. She's attractive and seems competent, but there's something about her that makes you wonder what lurks underneath. If I found out that she'd flipped out, stripped naked and run around scalding passers-by with hot stew, I wouldn't be surprised.
Aroused, certainly. But not surprised.
Why the profession of 'TV chef' attract so many weirdos? Perhaps they realise that the beauty of food is mainly conveyed through smell and taste, and that televison is unable to convey this, so they made a pact with Satan to allow them to communicate the its goodness through telepathy, but it didn't work, and just made their brains vibrate at a different frequency to the rest of humanity, so they can't conduct normal conversations or understand hats.
I think so.
Tuesday, 2 October 2007
Fixing a hole where the rain gets in
A whole week without posting? This hole must be plugged. I don't know if that makes any sense, but it seems right to me.
I have been distracted by various things; primarily our trip to London to see my sister's gig in Camden. I estimate that a good 50% of my readership (hi Dave!) were there, so I won't go into too much detail. Needless to say, I was very drunk and really enjoyed the gig. I don't know if the latter was contingent on the former, but I don't think so.
It was also a kind of scouting trip for a possible move to the big city. I have mixed feelings about London. Actually, they're not that mixed: I don't like it. I feel like I can't get a sense of the place, because I go everywhere by tube, and can't get my head around the geography. I think it's also because whenever I'm there, it's just for a short time, so I always feel rushed and pressured.
Having said that, I'd still like to move there. If I had a home base and more time, I'm sure I'd get to like it. Also, if I live in London for a while, I'll feel I can legitimately complain about it afterwards.
Don't know if I'd ever get used to the whole pollution-black-snot thing. Maybe I could wear some kind of nose protection, like cotton wool balls or an asbestos moustache.
***
I've been wasting time at work, expanding the scope of my internet perusal (but not THAT far; you know what I'm talking about). I haven't got anything too interesting to say, so here's a few people that do:
Stephen Fry's blog is well worth a visit if you've got lots of time on your hands (his entries are very long [that's almost a double entendre; maybe a triple]). He talks about fame here in a typically interesting fashion. He has also introduced me to the practice of putting links everywhere in my blog. I can't decide if this is useful or annoying.
Armando Iannucci is writing a regular column at the Observer site, and is consistently amusing (although sometimes a little to wry for my tastes). Which reminds me: everyone buy the criminally underrated The Armando Iannucci Shows on DVD. It's damn good.
I've also been digging Richard Dawkins' new crusade, which seems admirably ridiculous and ridiculously admirable, or something like that. Not sure about his 'A' T-shirt though. Atheist or not, wearing that surely signifies: Loser with a capital L.
And finally, this is why I don't wear a belly-button ring. Although my pierced cock is now making me nervous.
***
That should do it for now.
Consider the hole plugged.
(By the way, never use that last line as part of a rape case defense. Juries can be a bit sensitive.)
I have been distracted by various things; primarily our trip to London to see my sister's gig in Camden. I estimate that a good 50% of my readership (hi Dave!) were there, so I won't go into too much detail. Needless to say, I was very drunk and really enjoyed the gig. I don't know if the latter was contingent on the former, but I don't think so.
It was also a kind of scouting trip for a possible move to the big city. I have mixed feelings about London. Actually, they're not that mixed: I don't like it. I feel like I can't get a sense of the place, because I go everywhere by tube, and can't get my head around the geography. I think it's also because whenever I'm there, it's just for a short time, so I always feel rushed and pressured.
Having said that, I'd still like to move there. If I had a home base and more time, I'm sure I'd get to like it. Also, if I live in London for a while, I'll feel I can legitimately complain about it afterwards.
Don't know if I'd ever get used to the whole pollution-black-snot thing. Maybe I could wear some kind of nose protection, like cotton wool balls or an asbestos moustache.
***
I've been wasting time at work, expanding the scope of my internet perusal (but not THAT far; you know what I'm talking about). I haven't got anything too interesting to say, so here's a few people that do:
Stephen Fry's blog is well worth a visit if you've got lots of time on your hands (his entries are very long [that's almost a double entendre; maybe a triple]). He talks about fame here in a typically interesting fashion. He has also introduced me to the practice of putting links everywhere in my blog. I can't decide if this is useful or annoying.
Armando Iannucci is writing a regular column at the Observer site, and is consistently amusing (although sometimes a little to wry for my tastes). Which reminds me: everyone buy the criminally underrated The Armando Iannucci Shows on DVD. It's damn good.
I've also been digging Richard Dawkins' new crusade, which seems admirably ridiculous and ridiculously admirable, or something like that. Not sure about his 'A' T-shirt though. Atheist or not, wearing that surely signifies: Loser with a capital L.
And finally, this is why I don't wear a belly-button ring. Although my pierced cock is now making me nervous.
***
That should do it for now.
Consider the hole plugged.
(By the way, never use that last line as part of a rape case defense. Juries can be a bit sensitive.)
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