In My Locker

Post #899 and I'm feeling fine!

Not fine in the "good" or "OK" sense. Heavens no.

The other fine. Fine as in thin. Like a mist, like a toddler's hair, like vermicelli. A slight breeze would blow me over a neighbour's fence. A strong wind and I'd dissipate completely.

I had an exciting incident the other day. I was trying to buy a Werner Herzog Blu-ray box set online, and almost accidentally bought the DVD box set instead! I'd got as far as the checkout screen! Bullet: dodged.

Aren't I cultured? Even if my main exposure to Werner Herzog comes from this:



So, so cultured.

In fact, I'm so cultured that I watched that French film recently. You know the one. It came out last year and won lots of awards. It's a romance; something of a coming-of-age story. I wish I could be more specific. I could describe the precise nature of the romance, but it's not important. Anyone who would even mention the nature of the central relationship would be nothing but a narrow-minded bigot. I will not be so reductive. It features two young people - that's all I need to say.

And as for the content, let's just say that there are scenes where the characters interact in an assortment of ways. To outline the nature of these interactions would be prurient, and would only expose my own myopic proclivities.

I watched the film, but did not judge. That's all I can say.

Oh, I suppose I could say that it's called Blue is The Warmest Colour. There's nothing salacious about the title.

My main thought after watching 3 hours of life and love and art and philosophy and humanity was:

"Man, the French sure do wear a lot of scarves."

Pretty cultured, I am.

***

I wonder if there's a Tumblr blog devoted to things stuck to the inside of high school locker doors in American teen movies.

There should be.

I didn't have locker at school. They're not British.

Lockers are for the secretive Yank. A hidey-hole in which they secrete their guns and bibles.

We had pegs.

Good old British pegs, like the Queen would have.

You don't need to lock your possessions away. Hang your books and PE kit on a peg. Keep a stiff upper-lip and a stiff upper-peg. Need a place to put your cricket bat and your Latin homework? Hang it on a peg. Hang everything on a peg.

You can walk down an American school hallway and have no idea of the property - or the intentions - that may lurk behind those metal locker doors.

In Britain, it's all there for everyone to see: from blazers to protractors, from plimsolls to sanitary towels.

Our possessions are our flag. We salute them in public.

Stand to attention - back straight, chin up - and sing a tribute to Her Majesty, our sceptred isle, and the sweet metallic kiss of mother peg.

...

Or maybe we did have lockers...

Actually, I think we did.

Never mind what I said before.

***

I feel like I might have written something like that before. I searched my previous entry for "pegs", but no dice.

Here's a tweet I keep coming back to:

2014 is the Chinese Year of the Month

I like it. It's ambiguous.

It's best to do it around Chinese New Year - that's when the impact is at its greatest.

It could mean (at least) two things:

1) That the 'month' is like an animal (like the 'rat' or the 'dragon'), and that it is the symbol for the whole year.

2) Each month, there's a competition for the best Chinese Year. And this month, the award went to 2014. It isn't always necessarily the current year. In fact, that's pretty rare. August's Chinese Year of the Month was 422 B.C.

It could be either. But not both.

It's like verbal equivalent of the rabbit-duck:

It depends on your point of view.

Right I'd better get an early night. Some may say that 4pm is too early.

To them, I say: look at my nightgown.

Then they look at my nightgown.

Then they look at my face.

Then I nod.

Then they nod.

By the time they've worked out their apology, I'm already asleep.

Scars

I had a dream the other night.

In the dream, I was in a room with a group of people. Two boisterous boys came in, and were messing around. One of them was Daniel Radcliffe.

They were play-fighting, and Radcliffe slipped, smacking his head against the floor. I went over to check that he was OK. He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead, but he assured me that he was fine.

Then an idea hit me.

"I have an idea," I said to the crowd. "I'm by no means suggesting that we definitely should do this, but I thought I'd better raise it as an option. It seems like this is the ideal opportunity to make some minor extensions to his head wound, to make it into the shape of a lightning bolt."

The crowd cheered and expressed their approval. All except one woman, who said "No, don't do that! Harry Potter isn't even my favourite of his roles!".

I said, "Ooohhhh, you hipster".

And that was the end of the dream.

My subconscious is an interesting fellow.

Other things that have happened to me this month include a visit to Blenheim Palace, and completing a video game called The Last of Us, set in a (pseudo-)zombie-ridden dystopia.

When I was at Blenheim, I was still in the mindset of the game. It meant that whilst we were wandering through the house, with its crockery and robes, and photos of Winston Churchill, I was imagining how I'd deal with a zombie attack. I could jump over velvet ropes and hide behind pillars, perhaps sneaking up to a Clicker to shiv it with an ornamental silver sugar spoon, or throwing a nail bomb at a pipe organ.

Unfortunately, we weren't attacked at any point, so my strategising was all for nought.

Other things that have happened to me this month include no other things.

***

I've never been skiing, and I hope I never do.

Not because I wouldn't enjoy it (though I probably wouldn't), but because it means that in the upcoming class wars, I can justifiably claim to be on the side of the proletariat.

If you've ever been skiing, you're automatically on the side of the bourgeoisie. You are rich, complacent, domineering, self-absorbed, racist, capitalist, fascist, misogynist, humourless, pampered and in love with coal.

If you've never been skiing, you are a good person, and are the opposite of all of those things.

Snowboarding is a grey area.

So by never skiing, I'll be on the right side of history, even if, admittedly, I have just been to Blenheim Palace. I was cocking a snook the whole time though, so I'm still, essentially, the true heir to Arthur Scargill.

A Positive Contribution

I've been exposed to a lot of fictional violence recently. I watched the original RoboCop, and The Raid. Both of them include a lot of shooting, stabbing and dismemberment. I've also been playing Tomb Raider on the PS4, which has involved a similar array of brutal acts, many of them performed by my own hand (or thumb, anyway).

Does exposure to violent imagery have a detrimental impact on the viewer/player? Are we being desensitised to violent imagery? Does the relative consequencelessness of horrific acts trivialise real suffering?  Does having imaginary death and torture as major components of our cultural diet cause a disconnect between ourselves and real-life tragedy? Are we harming our children by allowing them access to violent content?

No, we're not.

No, we're not.

No, it doesn't.

That sentence is clumsy.

No, we're not.

There. We can consider the matter settled.

I should decide everything. I deserve to be the ultimate arbitrator.

I can wear a polo shirt that has the word 'arbitrator' embroidered on it.

The word arbitrator derives from the original French, where it literally meant 'betrayer of trees'. It was believed that only those with the clarity of thought to renounce the seductive barkéd evil could be truly impartial.

I'm happy to arbitrate. If I could do it professionally, I would. I'm the most qualified person for the job, because I am always right about everything and I also hate trees.

I don't want to have to come up with any kind of policy, or any arguments. But if faced with a binary choice, I'm happy to choose one of the options.

Yes or no.

Wise or unwise.

Left or right.

Up or down.

Shopping centre renovation or no shopping centre renovation.

Chas or Dave.

I won't just keep listing things - you all know what a choice is.

I can choose our way to a better world.

Vote Paul in some kind of election or something.

Like a hornless horse, this blog post hasn't developed in the way that I'd hoped at the outset.

I need to go home soon. I need to find a better time to write. Perhaps I'll become really disciplined and wake up early. Perhaps I'll put everything on the back burner, and bring my creative wok to the forefront.

Perhaps I'll really turn things around this time.

Here's a song that's been in my head all day. It's good.



You see? I can make a positive contribution. I just need to work out how to make my way in the world. Every time I think I have it figured out, I get a year older and the paradigm shifts. It's a wonder I'm still upright.

"Progress"

The biggest drawback of modern life is that you hardly ever meet shady black market street spivs, selling merchandise mounted on the inside of their jackets.

It's all Amazon now.

I want to be able to select a watch from the lining of a jacket. I want to live. But there's no place for that kind of thing anymore.

And if it's not Amazon, it's "shops" or "tables" or "pockets". What has happened to this country?

Right In The Beak

I just googled "Ancillary Rodham Clinton". Nothing. What are people doing with their time? Not coming up with names for politician clones, that's for sure.

This has been a shipwreck of a day. Apologies to those who have lost loved ones or luggage in actual shipwrecks.

I wonder how many tweets I've done about shipwrecks...

Oh jesus there are four.

Four different tweets about shipwrecks.

"I don't remember many details about the shipwreck. It all happened so fast..." - Idiots in the old days.

Lighthouses aren't always successful at preventing shipwrecks. But they're better than heavyhouses.

Out on the lash tonight. And by "out" I mean "in". And by "lash" I mean "shipwreck of an armchair".

There's a small area of your back that's impossible to scratch during a shipwreck.

The second one doesn't make any sense.

I just bought and ate an expensive sausage roll. How can it only be Thursday? How can I only be thirty? It feels like Friday afternoon and old age.

I'm not going to apologise for anything today. Except for the shipwreck analogy. But apart from that, I stand by everything I'm writing.

It's depressing? Good. It should be.

It's similar to previous posts? Good. That's the way I like it.

I'm being an attention-whore? Good. I want attention. I want you all to see how terrible everything is, especially that heavyhouses tweet. I want you to see that and pity me.

Belligerent? Fine. I will be. I shall do. Nothing you can do about it.

Coffee? Yes, I am drinking some. Why do you ask? Is it the aggression? I can see how you put two and two together. I'm applauding sarcastically.

I'm sick of you and your kind telling me what I can and can't say. I'm sick of filters and censors and propriety. I'm my own man. I'm out there in the world, living day to day, trying to take care of business. And if a few people get hurt, or confused, or offended, that's just their too bad (except, as I mentioned, those who have lost loved ones in shipwrecks, to whom I offer my profound sympathy).

Life's to short. To short to type a double 'o' after the 't'. One 'o' will have to do, you squares. I'm not Johnny Rulebook. I march too the beat of my own drum.

And yes, maybe I have done two tweets that include the phrase "I march to the beat of my own drum" followed my an amusing follow-up. But I'm not going to copy them here. They're not funny enough. Also, up yours. How about that?

You can tell I'm serious because I'm not using any exclamation marks. This is serious f'ing business. I don't even need to swear. Look into my eyes. Are these the eyes of a considerate man? No they f'ing well are not.

I'm going to punch something on the way home. And if that thing just happens to be a goose, I'm not going to bat an eyelid. Not a single lid. I'm tired of being dictated to. I'm ploughing my own furrow, and my furrow will be fierce.

Here's another gif I saw. Yeah, that's right: a gif.

I'm not sorry. Except about the lost luggage.

National Service

Oh man, I can't believe it. We all have to write something about Russell Brand? It doesn't seem fair! But then again, the rule is the same for everyone...

A quick reminder: if you don't complete a blog, article, think-piece, tweet or kitchenette rant about Russell Brand before the end of the week, you will be arrested and will forever surrender your right to have opinions. So don't put it off.

Brand has been saying stuff. If you don't know what, you can google it. It's the same stuff he's been saying for a long time.

As you may remember, I have a history with Brand. And a present. I'm a bit obsessed with him. Lucy and I still listen to his old BBC Radio 2 shows often, and they continue to make us laugh, even on the hundredth listen. His radio show was great, his other work is variable, but he generally seems to be an amusing and thoughtful fellow.

But it annoys me when he talks about not voting. He's never voted, and doesn't think people should.

I understand where he's coming from. Of course he's right that broadly speaking, political parties are very similar. They represent an extremely narrow range of ideas and priorities. They do all work in the interests of big corporations, they do all serve the rich, they do all perpetuate the status quo, they are all boring and lacking in personality, none of them do enough to tackle climate change or inequality, they are unrepresentative of most people. It's true. He's right.

But even within that extremely narrow range of ideas, there are differences that make a huge difference to the lives of people. (I was going to write "everyday people", but then realised how meaningless that term is.)

Whenever I hear people say that it doesn't make any difference who you vote for, I get angry. It's partly because I used to think the same thing when I was a teenager, and the teenage me always makes me angry. It doesn't make much difference, I agree. But if living under a Conservative government has taught us anything, it's that the distinction between terrible and slightly-less-terrible is an important one.

For Brand, it probably doesn't make any difference. But for millions of people, the differences between horrible right-wing elitist automatons and very slightly less right-wing elitist automatons impact on their lives every day. The government is cutting benefits, cutting public spending, privatising health care, vilifying immigrants, and ruining education. If we vote in the other guys, then... well, all of that will still happen. But a bit more slowly.

I think Noam Chomsky said (and I can reference him because it's the kind of thing Russell Brand would do) that there's nothing wrong with the lesser of two evils. You get less evil.

Every day there's a new heartless, stupid, or blindly ideological policy being announced. To say that there's no difference between the two parties is an insult to everyone who is affected by them.

There's a Bill Hicks routine (and I can reference him because I think he's *just a little bit overrated*) about a two party system being akin to choosing between the puppet on the right hand, or the puppet on the left. ("Hey, the same guy's holding both puppets!") But if the puppet on the left is slightly less racist than the puppet on the right, you'd still be better off with good old lefty.

Brand thinks that if you vote, you're complicit in supporting a corrupt system. But I don't think it works that way.

When Brand leads his glorious revolution (and, hey, it might happen, right?), no-one is going to see his electoral abstinence as an indicator of his political integrity. In this new utopia, no-one would judge him harshly if he'd spent elections voting for the slightly more liberal option. It wouldn't disqualify him from being the messiah.

By refusing to vote, and encouraging others to do the same, he's playing into the hands of the Right. The Conservatives will be DELIGHTED that he's not voting. They'll be thrilled that a whole demographic of potential socially-conscious young voters will now be refusing to enter the polling booth. The Daily Mail will be THRILLED. And if you ever find yourself doing something that makes the Mail happy, you can be pretty sure you're on the wrong track.

I'm not saying that democracy in this country is all good and perfect. Change would be wonderful. But whilst we're working on that, let's try to stop some poor children from being trampled by Michael Gove. Just until we get it all sorted out, yeah?

This isn't an attack on Brand in general, just that specific point. To his credit, he's at least out there trying to do something. When I was a teenager opposed to voting, I didn't do anything to make things better. If you're not voting, you'd better be actively trying to improve things. That's the difference between laziness and determined disillusionment.

I like Brand a lot, and I'm pleased that he's out there and is making a lot of noise about things that matter to him, but I think that his romantic ideas of revolution might be a bit counter-productive, at least at this stage.

Who knows? Maybe he will inspire a generation of glorious spiritual enlightenment. But until then, he'd be better off encouraging change through both democratic and revolutionary channels. Or else, we'll find ourselves being ruled by the racist puppet for another five years.

***

(But before all that, he should start doing his radio show again. I miss it.)

Being and Not Being

Let's get this ball rolling. I don't want to find myself wondering what might have been.

Each blog post is utterly unique. If I were to start this post one day earlier or one day later, it would be completely different. If I choose not to write a blog post, I'm banishing a potential gem to the chasm of non-existence. How could I be so cruel?

Every blog post has a right to exist. What if this blog becomes an Einstein or a Michael Jordan? By not writing it, I'm diminishing the glory of the world. It would be selfish and arrogant.

And...

*sigh*

You know, I could continue this train of thought. I could go down the inevitable path of the abortion debate metaphor. It could be slightly tasteless, but ultimately humanistic.

It doesn't matter now. The post has been born. I don't need to worry about it. It exists. Either it's going to be a Jordanstein or it isn't. Why should I waste my time on it? I simply had to focus my attention on giving it safe passage into the world, at which point I should refuse to care for it in any way.

A potential blog post is the most precious thing imaginable, and must be safeguarded at all costs.

Once the blog post exists, it's on its own. I resent it being bailed out by my tax money. 

AAAAAhhhhaha! Abortion debate metaphors are impossible to avoid. I tried to meta my way out of it, and it came back to bite me on the placenta.

Metaphors follow me around like a... oh. They've gone.

I've bitten the skin on my thumb, and now it has started bleeding.

How did that happen?

I'd like Darwin to explain that. What's the evolutionary benefit of biting your thumb until it bleeds? Tooth practice? Building up a resistance to pain? Are female humans attracted to bleeding males? That might be why Ric Flair has been married so many times.

Maybe I'm trying to pass on my genes. Yeah, that's it. Get those genes out of yourself through the thumb. There's no time to procreate. You need to squirt your genetic material at as many people as possible.

Bleed, don't breed.

[Hey guys. Quick interjection here. Is this post... sort of, I don't know... disgusting? 

Yeah. I thought so.]

Bracket-Me is so practical. He's the kind of square that would wear a bicycle helmet. He's so straight-laced. And straight-bracketed. He should be / bloody straight-jacketed.

I prefer Curly-Bracket-Me. He's a bit pompous, but at least he has a certain charming insouciance.

{You don't know me}

Oh man, I've come up with an amazing joke, everyone! Someone sound the joke alarm!

I'll assume that someone has done so. I can't hear anything at the moment because I'm weak and my ears are full of thumb blood.

Here's the joke. It's really good.

Last night, I had a really nonchalant chat with a dead person.

It was an insouséance! 

You see! Really, really good.

(Also the dead person was called Sue)

Turn off the joke alarm. The neighbours are starting to wonder what it is.

Overflow

You see that little hole in the sink? The overflow hole?

Our brains have evolved them. No human can survive without one.

They're not there for draining water. They're there for draining wonder.

A overflow of wonder doesn't just ruin the floor, it bursts the sink.

A big part of what makes humans so successful as a species is the large brain. We can use it to solve problems and communicate. Our thoughts are much better and more complicated than anything a worm can do.

We have the capacity for abstract thought. We can understand ourselves and our environment. We can think conceptually about things. We realise we're alive, and we realise we're going to die.

The latter could have been crippling to our species. By all rights, it should be. The notion that we are temporary and our point of view is subjective, and that the world will carry on without us, should crack our brain porcelain in two.

The disadvantage of an imagination is that you can imagine some pretty messed up stuff.

But we have an overflow hole. When the enormity, the profundity, the bleak, vast, endless, hopeless truth of existence reaches a dangerous level, it all drains away. And we turn on the television. Or worry about the football results. Or think about alphabetising our DVD collection.

The brain has a fail safe that prevents us from being overwhelmed by eternity and infinity. It's how we survive. If we didn't have the overflow hole, we'd just freak out and kill ourselves, or die of a hundred different aneurysms.

Evolution has built us a freak-out airbag. We don't let the universe overwhelm us - not fatally at least. We forget about it long enough to breed and pass on our valuable genes.

Nature is a real lifesaver.

Of course, lots of people are overwhelmed by the universe. Lots of people do kill themselves. Their overflow holes must be blocked up or covered by a flannel.

But for the most part, humans tend to keep on being alive for as long as possible. Even though time and space are incomprehensible, and we're insignificant and significant and everything and nothing and I'd better stop thinking about this.

But the overflow hole doesn't just stop bad things from overwhelming us. The wonder isn't all bad.

The hole also stops us from being overwhelmed by art and beauty and history and science. It stops us being overwhelmed by both the bleak truth and the bright shining glory of truth itself.

Sometimes, I'll be watching an inspirational documentary about a great artist and their amazing works. Or about physics: the amazing depth of our understanding, and the incredible amount we still have left to learn. Or I'll see something mind blowing about the age of the Earth. Or I'll listen to a breathtaking piece of music.

By all rights, I should be permanently screwed up by it. I should flip out and close my eyes and go to bed forever. But I don't.

I just get up the next day and go to work.

The overflow hole keeps everything ticking.

Evolution is a capricious master. It gives with one hand, and takes with the other. And gives us hands in the first place, except for snakes and birds.

We're given the capacity for wonder, but we don't let that wonder interfere with the whole breeding thing.

It's like watching an eclipse through a pin-hole - we get the joy of appreciating celestial poetry, but we're protected from retinal burns.

We've really lucked out as a species.

Unless the overflow hole is just "Nanny Nature" at work, telling us what we can and can't think, infringing our rights to take in as much wonder as we like thank you very much. Those clowns in (the metaphysical equivalent of) Brussels are telling you how to live your life. So what if I want to fill my wonder basin to the top? So what if I want it to overflow? So what if I want to have an aneurysm?

I'm British and I'll die on my own terms!

Oops.

I seem to have fallen into a pit of incongruous satire. My philosophy got hijacked by a blurry metaphor.

Sorry about that. It was all going so well.

Hmm.

I suppose I'd better just go.

***

(But seriously: FUCK libertarians)

Bun

I'm thinking of taking a puppet show to Edinburgh next year. The puppet will be an anthropomorphic Irish rockstar bread roll called Bunno.

Like Bono, but a bun.

Yes, it would be better if he was called Buno. The double-n makes it look wrong. But people might think it was pronounced like Juno. Boo-no isn't funny.

I think I'll get around it by not writing his name on the poster. Bunno works just fine when said out loud.

Bunno.

He'll have sunglasses and a goatee beard, because that's what Bono looked like when I was last paying attention.

I haven't worked out the content of the show. Will he sing? Will there be baked-goods versions of the other members of U2, like The Edge and whoever the other ones are? Possibly.

I'll do the voice. I can do a passable (and not at all offensive) Irish accent, though I've never properly tried ventriloquism. I'm sure I can work it out by next summer.

I'm just workshopping the idea.

Me: Hi Bunno!

Bunno: Hi Paul! 'Tis a fine day and no mistake!

M: How are you?

B: Grand! I've just written a new song!

M: Is it about buns?

B: ... Yes.

M: Hey Bunno, I know you've done a lot of work for charity, but do you feel that some of your behaviour when it comes to tax evasion makes you a bit of a hypocrite?

B: Well Paul, that's a good question. Of course you're associating me with the musician Bono, even though I am clearly a bun. It's understandable. I have the goatee and the accent after all. But I'm happy to answer your question in his place.

Accusations of hypocrisy can be dangerous. Obviously, no-one likes a double standard. And yet there are differences between the ideals and the behaviour of everyone. No-one is perfect, ta be sure now! 

There's a real risk that fear of hypocrisy can stifle changes in behaviour. People are put off from trying to make a difference because they're worried their own faults will be cast in sharp relief.

It leads to a situation where a multimillionaire rock star who does nothing for charity, and lives a life of ostentatious selfishness is somehow treated with more respect than those who aspire to goodness but fall short of their own high standards.

My human namesake is at least trying to make the world a better place. He should be lauded for that. It would be easy for him to become complacent with his politics, just as he is with his TERRIBLE music. But he's out there. You might argue with his approach, but you can't deny that he's using his prominence to initiate change.

M: That's very interesting, Bunno. I'd never thought of it that way.

B: Of course you hadn't, ya eejit!

M: Bunno?

B: Yes?

M: Do you think your friendliness with the Pope might get you upgraded to a hot cross bun?

B: I... what does that even mean?

M: Because of... (MUTTERING) because of buns.

[ENTER A BAGUETTE VERSION OF LARRY MULLEN JR]

Larry: You had to look up my name on Wikipedia, didn't you?

M: ... Yes.

***

Obviously, it needs a bit of honing.

Good old Bunno.

The title of this post, "Bun", is also a pun on the U2 song "One".

One, pun, bun.

I'm taking the rest of the day off.

On Liquids

I went to sixth-form college in Eastleigh.

Yesterday's by-election has made me think about the time I spent there, and the people I encountered.

Ha! Not really!

I did go to college in Eastleigh, but know nothing about the place, and only went outside to buy McDonald's coffee and terrible albums on the day of release.

Also, I haven't really been following the by-election news, even though I might well have caught a glimpse of my old stamping grounds on the television. (I didn't have stamping grounds. I barely had feet at the time.)

My only significant memory of being in Eastleigh was a constant feeling of hatred towards immigrants. But that subsided whenever the bus carried me back into the tolerant arms of caring, reasonable, socialist Southampton. My friends and I would show our disdain for the bourgeoisie by going to Sega World and dropping £18 on a session of Time Crisis.

***

Imagine a mirror world, where males are female, words are backwards, and sheep are threatened by menstruation.

Go on. Imagine it.

Now, have you imagined the punchline? All of the ingredients are there.

It's not really a punchline, so much as a thing that I thought of which made no sense without that build-up.

Are you there yet?

That's right.

The Girl Who Cried Flow

"Flow" is "wolf" backwards. And the word "flow" probably has something to do with periods or whatever. I can't google it, because I'm worried about what I'll find.

There might be a cleverer or more succinct way to do that "joke". Feel free to write your own version. I'll gather together all of the entries, and will compile them into a big ball of screwed up paper.

I'll have to print them out first.

***

The good thing about writing a blog post in segments is I can use clever sequencing to make up for a deficit in quality. Always start with your strongest segment, then continue with something of real substance. Make sure you end on a high note. You can bury all kinds of shit in the middle.

I haven't sequenced this blog post yet. This section is in third place as I write it, but I might decide to put it first. It seems pretty strong.

Of course, my putting this first might be confusing, given that I'm about to mention the wolf joke and McDonald's coffee. Perhaps I should just leave things as they are.

It would be a shame, though, as the following segment is going to be AMAZING, and would make for a good opening.

***

Hello. This is the beginning of the blog post.

***

I came up with an obscene rap in the shower the other day. I won't transcribe it, because it doesn't really work unless it's accompanied by some heavy beats and/or the sound of running water.

I think the time I spend in the shower is the most creative of my day. I don't know what it is about rubbing things into my body and hair that makes me so susceptible to inspiration. It's like a meditative state, I suppose. You don't need to concentrate on lathering yourself, so your brain isn't encumbered by the usual roaring mind traffic.

Thinking and clothes are the biggest impediments to the creation of art.

Our new shower is terrible, though. The brilliant ideas I have - and to give you a sense of scope, my rap rhymed "retention" with "pension" - can't come as thick and fast as I would like (shampoo viscosity). We're hopefully getting our bathroom done at some point. When we have a fully-functional shower, I'll be churning out ideas faster than you can say "Paul - you've been in the shower for nine years. Do you still want this tea?"

***

They sell sanguinello juice at Waitrose. It's expensive, but it's there. I don't know anywhere else that sells it. But I can't stock up, can I? Even if the juice lasts for a long time. I can't. What would people say if I had a trolley full of sanguinello juice (in bottles)? They'd laugh for sure. They might make a cutting remark.

It would be expensive, not just financially, but in terms of self-esteem. What would people say?

Maybe I could anticipate the remarks by muttering "blood orange, blood orange, blood orange" over and over again. And each time I said "blood", it would be accompanied by my electric LED baseball cap displaying the word "BLOOD".

That might make it better. I would not be mocked. I would be respected.

I really like sanguinello juice. It's much better than water.

***

I'm dusting my hands to signal that it's all over. I've gone back and carefully sequenced this whole thing. If I could use one word to describe my writing, it would be "honed".

I'm really disgusted with myself.

This whole thing is a disgrace.

I'm angry.

I'm sleepy.

I expected better.

The Enemy Within

I spent the morning thinking about the Tories.

Because of this, I accidentally scowled at a smiling colleague. I know nothing about her politics, but imagine that she'd done nothing to deserve the scowl. And that's how they win. The Conservatives have taught us to hate each other. Even a hatred of hatred is twisted to their ends.

The colleague will probably find herself mistrustful of me from now on. And the poor. And all ethnic minorities.

The Trojan Scowl wins again. The unwitting liberal host spreads it like toxic disease butter.

We can only defeat the Tories with love. But you can't love the Tories, because they're all awful, awful people. Without exception.

That's how they win. I'm still scowling. And heaven help anyone caught in my eye-line.

***

Since turning thirty, I've found myself thinking more and more about drilling a hole in my head.

I don't just mean that I've been unhappy. I don't mean that my age has equipped me with a vague suicidal impulse. I don't mean that I want to end it all somehow.

It's specifically drilling a hole in my head. I don't want to die, but I do want to use an electric drill to bore a tunnel through my skull. I reckon it would feel satisfying to get through the bone and enter the soft interior. You know how satisfying it is to drill through something? It would be like that.

Does this impulse happen to everyone at my age? Is it just a phase that we go through? Is the head drill-desire a kind of secondary puberty - a bewildering change that nobody talks about due to modesty?

I've been thinking about it a lot.

I did think about it occasionally in my twenties, I admit. But with nothing like the current frequency. It's now at the stage where I think about visiting the B&Q website.

I haven't visited the B&Q website. But I've been thinking about it. I'm thinking about it now.

I've started to really get trepanning now. Before, I thought of it as a crazy medical anomaly; a technique borne of idiocy and superstition.

But now, it seems to make perfect sense. My head is clearly too full. There must be a build-up of some harmful fluid or gas. I need a valve to release all the angst. It would puff away like a steam train, reassuring and parochial, as long as I remembered to take off my hat.

It has to be an electric drill, though. I have no urge to use an old-fashioned manual one. Equally, I don't have any inclination to hammer a nail into my head. That would be stupid. It's the drilling I like.

I don't want to drill into any other part of my body, of course. A leg-drilling has nothing to offer. I think I just like the thought of the skull penetration. It would be like drilling into a coconut.

I don't want to drill into a coconut. I want to drill into my head. Let's make that clear.

For those of you over thirty, this is probably old news. You probably remember the drill-desire phase with a mixture of nostalgia and embarrassment. I'll probably be over this in a year or two, and will look back on this blog post with a smile on my face and an absorbent sponge finger lodged in my scalpwell.

It's all part of growing up.

The Wire

If someone called Sue owned a venue, she could host a comedy night called "Hilarity in Sue's" (like 'hilarity ensues', which sounds similar, thus: joke).

I just come up with this stuff!

I've always been blessed with a tremendous knack for realising that one thing sounds similar to another.

It's Friday afternoon. Things have slowed. The leaves are falling. The last traces of pancake batter have long-since evaporated. There's no escaping it. We're all braced for one of our periodic lurches forward in time. I don't keep anything in my shirt pocket that I don't want to lose.

On the intersection between Victoria Road and Lucerne Road in Summertown, there's a length of wire that used to belong to someone, but now belongs to everyone. It fell from private to public ownership so quickly, no-one even noticed. It was less than a second. One person's loss is the world's gain.

But that person lives in the world too. His or her loss is his or her gain. She breaks even, everyone else on the planet gains.

Private ownership benefits no-one. There are people out there who want to stop the wire from falling. They want to sew our pockets shut. They see the loss of their wire as a personal hardship. But it isn't. They haven't lost anything.

The thing they hate is not the losing. What they hate is the notion that someone else will gain. They'd rather have useless pockets than see anyone else happy.

They deny this. Occasionally, they'll graciously offer up a tiny section of wire, out of the goodness of their hearts. They care, you see. But they don't care. They really don't. They create laws to make sure the pockets are closed. The decry people with no wire. They hold up wire as the highest good. But they become hysterical if someone tries to take theirs.

Those people are animals, they think. Get your own wire! But they can't. Their pockets are sewn shut too. To be fair.
 
I beseech you: let the wire fall. The world will gain. You will gain. No-one will lose. The happiness of others is not something to fear. Don't sew up your pockets.

Gravity is not an assault on your freedom.

***

I can't tell you how impressed I am with myself! But I'll try!

I just wrote that first wire sentence with no idea what I was going to say. But, creative and clever as I am, I was able to turn it into something thought-provoking. What a guy (me)! Admittedly, the thought is "Uh, yeah, I sort-of get it. But it doesn't really hold up to much scrutiny, does it?".

Still a thought, though.

Still. A. Thought.

I win again. But I'll cut my trophy into pieces and stir it into the common pot. We will all die of lead poisoning.

It's fun to make up analogies. No-one can question them, because you can change what they represent if you feel like it. You are the god of your own metaphor. If it proves to be unsustainable, you can just throw it away like a rotten simile. No harm, no foul.

I'm a thinker.

I've always been blessed with a tremendous knack for using my brain to generate thoughts.

Counting Sheep

I couldn't get to sleep last night. For some reason, my brain was whirring like a whirring brain, and I kept thinking and arguing and ranting to myself.

This will occasionally happen. It's usually about politics or some other moral issue. I start to rehearse arguments with idiots in my own head. I am outraged at their views, and try to persuade them with eloquent fury and cold hard facts. I rarely do convince them, because they don't live inside my brain. It's difficult to win an argument with a figment of your imagination. Straw men can be quite aloof.

Some of the things that I was furious about last night were gun ownership, health care, The Daily Mail (at lot of my anger was directed at that), Page 3, and pretty much anything else.

I was stirring up these arguments for no apparent reason. I suppose I enjoyed the righteous fury. There was an adrenaline rush, putting those people in their place. But it meant that I couldn't get to sleep.

It would be OK if I could make a tidy conclusion. If I'd worked out exactly what I wanted to say, I could let the matter lie. I could even transcribe it as a blog post, and be thought of as quite the polemicist.

But I never reach an end. The same thoughts keep churning and churning, the same objections are raised, the same stupidity is identified. It's like being on a rollercoaster powered by your own ego, and the rollercoaster is determined to teach me a lesson. It won't stop, and the safety restraints hurt my neck. I'm wasting my time and accomplishing nothing. There's no use in setting the world to rights if the world is contained within my skull. That world can never be saved.

I was most angry with things that seemed to me (and still do seem to me) to be OBVIOUSLY STUPID. There's a campaign to remove the topless girls from Page 3 at the moment. There are some interesting arguments about the objectification of women vs freedom of choice. But the real argument seems to be: COME ON. Having a topless woman in a newspaper for no reason is CLEARLY STUPID. It's just obviously a ridiculous idea. STOP MAKING THE HUMAN RACE LOOK BAD.

I don't think my debate skills have improved with age. I hope I don't resort to such irrational discourse in my waking life. I might become one of those people (those idiots), who think they can identify a clear-cut morality.

Of course, unlike all those other people, I'm right. They may think they're right (in exactly the same way as I think I'm right), but it just so happens that they're actually wrong and I'm actually right. I'm me and I'm right. A strange coincidence, but there it is.

I wonder why my brain wanted to rob me of sleep. Maybe it just wanted a few more hours of activity, so was stirring things up, like someone throwing a beehive into a synagogue. My brain played me for a fool.

Well, the joke's on him (I assume my brain is male, despite the lipstick). Now I'm so tired I can barely string two thoughts together! He's useless!

Now I'm the one laughing! Or I would be, if the brain wasn't the driving force behind that particular physical activity.

I'm breathing, though. Don't need the brain for that. No, sir.

Paul 1 - Brain 0

(Legs - 2)

The Elephant in the Room

As I see it, the problem with [BLANK] isn't one of economics or gender, but of closed-mindedness.

I'm not wholly critical of [BLANK]. I like to think that it has its place in society. In fact, knee-jerk outrage whenever [BLANK] is even mentioned is as annoying as [BLANK] itself. So I hope this doesn't come across as stereotypical, blind anti-[BLANK] vitriol, full of references to Disraeli or fox hunting or what-have-you.

I'm trying to be diplomatic. It's just that I can't understand why anyone could be in favour or unfettered, undiluted [BLANK]. Even on their own terms [BLANK]-supporters must realise that their belief system is ultimately self-defeating.

It's not even a political argument. It's a factual one. [BLANK] has had a serious and negative impact on this country. The legacy of [BLANK]-related actions can be seen in all over the world, and it's not a pretty sight. The statistics bear this out.

It's not surprising at all. I remember when I was at school, there wasn't even any mention of [BLANK].

It wasn't until 1998 that I even considered [BLANK] to be an issue. I thought it was harmless; part of the scenery; nothing more than a catchy T-shirt slogan.

But after the so-called 'Summer of [BLANK]', my eyes were suddenly opened. Coincidentally, it was around this time that my house had our first proper internet connection. So, whilst my school friends were (at best) uninterested, I was able to find fledgling online communities dedicated to the discussion of [BLANK]. My knowledge on the subject increased exponentially.

Of course, as with anything else, the message boards and websites had their fair share of idiots. There was a lot of misinformation flying around. But on the whole, the motives of the people involved seemed pure. They - we - were fundamentally interested in challenging the status quo.

The Anti-[BLANK] Alliance was formed. (I now find the negative language of the group's name a bit unpleasant, but at the time such aggression was galvanising)

Our mission statement was simple:

1) To introduce discussion of [BLANK] into popular discourse
2) To expose the evils and hypocrisy of [BLANK] to as wide an audience as possible
3) To convince governments that [BLANK] requires greater regulation
4) A total end to "the culture of [BLANK]"

At sixth-form I started an Anti-[BLANK] society, but membership numbers were low, possibly as a result of pressure from the disapproving faculty.

But by the time I went to University, [BLANK] was everywhere. There were articles in broadsheet newspapers, documentaries on Channel 4. The Aug 2011 issue of NME was the 'all-[BLANK]' issue.

Student activism had taken the ball and was running with it. Even my apolitical friends were wearing 'DOWN WITH [BLANK]' badges. It seemed like the tide was turning; like something momentous was about to happen.

Even the events and aftermath of September 11 didn't derail the [BLANK] debate. In fact, [BLANK]-related causes of the atrocity were postulated by some of the more radical commentators.

We thought the world was changing.

But...

here we are.

Ten years later, and [BLANK] is as prominent as it ever was. The documentaries and articles are sparse. The student interest in the topic has seemingly been replaced with anger over other government policies. Those 'DOWN WITH [BLANK]' badges are lying, rusting, in the bottom a washing machine somewhere.

The online community is still there, and occasionally a token representative will be given a column on the Guardian website. But the anti-[BLANK] movement has been relegated to the fringes - occupying the same space as conspiracy theorists and amateur anarchists.

But the prevailing attitude, even amongst my friends, is that [BLANK] is inevitable. So why fight it? It doesn't matter. It's just the way things are.

And yet economies are failing, wars are being fought, and people are dying. I don't know how people can look at what's happening in the world and say that [BLANK] doesn't matter.

I'm sure you've heard the arguments, and there are better qualified, more eloquent people who have written on the subject.

I just wanted to write this to say that [BLANK] is still out there. It's still hurting people. And we should never forget it.

Assortment

I'm going to be more upbeat in this blog post. The sun is shining and I'm not at work.

I haven't got an infected tattoo or piercing, I'm not being haunted by a racist ghost, I'm not being defamed on the internet (though to be honest, I could do with the Twitter followers), our boiler is working, I'm not melting, the city of Oxford is not full of poisoned crickets, Saints have been winning.

CLUNK. (That was me touching a big bit of wood - I think I've got a splinter)

Sure, there are bad things happening. But I'm sure it'll all blow over. Everyone will be happy soon, and we'll all get together and have a big group hug that will turn awkward within seconds.

Here are some things.


THING #1

I've become slightly obsessed with Phil Ochs, who was a protest singer, troubadour, activist and slight oddball. This song is political. I don't think it has any particular relevance to our current situation, but it certainly is catchy. It also has a tremendous opening couple of lines.

THING #2

(I'd really only thought of that one thing. Now I need to pretend this was the idea all along.)

Here's a photo of an advert I took ages ago:

I think I probably found 'WASPS DESTROYED' funny at the time, but then realised it wasn't that funny. I could have written a whole blog post about this.

But there's not really much to discuss. Even the name is boring. "John". The most boring of all names.

You may have noticed, I've blacked-out the phone number. I don't know why.

The chances of anyone reading this blog and then ringing up "John" as some sort of Fonejacker-esque prank are probably quite low.

And also, this is an advert. "John" would want me to publicise his wasp destruction business. This blog probably has more readers than...

Actually, no. That sign, in a small suburban newsagent window, has a far greater readership than this blog. That's a depressing thought. But it's probably good for localism or small businesses or something.

Anyway, "John" probably wants people to know about his service. Me blacking-out his number (is 'blacking-out' politically correct, by the way?) is doing more harm than good.

Unless he no longer destroys wasps. This photo was taken on 4 August 2009. That was more than two years ago. Who knows what happened to the wasp destruction business in that time?

It was a different world then. Credit hadn't fully crunched, Labour were still in power, Osama Bin Laden was still alive. ... Live Aid happened. I think.

The climate of world finance has changed. People can't be spending money to obliterate insects nowadays. They need the money for food and tickets to see the film Zookeeper at the cinema.

"John" might well be out of a job. No matter how 'competitive' his prices were.

"John" might be dead.

I hope he's not. I really hope he's not.

In fact, you know what? Maybe people have a greater demand for wasp eradication these days. Maybe they have less tolerance for stinging insects. We were indulgent back in the Noughties. We thought nothing of letting wasps stay in an airing cupboard, or giving a spider keys to the car. We even allowed people to refer to the decade as 'the Noughties'. That's how complacent we were.

But now, it's serious business. We need that wasp space to rent out a room to a poor student, who is unable to afford fees, whose previous home has been burned down by Lady GaGa, and who's lost their part time job as a lifeguard because the government no longer funds drownings.

That student NEEDS that airing cupboard.

The wasps have got to go, and "John" is probably quids in.

He's probably started his own franchise. That's what all those vans are for that you see driving around. You never see a wasp van anymore. They've been destroyed. "John" is very fastidious.

Actually, I'm glad I blacked-out the number! Screw "John"! He doesn't need our money! I'm not going to advertise his business: built on the blood of innocent wasps! Innocent stripéd martyrs!

Don't destroy things, "John"! Destruction is not the answer!

WE MUST BUILD BRIDGES.

BRIDGES TO WASPS.

LOVE, NOT HATE.

Oh, "John". "John", "John", "John".

I love you. I hope you know that. But you've got to realise that there are things in this world more important than same day service.


THING #3

A backslash. Remember the backslash? Remember having to specify the orientation of the slash? Remember when you had to say "forward slash" all the time?

Here it is.

\

Classic.


THING #4

The end of the 'thing' parade. It's been educational.

I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have enjoyed the film Wag the Dog.

Kindling

It's 1:45am and this is probably a mistake. But my head is buzzing with thoughts, and I don't know if I'll be able to sleep until I get it all out.

This is about those riots that you might have seen on the news or in your street.

The basic argument is as follows: the rioters are stupid, violent, short-sighted, and selfish. And that this is a direct consequence of capitalism.

But before I begin, here are some necessary caveats:

CAVEAT 1

I probably shouldn't be writing this now. This probably isn't the time to be looking at the social causes of this madness. Everyone is using these events to support their political viewpoint. I don't think it's necessarily opportunism (it's an attempt to find reason in chaos), but it can probably wait a few days.

The trouble is, I can't sleep. So you'll have to bear with me.

CAVEAT 2

This is in no way an endorsement of these actions. The idiots smashing windows and burning cars are indefensible. Their actions are helping no-one, they are cowardly, they are apolitical, and they have been wrongly associated with activism. This isn't activism, it's scattershot rage fuelled by cynicism and self-interest.

CAVEAT 3

I'm not particularly anti-capitalist. Capitalism leads to a lot of suffering and awful consequences, but so do other economic systems. I think the free market has a lot of plus points. But when it's unfettered, it can lead to... well, this.

CAVEAT 4

This is probably all extremely obvious stuff. I'm not breaking any new ground here. But I have read the opinions of some people that have made me quite angry with their short-sightedness, and I want to redress the balance with some short-sightedness of my own.

CAVEAT 5

I'm going to sound very sure of myself here. I'm not sure of myself, but my 'argument' is helped by me putting things in strong terms. I'm going to make a lot of assumptions and sweeping statements. I'm sorry, but it's late.

OK? Let's go. This won't take long.

***

The rioters are stupid, violent, short-sighted, and selfish.

Let's start with stupidity. These rioters are going through the motions of a revolution, but they don't understand what it entails. The have the face masks and the Molotov cocktails and the broken windows, but they don't have the righteousness.

Who are their targets? The police, I suppose. That's how this all started. And attacks on the police would at least make sense, even if they weren't condemned. But cars in the street? Local businesses?

Perhaps the banks would make good targets. They might be worthwhile. It might be a comment on the financial situation. But the banks are untouched. Who cares about the evils of high finance when there's a furniture showroom to torch?

Idiots. But... why? A cynical person (and that person might be me for tonight) might suggest that people from deprived areas might not have access to the best education. That they might feel cast adrift and that they have no incentive to be politically informed.

An even more cynical person might suggest that it's in the interests of capitalism to keep people as stupid as possible, because it makes it easier to sell them things.

When those on the Right complain about high taxes, and resent the idea of contributing to state-run education, they must realise that this is the inevitable result of their selfishness.

I'm sure this all sounds very patronising, and I'm sorry about that. I'm not referring to all people from these areas. There are many more who are sensible and intelligent and involved and who aren't smashing the window at Ladbrokes.

But the people who are causing all this trouble are stupid. And they didn't choose to be stupid.

Let's try violence. They're violent. Smashing windows achieves nothing, but it does make a statement, albeit a crude, nasty statement. This kind of non-political anger and destruction is difficult to understand. And idiots like me will try to understand it, and interpret it, and discuss it at length (like in this blog post).

But these riots are loud, even if they are substance-less. If you deny people a voice, they will leap at the chance to make themselves heard, even if they don't have the eloquence to express their dissatisfaction in complex terms.

When people are ghettoised, they feel like they're being ignored. And they are. So they make a loud noise to show us that they're there, to show us that they're not totally impotent.

But this frustration, this violence, becomes hijacked. People bring cynicism into it. A primal scream becomes a knowing sneer quickly, and the fury of the justified becomes the frivolous, bullying destruction of people who think they can get away with it.

People who feel cut off from society have no loyalty to it. When economic inequality becomes so great, when the gap between rich and poor is stretched, society doesn't become "big", it falls apart.

They're short-sighted because they're damaging their own community. They're not fighting the real villains. This is not going to help. But I suppose foresight isn't really the issue, because this isn't the pursuit of a political cause.

My brother-in-law Jos posted a great comment on Facebook, saying he wished the young people had voted instead of rioting. That is correct.

But I suppose you might as well be short-sighted if you don't have a future.

And finally, they're selfish. That one's easy. Capitalism is all about selfishness. People are told to climb the ladder, to make money, to avoid paying tax on that money, to resent helping the less fortunate. Kick the ladder away when you get to the top.

These people are looting and stealing things. Why? Because selfishness is good. Because people are judged by their financial worth. Because having expensive stuff is something to aspire to.

There's a common criticism of the working class that they claim to have no money, but spend it on expensive trainers and video game consoles. But that's because every aspect of the media is telling people that material things are what we should be striving for.

Capitalism creates a feverish desire for money, and then breeds hatred for the people left behind. They're benefit cheats. They're vulgar. How dare they want money?

There's only so much. Maybe they should work a little harder.

Those "youths" on the street, burning things down and scaring people are true children of capitalism. Vicious and greedy, totally lacking in empathy, and unwilling or unable to address the wider contexts of what put them in that position in the first place.

Again, I know I'm being patronising. But I do not respect these rioters.

I believe that people should have the right to protest. I believe that the people should be able to stand up to oppressive power. But this doesn't seem to be that. This shames legitimate activism and gives the Right all the more ammunition in their fight against 'disorder'.

This is altogether more unpleasant than political protest - even extreme cases. No-one comes out of this well, and nothing good can come of this. I'm angry with the scenes that have played out today, and I'm scared of the consequences.

As I said, this probably isn't the time to discuss the background. This isn't the time for my armchair socialism, or my ill-informed political analysis of minority behaviour.

Then again, this is a blog. Maybe this isn't the time, but it's certainly the place.

I suppose I'm writing all this because I read comments on Twitter saying "Don't try and justify it. They're just yobs."

I find that thinking very worrying. Because if they're just yobs, if they're just bad, then we can't do anything about it. We can just lock some of them up. But it will happen again. More buildings will burn, more communities will suffer, and we'll have to sit on our hands because... they're just yobs.

It may be pointless to try to look deeper into this, but I'd rather be in a situation where people are at least trying to understand the forces at work here. We might not be able to stop it happening again, but let's have a go.

Maturity and Morality

I've been keeping another list of things to talk about. When I did it last time, I went on for ages. This time, there's only two things on the list:


A. words that should be used more in jokes:
fibreglass, coins


B. maturity -
clever people argue their way out of doing the right thing


I think point A speaks for itself. And there's not a woman (or man) alive who would disagree.

Point B is a bit more nebulous.

Let's see if I can locate my train of thought. It can't be too hard to find. It's a train. It must be on tracks somewhere. Unless it's a flying train like at the end of Back to the Future III. But I don't think my train of thought would be so gaudy.

I was thinking about maturity.

People use 'immature' as a term of abuse. Being mature is seen as a goal to strive for.

Well, I don't agree. I don't think maturity is in my list of good characteristics. In fact, I'll go further and suggest that anyone who disparages someone for being immature is a boring, soulless idiot.

People generally use the term to refer to some abstract concept of 'grown-upness' that involves paying bills, drinking quality wine and never ever putting a cushion on your head and acting like a pirate.

In other words: boring, soulless idiots.

Because what is maturity really? Social development? Sophistication of thought? Pragmatism?

It's not really any of those things. It's a non-specific concept to convince people they're sensible when really they're self-deluded. If you're convinced you are mature, you're blind to the realities of being a human - which is in itself an incredibly immature mindset.

All the good qualities implicit in a notion of maturity are better served by other terms. It's good for someone to have a sense of perspective. It's good for her to have a knowledge of historical precedent. It's good for her to not be entirely governed by base emotions.

But "maturity" is a big, clumsy umbrella that encapsulated everything grey and necessary and treats the spurious, the fantastic, and the irreverent with a patronising shake of the head.

It is in fact a very childish notion. I'm sure children as they grow up are more fascinated by the concept than we are. There will be 12-year-olds you view their younger siblings with withering disdain.

"Oh, these 10-year-olds are so immature. Still watching CBeebies are you? Some of us have moved onto Horrid Henry, thank you very much,"

If I was looking for love in personal ads, and someone described themselves as 'mature' I would tough them with a ten-foot telephone pole.

So. Maturity. Poo, more like!

[A little touch of irony for any 12-year-olds reading]

But from this thought station, my train trundled towards the next stop: I'm immature. Or at least, I'm immature by the definition of those who use it pejoratively.

I read comics, I watch wrestling, I make silly jokes on Twitter, I post photos of myself making funny faces.

So maybe the real reason I deride maturity is because I don't possess it.

It can't be the case that I decided to be immature because it's a worthy characteristic. So I must have recognised it as a characteristic already in me and decided it was good because, well, I'm brilliant.

That must have been my thought process.

And it's worrying. A combination of extreme arrogance and extreme irrationality. I don't want to think I use my own traits to provide the foundation of my values.

Even if I don't believe in absolute moral truths or 'natural' goods, I would still hope that what I believe is based on something more objective than my proximity to myself.

Do I value beards because I have one? Or do I have one because I value beards?

The danger is that if you're reasonably clever (and, given that I've just identified the most awful arrogance in myself, I think I can claim to be that), you can use your powers of reason to convince yourself that things are true.

You can create convincing arguments for lots of things, which means you can justify a great deal. It might be by finding a loophole in logic, or a past example. It might be that you weigh your actions against their consequences in a certain way.

I was trying to remember why I didn't march against the war in Iraq when I was a student. It wasn't because I didn't care; it wasn't that I was in any doubt about its wrongness. But I think I managed to argue, in my own head, that the protest would be useless, that the people going were self-righteous and marching for the wrong reasons, that auxiliary causes would be tacked on and would dilute things.

Now, these things may well have been correct. They probably were correct. But it was still wrong of me not to go on the march.

And there's the scary part. If you think critically enough, you can argue your way out of doing the right thing.

In my case, all that ethical gymnastics was nothing but a clever way of rationalising my own laziness.

I think that was a big factor in making me go on the March march. I wanted to atone for my younger self's inaction.

I was so immature then...

I also justify not buying a Big Issue on the basis that it's not out of a lack of compassion that I'm avoiding it, but out of a fear of getting into a conversation with a stranger. As though that's ANY EXCUSE WHATSOEVER.

I'm sure the Big Issue-seller shivering in the sleet will be cheered up my the thought that I've been saved a bit of social embarrassment.

So after all that, we're left with two depressing thoughts.

1) My values are a projection, reflecting nothing but my own pre-existing character traits

2) I can use my intellect to evade the requirements of morality

Disturbing stuff.

But the sun is out, I'm on holiday, and I'm fundamentally an optimist (a quality I value in the external world). So let's use my intellect to make myself feel better about point 1) and self-reflexively deal with point 2).

But first, I need to go to the toilet.

***

Ah, that's better.


1) My values are a projection, reflecting nothing but my own pre-existing character traits


Of course people's values do derive in part from their upbringing, from their family, from the environment in which they find themselves.

People learn right and wrong (wrong or right) from their parents, and this informs how they see the world. In fact, there's probably a genetic predisposition for certain values to take hold.

But they also learn morality from talking to others, hearing different points of view, reading books, watching films, experiencing things independently.

[I'm probably wrong to say that people learn morality. More likely, it is constructed from all these sources.]

People are complicated. Even me. Even when I have a cushion on my head and am pretending to be a pirate.

There are lots of people that have very different moral attitudes to their family. There are some that take on morals from the church, or the state, or a particular school of thought. Upbringing is just one of many reasons for people doing what they do.

The things I value are a combination of so many different sources.

My faith in my own personality probably comes from my upbringing - my parents were very supportive and taught me to have confidence in myself.

But these values do evolve. You can see from what I wrote before that I have doubts and question myself. I'm sure most people do.

I don't think point 1) can be true because of these doubts, because of the constant flux of my ideals. The characteristics I do value the most have that status because they've withstood rigorous questioning, and have kept coming back to me as things that feel right, and that are confirmed by experience - and how I see things working in the world.

[Good grief. I need a knock-knock joke to break this up.]

So to take the maturity example. I was presumably brought up to not value maturity as much as other characteristics. I hopefully attained some of the positive elements of maturity, but didn't have much care for the whole.

So I kept reading comics.

But the notion that this was 'right' would be reinforced by encountering other people who were 'immature' whilst still being good and kind and imaginative and open-minded (all elements I do admire and aspire too).

Similarly, I probably met 'mature' people who were cold and serious and who threw around 'immature' as an insult to all those people I knew to be great.

And as I grew up, I'd also find that the people I respected and idolised - the musicians, the writers, the comedians - shared this sensibility. In fact, I can't think of any of my heroes who would see 'immaturity' as something to be ashamed of (except maybe Mark E. Smith, but he's the exception to every rule).

This doesn't mean I'm 'correct' in my opinions. But it is rational to value things and aspire to things that you see as good in the world.

It's all part of the thinking process of the rational human. Which leads too...



2) I can use my intellect to evade the requirements of morality


We've established that I can do this, and I have done it in the past.

It's probably quite a common phenomenon - you have an aversion to doing something, and you use reason to explain away any of the guilt.

But I hope that this tedious treatise shows that I don't do it without thinking about it, without worrying about it, without trying to escape it.

And in fact, most of the time the intellect is an aid to making moral choices.

I think the reason for this is that a natural consequence of rationality is empathy.

If you truly seek to understand the world, and weigh up the evidence, and come somewhere close to approaching 'truth' (or at least approaching the approach), you'll inevitably have to realise that there are other people out there, making the same blind, fumbling attempts towards truth as you are.

So whilst the intellect may allow me to avoid buying a Big Issue, if I think more clearly, it allows me to empathise - to see things from a different point of view; to view things in proportion. I recognise that despite my reasoning, I should buy the Big Issue because the inconvenience to me doesn't outweigh the inconvenience to them.

Reason allows you to interrogate the world, interrogate others and interrogate yourself.

So, in answer to point 2) - The intellect, properly employed is a greater aid to moral thinking than it is a hindrance.

And in answer to point 1) - This same intellectual reason allows you to contextualise your own morals and negotiate the tricky waters between personal preference and objective truth.

Done.

Easy.

Knock knock
Who's there?
Mr Rational
Mr Rational Who
Mr Rational... uh... Smith?
Come in.

***

I have an extremely limited readership, so every now and then I like to whittle them down to zero with posts like this.

Also, you know rationality leading to empathy? Right-wing people never take that final step.

Which is why they can rationalise immorality (like me not buying a Big Issue), they can rationalise laziness (like me not marching against the Iraq war), and they commit the fundamental failing of rationalising their own irrationality.

I escaped. I wrote this and did a knock knock joke. Let's see George Osborne do that.

***

It's a good thing I didn't go on for ages like last time.

March

I went on a march yesterday. You might have seen something about it on the news.

The march itself, I mean. Not my involvement.

My participating probably wasn't covered by the mainstream, so-called "news" outlets. But I was there.

I should have taken photographs to illustrate the fact, but I didn't. So what could have been an interesting pictorial account of the day, will become just another stream of vowels, consonants and the occasional vonsonant (but no cowels - I draw the line there).

I probably don't need to explain why I was marching, but I'll give it a quick go.

The government's policy of sweeping cuts is both immoral and detrimental to the future of the economy. Poor people and public services are taking the brunt of an assault which is only happening because of the mistakes of the rich. The government have made their priorities clear: they'd rather have happy bankers than libraries; they'd rather have competition than justice; they'd rather have a patronising and false expression of concern, rather than a single shred of human decency.

We've been told they don't have a choice. But they do have a choice - they're just not interested in the option which doesn't conform to their ideology.

Anyway, I'm sure there are places where you can find this expressed more eloquently and with more actual information.

The long and short of it (and the middle of it, and the quite long of it) is that a huge range of people from different professions, parts of the country, and with a wide selection of haircuts all marched through London. And so did Lucy and I.

Lucy is a seasoned protester from her student days. She'd done it all: anti-war, anti-top up fees, anti-arms trade, anti-Muscovado sugar, pro-arms trade, anti-hairnet, pro-sugar war. [Some of those are lies] So I let her be my guide.

We left early on the Oxford Tube (which is a coach that goes between Oxford and London, and is a constant source of refuge - especially on journeys back from London, which are always a cause of huge relief).

This journey didn't prove to be very relaxing, however. I had to go to the toilet. So I went to the coach toilet. (I hope you're following this)

As I was closing the toilet door, I didn't realise my left thumb was in a dangerous place, near the hinges, so I closed the door hard. I immediately sensed something was wrong. I think it was because of the metal biting into the tip of my thumb. And then the pain. And the blood.

If you're in discomfort, one of the worst places to be is a coach toilet. It doesn't have much of a soothing atmosphere. It smells, and is small. There are no nurses on hand. They don't have a comfy bed in which to lie down.

I managed to complete the task at hand (which was only a simple urination, I should/shouldn't add), and got back to my seat, where I nearly passed out. I think it was from shock (the injury isn't so bad).

I think the shock was exacerbated by the secondary shock that I'm a complete wimp. If I faint when I get my thumb caught in a door, I probably wouldn't do too well in a war/torture situation. I always assumed I'd be a tough, rugged warrior. But apparently I'm a complete sissy. (Is 'sissy' politically correct?)

After some water and some sitting still, I felt a lot better and (after plastering the affected appendage), we were ready to march!

You might imagine that during all this, Lucy was rolling her eyes: she (a warrior) being tied to this grimacing casualty before we'd even left the bus. But luckily, she was very compassionate and helpful. I suppose she's used to being ashamed of me, so this wasn't much of a shock.

We got the tube to Temple, and then joined the throng of people feeding into the main march. 'Throng' might be the wrong word (is 'throng' politically correct?), but there were loads of people. It was really uplifting to see so many people, and so many types of people.

(Not sure about the italicisation there. Makes me sound like I'm judging particular groups with scorn. But sadly there's no way to undo italics. Thanks a lot, Bill Gates.)

So many accents and age groups, people representing fire fighters, teachers' groups, local unions. And the atmosphere was really positive. I think that's something that hasn't been emphasised enough in the media coverage: though we were there for a serious reason, there was a real sense of positivity and creativity in proceedings. There were costumes, balloons, funny placards, and bands.

Incidentally, you never feel more like an old-fashioned protester or than when you're marching with a brass band. Something about brass makes the atmosphere seem noble and historic - I would have joined the Communist party if I didn't look so bad in red.

As the march slowly, slowly made its way along the route, noise would spread its way along. People had horns and whistles and drums, and every now and then a wave of sound would ripple forward through the crowd as though it was a separate entity, or like an electric current pulsing though a conduit composed of people - marching forward with us.

It was very uplifting. Weirdly, it reminded me of going to watch football. There too, there's a sense of being part of a mass - the closest we get to being a flock of starlings, moving in unison - and having a shared purpose. And (despite what some people say), football crowds have a similar positive energy: everyone is together.

One of my favourite things from the march was accidentally bumping into a fellow protester. I excused my self, and at the same time, she apologised too, saying "I'm sorry!" in a sweet, well-spoken sing-song way, all the while wearing a David Cameron face mask with a swastika drawn on the forehead. Superb.

It was quite tiring, moving so slowly. But there were always things to look at: a line of policeman protecting a branch of McDonald's, the rising boos as we passed Downing Street, a child giving out badges.

We walked past Trafalgar Square (later to be the site of some media-pleasing violence) where flares were lit, and there were eerie puppets of death and a large horse, for some reason.

Eventually, we made it to the rally in Hyde Park. It was difficult to get a sense of the numbers of people, but watching it later on the news made it clear what a massive movement it was.

We arrived about halfway through the rally (which consisted of various speakers, live music, and protest videos). I'd half expected it to be a parade of celebrities, but the majority of the speakers were union representatives and individuals from a wide range of places, all united by the cause. The union speakers were all excellent: passionate, concise, moving, and all seemed excited by the prospect of speaking to such a crowd.

At times I felt like a bit of an intruder, given that I'm not a union member, and that the cuts aren't particularly affecting me, but the speeches clearly expressed the problems that were happening, and that the whole country was being hurt.

It's funny (and by funny I mean horrible) that all the things I truly value about this country are under threat: the NHS, the libraries, funding for the arts. I don't think I really expected Cameron to be as stereotypically awful as he has.

I should say that I like to think of myself as someone who tries to rationally engage with politics. I really do consider different sides and different opinions. Despite my generally leftist stance, I don't think I'm closed to the problems with that ideology.

And I know that the rally was put together with a particular viewpoint. But I think there's agreement about the detrimental nature of these policies that's really far-reaching. This wasn't a group only composed of anarchists, keen on demolishing the state. This was a broad group of people united under a banner of fairness.

I probably haven't put enough thought into this entry. Or enough jokes. And I've probably included too many vonsonants. But what can you do?

We went home, tired but satisfied. Will it make any difference? I don't know. This is just part of a wider campaign. Hopefully even if this doesn't make the government reconsider existing plans, it will make them wary about the implications of future ones.

So, well done comrades! I was proud to be there.

Doing a good deed is a real boost. Now the next time I throw hot Starbucks coffee into the face of a homeless man, suffocate him with a Tesco carrier bag and then film it on my Vodafone mobile, my conscience will be clear as crystal.

The Egg and the Chicken

If you always time how long it takes you to read one of these posts, you should have started your stopwatch at the beginning of this sentence.

I've got a slight pain in one of my shoulders. I suppose that's what I get for falling asleep on a fire escape in the middle of a fire. I think it's a muscular pain, rather than a gunshot wound or an acid burn. It's not really going to impact on my ability to write, but I thought you should know about it.

I don't want us keeping any secrets from each other.

Except for... well, you know... the BIG one.

But I won't mention that. We don't want to give that can of worms the oxygen of publicity (if the seal is broken, the worms will go bad).

I'm working on a tight schedule here. The Liverpool-Man Utd match starts soon and even with my aforementioned multitasking skills, I'd still rather devote my attention to the football.

So I'm going to have to cram a lot of insight into a short space of time. Luckily, most of my insights are collapsible, and could probably fit inside a full matchbox with room to spare for my self-confidence, my self-respect, and an ant's sofa bed.

Let's get cracking (as the egg said to the other egg, before they both realised they were sentient eggs, tried to sob, then realised they didn't have eyes).

***

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 12
Yeah, I'm burning through the books! Not literally - that would be immoral. And costly. And would contravene our tenancy agreement.

Man, I love being glib.

Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11

***

Ivan Turgenev - Fathers and Sons


[I wonder if that picture was a mistake. I look like I've seen a rapist's ghost.]

Turgenev! One of the masters of the Russian novel, along with Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Boris Yelstin's imaginary friend.

This is a superb novel about family, nature, the cross-generational divide, politics and lots of other things. It's really beautifully written, the characters are engaging, the morality is ambiguous. You should read it. Well, not you. You.

I can't really explain the plot (I'm sure a certain pedia can help you out there), but I have noted down some of my favourite bits. I made a list of six things in a Notepad document called 'turgnotes'. I'm clever.

1) Bazarov, the fiery, rationalistic, nihilistic, slightly-dickish antihero of the book for the first time expresses doubt about the ridiculousness of his circumstances:



He is frustrated that he has normal human desires when he should be above such concerns.

2) This description of Bazarov's mother is a great bit of writing.





(Google books is great! I don't have to do no typing or nothin'!)

3) Another character, in my edition, is described as: "a small shrivelled woman with a clenched fist of a face".

4) One of the central themes of the book is about the division between generations - the old-fashioned, romantic aristocratic old people, and the ruthless, determined, revolutionaries of the young.

This book was published in 1861, but I like to relate these things to the modern day. It seems each generation must war with the next. And every time, they think it's new and unique, when it's just a continuing cycle. It's a Hegelian dialectic, I suppose. (Those years at university weren't entirely wasted!)

It's summed up nicely by Nikolai Petrovich, the father of one of the other main characters, Arkady:



I think even now, people find that pill difficult to swallow.

5) I nice bit of anti-Russian humour:




6) One of the reasons I like the book so much is that the characters are so well drawn, you're never told who is right and who is wrong. Each viewpoint is explored thoroughly and reasonably - there are no heroes and villains really. It's a mark of great sensitivity that Turgenev can sympathetically present different points of view.

Apparently, this open-mindedness attracted a lot of criticism from both the Left and the Right, for failing to pick a side. There's a good introduction in my Penguin edition from Isaiah Berlin, where he talks about this in depth.

He identifies Turgenev with the left-leaning liberal: opposed to exploitation and the old order, but unwilling to overlook the harsh extremism of the Left, and so unable to commit to revolution.

Berlin refers to Turgenev's ability to put himself in the shoes of people he doesn't necessarily believe in as 'negative capability' (a term coined by Keats apparently). I'm always impressed by this in art. It's easy to present your own views with elegance and conviction, but to do the same for your opponents is a sign of a really good writer.

It reminded me (to continue the high-brow discussion) of The Simpsons. Remember the episode where Marge tries to get the Itchy and Scratchy Shows banned because they're too violent? What an episode...

Anyway, the writers manage to present both sides of the argument, and even create an idyllic childhood wonderland without cartoons. The writers weren't supporting the anti-cartoon perspective, of course, but were able to present it with dignity. You can make more effective political points by addressing the views of your opponents, than you can by just putting your own views forward.

So there. Turgenev and The Simpsons.

Humanity has created a lot of beautiful things.

***

Once again, I hope these book posts aren't too annoying for anyone. I suppose they're just prompts to get me to read, and to remind me of what I have read.

I know I should probably either do a proper review (including historical context, plot summary etc), or just do something short and funny. But I don't really know how to do either of those, so I'm an unhappy medium.

But at least they're clearly signposted, so you can skip them!

I didn't get it finished in time for the match, so I'm writing this bit at half time. It's going well so far, but I'm not going to count my weeping, cracking eggs before they hatch.

I'd like to end on a song.