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.)

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)

A Change

I have problems. I just decided that I HATED someone on Twitter because they drink wine.

That's not a good sign, as far as mental well-being is concerned. The hatred, not the wine.

I'm retreating into my shell. And receding into it. I'm not going to google that phrase, but I think it's one of those.

I'm in my shell, anyway. And it's getting thicker. As my shell gets thicker, my skin gets thinner. 

I'm becoming both more hermit-like and more crabby. I just tried to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming, and I drew blood.

***

I wrote some of that yesterday. And some of it today. I feel pretty much the same, but I thought I'd punch it up a little bit. You should have seen it before. Pretty dull and maudlin, it was.

I'm off comedy.

I trying to remove anyone from my Twitter feed who makes jokes or even light-hearted remarks. I don't like thinking about comedy. I don't write it anymore. I don't come up with any "material". I'm going to become one of those serious people.

Serious people are much more dignified. It's impossible to be dignified and smile. It's impossible to be dignified and tell a joke.

Dignity is the way forward. It's not a choice between dignity and happiness. Happiness is off the table regardless. I could lighten the tone of this paragraph with a self-deprecating joke, but I won't. I'm off comedy, as I said. 

I'm also off self-deprecation. It's impossible to be dignified and self-deprecating. Dignity comes from an honest assessment of your own qualities. I'm a very handsome man. If you've ever seen a picture of me, you know that that isn't a joke. It's serious. I'm serious now.

It's like that episode of Seinfeld:



I'm not posting that clip because I find it funny. As I said, I'm off comedy. It's just that it illustrates what I'm trying to do.

Of course, the difference is that I was never funny. I was just trying to be. It was embarrassing.

I'm not going to write any more stand-up. I might write a gloomy novel instead. Novels don't have to be funny. In fact, they're more likely to be successful if they're as dark as possible.

I've wasted a lot of time.

I really have.

Everything I've accomplished as a writer - and I don't hesitate to call myself that - has been so frivolous. I always puncture my serious prose with a joke. It's a form of self-preservation. I don't want to be judged on my own merit. If you're a clown, people will go easy on you.

It's time to put away my safety blanket; to deflate my arm-bands.

I am here. I am me. I'm being honest. My mouth is as straight as a razor.

I don't want you to laugh. I don't want you to smile. I want you to recognise something.

Unless you're funny.

If you're funny, I want you to find me alienating.

This isn't a joke.

The Red Mist

I've been angry and depressed this week, but I'm not feeling too bad now. That means I can write about it from an disinterested perch, occasionally nudging a falcon to brag about my neutrality.

I'm not usually depressed. I don't know if my depression is actual depression. I'm probably insulting people with actual depression by putting me in the same boat as them. Maybe my depression is small "d" depression, as opposed to the more legitimate big "D" Depression. (A bit like the distinction between small "c" and big "C" conservatism, both of which incidentally lead to depression of both cases)

Depression (and, having started the sentence with that word, you have no idea which version I'm talking about) is a dangerous adversary. It's self-sustaining and it spreads quickly. It's like a virus. It snowballs. It's like a snowball virus.

You don't just feel depressed about one thing. That would be understandable. If you'd broken up with your husband, or been called ugly by a parrot, being depressed would make sense. Those are bad things, and it's natural to feel bad about them. But depression isn't satisfied with that. It wants more things to consume with its blackness. Totally unrelated things become swallowed up by it.

It may start with the parrot insult, but it spreads to your whole life. Your job is awful. Your house is awful. Your relationships don't work, you're stupid, your DVD collection is full of rubbish films. All films are rubbish, in fact. All art is rubbish. The human race is an awful thing. The black tendrils of depression creep over everything.

Earlier this week, I was hating every single tweet and Facebook status I could see. Even if they were totally innocuous. I thought the sentiments were disgusting and the people spouting them were more so. (I tried to write that as "moreso", and the spell check appropriately wanted to correct it to "morose".)

I hated people for liking things or enjoying themselves, I hated photos of happy people with their families, I hated songs.

At one point, I was actively remembering things so I had more stuff to hate. That's what depression does.

I should say that, for me, depression doesn't usually have an identifiable cause. It's not always black and white like a parrot insult (though it usually is - I need to buy some beak tape for Polly...).

It starts from nothing, and takes over everything.

In tandem with this spread, depression uses the devastating tool of truth.

When we describe someone being angry, sometimes we use the expression "the red mist". It's used in football quite a lot. When a player does something indefensibly stupid and aggressive, they say that "the red mist descended". Anger is a corrupting force that descends from the heavens, or rises from the bowels of the Earth, which obscures the moral vision of a person. They can't see clearly.

But that's only what people say when they are not depressed, or when they're not angry.

When you're actually angry, it's not a red mist at all. You are the one who sees clearly. Everyone else are the ones blinded by mist (probably a happier colour - baby blue, perhaps).

When you're depressed, you think that you're finally aware of the truth. The depression and the hatred are correct. Your assessments of other people and the world are correct. The rest of the time, you've been brainwashed.

How can all these people not see how terrible the world is? The evidence is EVERYWHERE.

Depression doesn't just grab hold of us, it convinces us. It liberates us. It's like a totalitarian dictator, trying to give us freedom through terror, and righteousness through persecution. We're assaulted on all sides by the forces that tell us things are OK. If we concede to them, we're weak and we're being screwed over. (What was I saying about Conservatism again?)

When you're depressed, you're not just feeling it now. The anger can travel through time. It makes you think you were a fool for ever enjoying yourself. All past happy experiences were a sham. All future happy experiences are a lie that must be staved off for as long as possible!

The red mist is nothing of the sort. It's a magnifying glass. It's a microscope. It's tinted spectacles, which are the opposite of rose-tinted. It's those glasses in They Live that allow you to see aliens.

That's what makes it such a dangerous force. That's why people let depression ruin, or even end their lives. It's a terrifying enemy.

As I think about it now, not feeling depressed, trying to remember my anger and yet unable to understand it, I worry that I was right! Maybe the depressed me was right all along! I'm probably hornswoggled and bamboozled right now. I can't see the truth. The world seems like an OK place. My relationships and house and DVD collection seem fine. The human race seems fine.

But that's only because the baby blue mist has descended. In my next bad mood, I'll realise once again how wrong I'm been, and will cling onto the dark truth with my black fingernails: vindicated.

Pretty scary. But, even if my depression is on the same continuum as that of people with severe problems, I'm incredibly lucky. It's quite rare for me to fall victim to these moods. For some, the black fingers are a constant presence. For some, the darkness outweighs the light for the majority of their lives.

And we wonder why they don't listen when we tell them it will all be OK, there's nothing to worry about really. We are blind. They can see.

So... I dunno. Give to some anti-depression charity or something? I hadn't really thought of a conclusion for this. Yeah, give some money. That'll sort it all out.

(I may have lost some dramatic punch with that ending. But screw it. This ain't The New Yorker.)

The Nobility of Sloth

It's been nearly two weeks since my last proper blog post. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. Rest assured, I haven't just been sitting on my laurels. I have a smorgasbord of two exciting things to talk about. This will be like when your co-worker has been on holiday for two weeks, and they have so many things to tell you about that you have to move desks. "I hate the Maldives," you can shout from your new vantage point.

The first exciting thing is a small observation. Sometimes the smallest observations are the most exciting. The big ones are dull. Say you observed the horizon, for example? No-one would care.

My small observation is about the Paralympics. I've hardly watched any of the Paralympics, not because of a deep-held prejudice against the disabled (no matter what my parole officer says), but just because the football season has started. Football takes precedence against all other sport. It's my bread and butter. Anything else is... something I have less often than bread and butter.

Actually, I don't really have bread and butter that often. So maybe all other sport is my bread and butter, and football is my... something I do eat often. Sweetcorn, for example.

Football is my delicious regular sweetcorn.

The Paralympics (and Olympics and rugby and darts) is the nice, but unnecessary, bread and butter.

And I'll be damned if I'm going to eat bread and butter when there's sweetcorn on the plate. Unless I have a sweetcorn sandwich, but that's taking the analogy in an unproductive direction.

However, I did see a bit of the wheelchair basketball, which is always hugely impressive.

(Is it OK to say that? Is that patronising? I worry for the Paralympics broadcasters who have to walk a tightrope of being politically correct, admiring and yet not condescending. It's a necessary tightrope of course - all those considerations are important - but if I was in the commentary booth, I'd be terrified that I'd accidentally let slip a hate crime.)

I noticed one thing about the wheelchair basketball that amused me. In able-bodied basketball, whenever a player is fouled and has a free throw, there's weird little bit of etiquette that's always observed. After the first free throw is taken, whether the player scores or misses, his colleagues standing to the side of the key ALWAYS step towards him or her, and give a little supportive fist bump or hand slap. It's a way of saying "well done" or "never mind". Or, more accurately, it's saying "it doesn't matter how well you do - we're all behind you".

You can see an example of what I'm talking about here (you won't need to watch the whole thing):



I wonder where this ritual came from. Probably, it was an organic show of support that just happened one day. But now, everyone has to do it every time. What was originally a nice show of support has become routine. There can't be any thought behind it. It's just an obligation.

It's like saying "bless you" after someone sneezes. Originally thoughtful, but now a chore. The only reason to say "bless you" or give your team-mate a fist bump is because it would be rude not to do it.

What I noticed when watching the wheelchair basketball was that they do exactly the same thing. Of course they do - it's a convention of the sport. It's just that when you're in a wheelchair, it seems more like hard work to go over and touch hands. This pointless ritual requires valuable arm-strength. But they do it anyway, because that's just what happens.

Of course, me thinking this probably is patronising. Them rolling a few feet is as easy and natural as an able-bodied player walking. It's just part of the game.

I don't really think the convention is pointless. I mean, sport in itself is a pointless ritual. It would be weird to be annoyed at a pointless subset of it. It just shows (instinctive, meaningless) thoughtfulness and camaraderie. I think we can all admire that.

***

The second exciting thing I've thought about is how Matt Le Tissier has ruined my life.

I might sue him.

I'm a Southampton F.C. fan, and so Le Tiss was my hero growing up. He had an effortless talent that made everything he did look easy and beautiful. Here's a short illustration of his genius:



Le Tissier was notable for being:
a) fantastic, and
b) lazy

He didn't train hard, he wasn't in a amazing shape, he didn't run all over the pitch, he wasn't a bone-crunching tackler. He just wandered around like a pensioner kicking seashells until it was time to get the ball, skip past eight opponents and then rifle a shot into the corner of the net.

I think it was because of him that I valued the nobility of lazy genius.

It wasn't just him, in fact. I always preferred the louche, skillful enigma to the hard-grafting model pro. I'll always choose Cantona and Bergkamp over Keane and Viera.

The trouble was that this isn't a great lesson for a child to learn. The idea that, not only is laziness OK, but that it's preferable, to hard work isn't a good basis for future success.

That philosophy says: working hard is cheating; succeeding with minimal effort is ART.

If you work hard and achieve nothing, you've failed. If you don't work hard and achieve nothing... big deal - wake me for lunch.

I think this harmful idea must have grabbed me at some point. All of my school reports said the same thing: "Paul is bright, but needs to try harder", or... [I was going to write another example, but couldn't be bothered]

I don't really work hard at anything. I just hope that my natural talent will lead me down the path of glory. The trouble is, my natural talent is far from evident.

If you're a footballer, the nature of your talent is clear. You can be lazy if you do what's required of a footballer. If you don't work hard, but score goals and win matches, there's no problem.

But if your life is lived on those terms, it's not the same. You can't just be lazy in life, with no specific talent in any area. That's not lazy genius. That's just lazy.

I've been so caught up in with venerating the nobility of slothful brilliance that I've forgotten all about the brilliance.

In my head, sloth is worthy on its own terms. Genius would be nice, sure. But the sloth is key. One day, a talent may emerge to make this whole position justified.

"You see!" I'll say. "I was right to not try hard."

If it doesn't emerge, I can still say "Well, at least I had more sleep than you did. One-nil me!" and then die with a smile on my face (only because it's apparently less hard work than a frown).

It's Le Tissier's fault! I wanted to be like him! If I'd have grown up idolising Phil Neville, I'd probably have a lot more money, a lot more dress shoes and one hell of a well-tended garden.

This seems to suggest that I'm unhappy with my life. I'm not. I was just playing Neville's advocate. I totally believe the Le Tissier philosophy is worthy. With my potential locked away, there could be oceans of the stuff. If I release it, I might realise that I only have a pipette's worth of inspiration.

Trying hard is for chumps. Dedicated, respectable chumps.

It's better to burn out than fade away.

And even better than burning out is the idea that people will say: "I bet he's the kind of guy who could, hypothetically, burn out spectacularly".

***

Here's a bonus, related, exciting thing.

Ironically, the only thing that I actually have worked really hard at is football.

I have no natural talent at football whatsoever. As a child I struggled with this. Playing football is such a big part of developing into a well-adjusted WKD-drinking, deafening-car-stereo-hard-house playing, deadbeat 19-year-old dad. If you have no skill in that area, you're cut off from a whole social circle.

So I worked hard. I played it a lot. I practised on my own. I enjoyed it! I put in the hours and eventually, I turned myself from a footballer with no talent into a footballer with the bare minimum of talent. Whatever the smallest unit of football talent is called (I believe it might be "the Downing"), I had one of them.

I was still terrible. But I had just enough ability to play in a kick-about, complete a sloppy Cruyff turn, and not have to run away if an errant ball came my way in a park. All through hard work and dedication.

In the end, Phil Neville had the right idea.

"If you have an evident talent dearth // graft is a must, to show your worth."

He is a very wise man.

Spineless

You may think it's been over a week since my last post, but it has actually only been about ten minutes. Time is getting ever faster. I feel like my life is flashing before my eyes, but I don't even get the blessed consolation of an imminent death. [/upbeat paragraph]

I was going to write something about how I don't read modern fiction, but that seems like it might require some thought. I fear thought. I'd rather avoid it, if it's at all possible.

Oh. I don't think it is possible. The moment I thought about thought, it was all over. It's a fait accompli. There's no getting around it: I thought it. I fought it, but I couldn't abort it.

Why don't I read modern fiction?

Because it's all rubbish!

Ha ha ha! Oh Paul, you are a card.

It's not all rubbish. I don't believe that any more than I think all modern film, music or pancakes is/are rubbish. I've gone on record as hating the veneration of a golden past.

The main reason I don't read modern fiction (and I'm probably talking about anything written since, let's say, 1973), is that I have limited time. I'm obsessed with making the most of my free hours. So how can I justify spending my days reading an unknown prospect, when there are so many established classics for me to read? I can't justify it.

I'm already wasting so much time watching DVD extras and chortling at .gifs on Tumblr. I don't want to spend time on the latest Booker Prize winner, when (for all I know), it might be terrible. I haven't read A Tale of Two Cities. That has to take precedence. If I'm going to spend time looking at words and ideas on a printed page, I'm better off wading through the literary canon. Non-canon works are too much of a gamble.

That's not to say that I'll like everything in the canon. But at least it's worthy. The book might have a historical significance. It's probably referenced in all manner of articles, late night discussion programmes and tweets by Stephen Fry. Even if I don't enjoy it, it's equipping me with some useful tools for the long climb towards pretension.

My prejudices tend to be confirmed on the rare occasions that I do read something from the last forty years. I pretty much always find what I'm reading to be underwhelming. "Is that it?" I might say to whoever's sitting next to me. "It was OK, but... man. It took me eighteen hours to read this. I could have built a ship in a bottle in another ship in that time."

I might be similarly nonplussed by a Joseph Conrad novel, but at least it will be a nonplussing of some pedigree. I can attend lecturers on the nonplussing, and see how it has influenced later works of mild dissatisfaction.

But there must be some great modern fiction out there. There must be something that I'd love. I'm probably just looking at the wrong things.

Or perhaps my bias means that I'm predisposed to hate any work that might use The Bee Gees as a reference point. I'm looking at current fiction with shit-tinted spectacles, just as I accuse other people of doing with music! What a fool I've been! I've been hoist with my own petard. I shouldn't have bought one really. Who needs a petard? But I was conned by a clever marketing campaign.

I think the real reason that I don't read modern fiction is nothing more than confusion. I find the whole thing completely baffling. Who are the good modern authors? Are they respected? Are they critically acclaimed? Is this book seen as trashy fiction? Is that book something of substance?

I look at a rack of bestsellers and the covers might as well be pictures of question marks (though to be fair, The Riddler's autobiography is a smash hit). Perhaps I fear that my critical faculties (which for film, TV and music have been carefully honed by years of reading snobbish hipster edicts) will let me down when it comes to the printed word. What if I really love Dan Brown? What if I love Twilight? I'd never be able to show my face again. My reputation as a person who only likes good things will be in tatters. Which would be terrible, even though I'm the only person aware of that reputation, and I seem to believe that it was tattered in the first place.

Can I get on the modern fiction horse? I could. But would I be able to look at things objectively? I don't know. I just don't know.

That's why I find it safe to stick with known quantities. Venturing into the unknown is a scary prospect. You might find that you're a rubbish hiker and are afraid of campfires.

Knowing nothing about modern fiction makes me less of a well-rounded person. Then again, who's to say that a knowledge of professional wrestling is any less roundening? I don't have to be an expert in every field. There are people out there who are devoted experts on modern fiction, but who don't know where I put my keys. Swings and roundabouts. What's good for the goose is greener on the scratched back of my hand as it washes my other foot.

In conclusion, I don't need to bother reading modern fiction.

Most of my conclusions are ones which validate my own inadequacies and postpone self-improvement. My conclusions are really holding me back. But you can't argue with them. They are the final word.

All Hail Conclusions.

***

That's the end of this week's thought. Join me again next time for more letters in the same font.

I might write about a Nominal Inanimate Enamel Animal.

Red Mist

Let's talk about the keys thing.

At the end of my first year of university, I was depressed. I was generally depressed throughout most of that year, but that doesn't have any bearing on this story.

I'd just finished my first year exams. You'd think that it would be a time for jubilation, celebration and various Animal House-style horse murders. But I must have had some kind of adrenaline dump, and the moment the exams were out of the way I wanted to sit in a dark-infested tank and grind my teeth.

This didn't really have anything to do with how well the exams had gone. I didn't know how they'd gone. (It turned out they had gone just well enough to pass. It was pretty close though.) I suppose the problem was just the general anticlimax that happens after any significant milestone. If you yearn for something so much, hoping and praying and willing it towards you, that when it finally arrives, it hits you in the face at a thousand miles an hour and you need a lie down.

So I was having a lie down. It was the afternoon, and I'd closed my curtains. My room was in a halls of residence, and was on the ground floor, right near the building entrance. This was not ideal for a life of peaceful study. Luckily, a life of study, peaceful or otherwise, was never on the agenda.

There I was, seething in the dark, when I heard the voice of Rob. I haven't changed his name to protect his identity - it was Rob. He was a fellow PPE student, was from Newcastle, and probably had other characteristics that I've either forgotten or never knew. He had come to ask me if I wanted to join the rest of the PPEists for a celebratory night of drinking and consolatory amnesia.

He knocked on my open window and asked if I was coming out. A friendly invitation, you might think. This made me angry. I ignored him.

He persisted. "Come on!" he might have said. "What are you moping around for?" This made me angrier.

I just wanted to ignore the world, and the world was shouting through my window. In a Geordie accent. Rage filled my soul and bed.

Then it happened. My keys were on my windowsill for some reason. Rob playfully reached through and grabbed them, and threw them towards me in a playful gesture. That was the idea at least.

But the keys hit me right in the face. Hard. They were really heavy. In those days, I had loads of keys (one for every door in Britain), several metal loops, four keyrings in the shape of anvils, a granite Ten Commandments fob...

Hard metal, hard in the face. Like getting punched by C3PO.

I totally flipped out. The post-exam depression, the invasion of my solace and the physical assault all added up. I lost, burned and buried my temper, and was out for blood. If he'd been in the room, I literally would have punched him.

But he was on the other side of the window. There was no way for me to hurt him physically. I could have tried throwing the keys back at him, but I would have lost the moral high ground and, more importantly, my keys.

In the end, the moral high ground was out the window, even if the keys weren't.

I swore at him, I insulted him. I was so desperate to hurt him like he'd hurt me that I tried every possible hurtful angle. But I didn't really know enough about him to be able to do that.

In the end, I resorted to insulting his dad by derisively referring to him as a miner.

I don't know if he was a miner. I think he might have been an old-school socialist. But why did I think that would be an effective insult? I like socialists and miners. I was just grasping at any hurtful straw I could find, but they were all made of soft plastic.

I think he just laughed.

It was scary though. If he hadn't been a white heterosexual male, would I have resorted to some kind of bigoted slur? Would I have insulted his country? Was I angry enough and impotent enough to resort to racism?

I really hope not. But at that moment, I was so angry that I might have used any weapon at my disposal.

I don't like to think that anger might make me stoop to such depths, but my rage was so visceral and overwhelming that rationality or compassion didn't come into it.

I don't tend to get angry about much, but when I do, you might want to stay away.

And, to recap, this anger came from a friend a) asking me if I was going to come out for a drink and then b) accidentally throwing some keys at my face. I don't think many courts would deem that sufficient provocation for anything beyond a polite rebuke.

I don't think the bad mood lasted too long. I'm sure Rob doesn't even remember this.

I've only been angry like that a couple of times since, and on neither occasion did I hurl any epithets at anyone.

I'm only human. I have a long fuse, but not an eternal one.

The moral of the story is:

DON'T TEST ME.

No, wait...

The moral of the story is:

If you're in a bad mood, don't leave keys on your windowsill.

It's a lesson worth learning.

My second year of university was much better. Though my rage issues might have manifested themselves in the Anger Monkey Chart I handed in that one time instead of doing an assignment.

I matured quickly, and continue to do so.

I don't have any problem with your dad being a miner.

Jective

I don't understand people who say they don't like The Beatles.

"I don't like The Beatles."

It may seem like a reasonable opinion for someone to have, but on closer inspection is revealed to be impossible. They might as well say that they aren't the person saying the thing they're saying. That doesn't make sense. Because they are. They are that person.

It's not because The Beatles are so unfathomably amazing that they can't be denied. I like them a lot, but they're not one of my favourite bands. There are quite a few artists who I'd rather listen to. They're not leagues above everyone else. But they have one thing that makes the above statement incoherent: unparalleled variety.

(Their variety might be paralleled. I'm not sure - I haven't really thought about it. I just started writing.)

I love The Fall. I prefer The Fall to The Beatles. I have more Fall albums than I do Beatles albums. The Fall are one of my favourite bands. But if someone said: "I don't like The Fall", I could totally understand it.

I might think they're brilliant, but if you've heard five or six Fall songs, and you didn't like any of them, there's a good chance you're not going to like any of the rest of them. That's fair enough. It's a reasonable decision to make. "I don't like The Fall" is a coherent statement.

I love Ben Folds Five. I prefer Ben Folds Five to The Beatles. I have more Ben Folds Five albums than I do Beatles albums. Ben Folds Five are one of my favourite bands. But, again, if you've heard a few of their songs and don't like them, I'm happy to accept that it's true. And that no amount of me evangelising about a catchy B-side will convince you otherwise.

This is true for most bands. Even the bands that are nearest and dearest to my heart. Some people like different types of music. Sometimes an act just won't 'click' for someone. That's fine. Variety is the spice of life.

And here we are again: variety.

The thing about The Beatles is that I reckon I could put together a ten-song playlist of Beatles tunes that are all totally distinct - in mood, in musicality, in lyrics, in energy. And if you don't like those, I could put together another one. Then another.

There are too many different types of song for you to hate them all. Dislike the Scouse beat pop of 'I Want to Hold Your Hand'? Well, maybe you'll like the proto-metal of 'Helter Skelter'. Don't like the kitchen-sink melancholy of 'She's Leaving Home'? Maybe you'll like the trippy acid-drenched 'Tomorrow Never Knows'. Don't like the apocalyptic blues of 'I Want You (She's So Heavy)'? You're an idiot. But also, you might like the jaunty music hall 'Honey Pie'.

As I said, I'm far from the biggest Beatles aficionado. I'm probably only familiar with 50% of their back catalogue. But it's still pretty impressive.

So when someone says: "I don't like The Beatles", I don't understand what they're saying.

You don't like The Beatles? You don't like any of their songs? This isn't like the Fall, where several songs will give you a rough indication of what they're all about (not to disparage the diversity of The Fall, of course, which is in its own way very impressive).

If you've listened to several Beatles songs and don't like them, there are seventy more that might change your mind.

The only thing that these songs have in common is... they're by The Beatles. That's it. If you don't like any Beatles songs, I can only think it's because they all have the word "Beatles" somewhere on the record sleeve.

And that doesn't seem a good criterion for judging music. I can only conclude that you dislike them because they're so highly praised.

I can understand that. I'm sure I do it too. It's human nature to react against disproportionate praise. With most things (films, books, fabrics), this isn't an indication of a lapse in judgement.

But when it comes to The Beatles, it is.

Subjectivity ends with The Beatles. And even though that goes against every instinct I have, and contradicts my basic assumptions about aesthetics, I'm going to continue to argue that it's true.


The Beatles are overrated. They are. They are deified to a ridiculous extent. People who think of them as Gods need to open their minds and ears. There are and were other fantastic people out there, doing similarly revolutionary things and writing amazing songs.

The Beatles are overrated. But they're still the best band of all time.

***

Inception genuinely was terrible, though. That's not just a reaction against prevailing wisdom. And Star Wars.

(I'm just trying to lose as many people as I can before the end of this post)

John Peel? Idiot.

And Attenborough.

And hope and kindness.

And bananas.

...

I think I went too far with that last one.

I should finish with a Beatles song, shouldn't I?

Well, that would make too much sense.

Genre: A Haphazard Analysis

Let's talk about genre.

Or type about it.

And you don't have to. That was the royal "let's".

I woke up early this morning with the intention of going to a coffee house for a beverage and some reading. But it's raining, so I've talked myself out of it. Therefore, I feel compelled to write a blog post to make up for it. I'm determined to make this early rising worthwhile. The murdering of Comfy Bed Paul needs some serious justification.

I've been thinking about genre recently. I don't know why. Possibly because of my French friend Jean Ruh, who keeps plaguing me with questions. About genre.

It's interesting that certain genres lack credibility in the mainstream. They're seen as silly and childish and frivolous. There is still a stigma attached so science fiction and fantasy, particularly. It seems to be that when people dismiss an entire genre, they're misunderstanding how genre works.

Some genre fiction does have the status of high art, but this relates to how long they've been around. Classical mythology is fantasy fiction. It's ridiculous: full of melodrama and insane characters behaving in incomprehensible ways. It's also brilliant. But Homer is treated with a reverence that, let's say, Farscape is not.

I've never really seen Farscape. My instinct is that it's probably not as good as the Iliad, but I don't know. The point is that there's nothing more inherently infantile about funny looking aliens than crazy gods turning people into trees.

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is taught in schools. Twilight is not. (I'm probably not helping my argument with these examples)

The Western is a respectable genre. People fighting with guns is more valid than people fighting with wands. Heroes wearing capes are childish. Heroes wearing spurs speak to some kind of deeper human understanding.

Superhero fiction is for children because the characters wear tights. Fantasy fiction is for losers because it has elves in it. Science fiction is for nerds because all of the characters have names beginning with 'Z'.

People are able to understand the function of some genres, but dismiss that same function in others.

I'm guilty of it sometimes. I tend to avoid fantasy stories, with orcs and goblins and mythical realms. I find some of those conventions off-putting. But if I think that, I'm missing the point. Fantasy fiction is not about orcs and elves and amulets that can turn you into a wolf god. It's about... more than that.

The dismissing of genre fiction is nothing more than a selective refusal to understand subtext.

Subtext works in all fiction. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man isn't just about how annoying school is. The Brothers Karamazov isn't about family dynamics. Batman isn't about a man dressed as a bat punching people.

I mean, those things are part of it. But you can deal with ideas in a number of ways. Genre is just a tool with which to do this.

Genre is a starting point, not an end point.

(I've started to embolden certain sentences to make it seem like this whole thing is well thought-out, rather than a stream-of-consciousness ramble. Has it worked?) 

We realise that with respected genres. A Western isn't just about people with guns and hats shooting each other. It's about man versus nature, or the individual versus society, or the new world versus the old, or gender politics, or racism, or technology, or morality, or religion.

But Star Trek is just stupid men in silly costumes firing lasers at models.

I'm sure this is becoming less true. Lots of people are perfectly comfortable with genre fiction. But there still are some dismissive people out there. You'll be able to recognise them because they're idiots.

That's not to say that there isn't bad genre fiction. But there's bad non-genre fiction too.

As I said, I'm sometimes guilty of dismissing fantasy fiction. But I'm trying not to. I tend to find fantasy writing a bit humourless and stiff. But I like Harry Potter, and that's full of wizards and elves and potions. If it's good, it's good. The genre is just scenery.

There are fantastic characters in genre fiction, and those characters can be interestingly defined and illustrated by using the tools of genre.

If you understand how, say, detective fiction works, you can do a lot with it. It's not just about a detective solving a crime. You can use, undercut, contradict and satirise the conventions of a detective story. And by using that lens, there are an almost infinite number of approaches you can take.

Genre frees you up to deal with issues in a manner beyond the obvious.

Science fiction allows you to literalise abstract ideas. You can spell them out in interesting ways. You can invert reality. You can tackle sensitive subjects by proxy.

The most annoying criticism of fantasy and science fiction is that it's somehow frivolous; that it doesn't deal with the real world. This is, once again, the selective subtext-blindness coming into play. Either that or a chronic lack of imagination.

If you think any story that deals with politics must be set in the 'real' world, with politicians discussing political issues, your world is an incredibly limited one.

Stories about elves and broomsticks that can dance can be far more effective comments on real issues and real people than any 'realistic' drama. I can't think of any right now, but there probably are some.

Sometimes, you can only see the truth by looking at it through a kaleidoscope. That's not technically true, but you can see what I mean.

I've probably been going on about this for too long, fighting straw men. What I'm really trying to get at is: be careful when judging things based on genre. There's more than meets the eye, even if the eye is all fiery and looking at Frodo.

Oh yeah, I remember how I was going to finish this: superhero comics.

I like superhero comics, and they aren't well respected in the mainstream media. It was probably that insensitivity that started me down this road.

What I wanted say was that superhero comics are the best genre.

You might think that's a ridiculous sweeping statement that invalidates my entire argument and haircut. But it's true.

(It might not be true)

The reason for this is that the superhero genre is made up of every other genre in fiction.

You get to have all of your genre-eggs in one basket and eat them too.

Superhero fiction came about as a composite of various other genres. There were originally elements of pulp heroes, detectives, science fiction and fantasy heroes. As times progressed, and the superhero fell in and out of fashion in the late-40s, other forms became popular: horror comics, monster comics, romance comics, war comics.

Some of the best writers and artists plied their trade in these areas, so that when the superheroes re-emerged in the late-50s, a whole glorious genre hodgepodge emerged. Marvel comics like Spider-Man and the Hulk were basically weird 50s monsters converted into heroes.

The fact that most Marvel characters exist in the same fictional universe means that you have traditional superheroes, science fiction characters, aliens, monsters, vampires, characters from (a huge range of) classical mythology, spies, secret agents, wizards, politicians, private detectives, cowboys, newspaper reporters, vigilantes, knights, terrorists, corrupt officials, talking animals, cavemen, corporations, serial killers, bureaucrats, robots, and planets with moustaches, all in the same world.

This means that not only do you have the tools and the scenery of all of those different genres to play with, but that all of those characters can actually interact with each other! You can have a group meeting with a demon, a cowboy, an alien, an FBI agent and a Greek god, all just hanging around drinking coffee.

The superhero genre is the omni-genre.

If you have all of this to play with, and if you take off your subtext-visor, you'll see that there is nothing that can't be tackled with these tools. The entire spectrum of human experience can be explored in an incredible number of different ways.

It's not always like that. I accept it. Sometimes the stories are simplistic. Sometimes a fight between Cigar-Man and the villainous Dr Freud is just a fight between Cigar-Man and the villainous Dr Freud.

But they don't have to be. Fantasy fiction can be Twilight, but it can also be Shakespeare. Naturalistic fiction can The Wire, but it can also be Neighbours.

Superhero stories aren't just for children.

Sometimes they are. But they don't have to be.

I wish some people would stop pretending to misunderstand genre. Citizen Kane would still be a masterpiece if Rosebud was a Klingon.

Possibly. Perhaps.

I'm not good with conclusions.

Unless I

Hindshortsighted

Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to look like complete idiots.

Or something like that. I briefly checked the proper quote, but lost interest. There was something about repetition in there. I've misused the expression before, but definitely won't make that mistake again.

I think all of human discourse could be improved by a greater knowledge of the past. History is a key discipline. And I say that knowing almost nothing about it. I don't even know in what year the French Revolution took place. I can only name two Queens, and one of those is from Star Wars (also misremembered).

But do as I say, not as I do. If you do do as I do, you'll just be repeating the mistakes of my past. Do as you do. As long as what you do is do what I say.

And what I say is this:

Every time you make a statement about politics or culture or some grand, overarching, sweeping statement that defines humanity, think about who has said similar things in the past. And think about what idiots they were.

All over the country, there are people repeating things that have been proven to be false. 

I'm not talking about the obvious ones, like "evolution is just a theory", "climate change is a myth" or "England have a good chance of winning the next World Cup".

I'm talking about things like: "this country is going to the dogs".

This country is going to the dogs.

Think about how many people have said that before. Think about how many newspaper columns have been written saying the same thing. Think about your idiot friends in the pub that have been saying the same thing for as long as you've been alive.

According to you, this country has been going to the dogs forever. This country was going to the dogs before there even were dogs. In a thousand years' time, your descendants will be similarly claiming that this country is going to the dogs whilst wearing a futuristic space-tunic.

Here's the truth: if you're right - if you've all been right - and the country is, has, and will be, going to the dogs, it would already be at the dogs.

It has arrived. This country is at the dogs. The country must smell like dogs. Your idiot grandfather thought the country was going to the dogs sixty years ago. It must be there by now.

No dogs are that far away.

If you read the tabloids, and are convinced that the country is going to wrack (or rack) and ruin (and dogs), think about the people who have said exactly the same thing before. Think about how long they've been saying it. Think about the fact that the same publications have been saying it for a hundred years.

There was no golden age when the dogs were distant and everyone was happy. Your stupid caveman ancestor was tutting and yearning for the golden age when you could leave your cave unlocked, whilst whittling some kind of dog-spear.

Think about the people that have said it before and how wrong they were. Think about how wrong people are going to think you are in fifty years' time.

And shut up.

Or kill yourself. Because if we're constantly, eternally, sliding towards the slavering jaws of disaster, you'd be better off in a hole.

No dogs can reach you there. Unless they can dig. And can dogs dig? Yes. Yes.

Dogs can dig.

But you're at rock bottom, which gets lower every year.

Here's another thing you might want to consider from a historical perspective: "modern pop music is rubbish".

Modern pop music is rubbish.

Think about how many people have said that before.

I mean, yes, I think modern pop music is rubbish. But that's because I'm old. It's not for me any more.

Do you remember middle-aged people in the 50s complaining that the new "rock and roll" music is too loud, too raw and obscene? Do you remember middle-aged people in the 60s complaining that the Beatles were "not proper music"?

Do you remember middle-aged people in the 70s complaining that punk rock was just a load of people with no talent who couldn't play their instruments? Do you remember middle-aged people in the 80s and 90s complaining that nothing could compare to the thrill of the punk movement?

Do you remember middle-aged people, now, complaining that today's artists can't hold a candle to the fantastic music of the 90s?

Do you remember everyone, in every era, cherry-picking the best of their era's music and pitting it against the worst of the current era's music?

Well, that's you that is. (Remember Newman and Baddiel? Brilliant. Not like today's rubbish modern comedy)

Do you think this is somehow different? That this era is suddenly the one where music actually did get bad? Isn't it weird that the music that came out when you were young turned out to be the last good music ever made. Lucky you. Lucky us.

Think about the people who have said similar things to you in the past. And remember that they were tools.

REMEMBER THE PAST.

PEOPLE WERE IDIOTS AND DIDN'T REALISE IT.

YOU ARE AN IDIOT. REALISE IT.

If you don't recognise your own idiocy now, people in the future will think our generation was a bunch of chumps. And they're right.

On the plus-side, they'll be chumps too, making the same mistakes, and patting their past selves on the back, when they should be punching us in the back with jagged metal gloves.

Learn from history, my friends. Use the wisdom gleaned from our predecessors' lack of wisdom, or this country will be going to the dogs.

As I always suspected.

***

Here's a bit of fun background to the above blog post:

I've always wanted to use colons poorly.

Also, I've written very similar things to this before, am unnecessarily angry, have chosen poor examples, arrogantly sound like I have all the answers, and have probably been quite predictable.

I should have been more explicitly political too - but you can extrapolate on your own time. Just remember to put down a tarp.

(I've probably said that before too)

I suppose I simply wanted to write something, so just powered through. My train of thought was going to stop for no-one, even if I ended up plummeting into a canyon.

Anger is an efficient fuel. It makes the internet go round: chasing, biting, swallowing, and defecating its own tail.

I blame Easter. And immigrants.

Cross

I did A-Level Media Studies.

You probably assumed that was the case, given my media savvy. I can turn on any television in the country. Not from here, but if I'm close to it. It's almost always obvious where the "on" button is. Occasionally, the TV might be unplugged, in which case I'll plug it in and then turn it on.

If the sound is too loud, I can turn down the volume. I barely have to look at the remote control. It's like an instinct. I'll never press the '4' by mistake.

I'm adept at all things medial (and remedial).

All kidding aside (and I mean all kidding - don't try to keep some tucked into your waistband or muff), Media Studies was by far the most difficult subject I took. The others were:

1. A-Level Government and Politics
2. A-Level English Literature
3. AS-Level Critical Thinking

(These three taught me what the West Lothian Question was, how to spell "onomatopoeia", and how to hate myself.)

It really annoys me that Media Studies is seen as a joke subject. People use it as shorthand to refer to the dumbing-down of society and contrast it with higher pursuits like Latin and bayonet proficiency.

It isn't seen as a proper subject. It's a soft option. It's a Mickey Mouse class. It's the choice for skivers and graffiti artists with broken wrists.

Part of the reason I hate this lazy reasoning is that I did Media Studies and I want people to think I'm cleverer than I am.

But the main reason I hate it is because it's FUCKING. STUPID.

What is it about the study of media that people think is so easy? It's the MEDIA.

The media is pretty big and pretty important. You may have noticed it. It's covers a vast swathe of art and culture and technology and intellectual thought. It's almost a wonder that it's not split into more subjects.

English Literature is seen as legitimate. That's the study of books.

Media Studies looks at film and television and journalism and the internet. It looks at language and text and still images and moving images and sound and the interaction between all of these.

Analysing a scene in Once Upon a Time in The West is just as interesting and thought-provoking and difficult as analysing a John Donne sonnet. Different, but still valid.

I'm not trying to defend it as a noble pursuit. I'm just saying that it's clearly very broad and complex. Why should the study of the media be so disrespected? Stop disrespecting it. You're making yourself look like an idiot. (Not you - you're fine - I was talking to that straw man over there.)

I suppose it's just that the modern media is quite new. Literature was not considered an academic discipline until relatively recently. Before that, it was probably thought of as a bunch of lazy idiots reading storybooks. Far from the traditions of classics and philosophy and the study of which demons live in which parts of the anatomy. You know, real subjects.

But now it is seen as legitimate. The same will happen to Media Studies.

In the future (and, for all I know, in the present), there will be a subject called Internet Studies. And though this subject would be really useful and wide-reaching and complex and important, it will still be mocked as a soft option for people addicted to Facebook.

It takes people a long time to understand things, and if you don't understand something it's easy to marginalise and mock it.

My Media Studies qualification should be just as respected as any of my other, more "serious", ones.

Even if part of the course involved me creating an ad campaign for a drink called Seaman's Brew.

***

My knowledge of the media has given me a keen eye. We looked at advertising and marketing as part of the course. So I'd like to talk about Jesus.

More specifically, I'd like to talk about Jesus, King of the Jews.

This won't be a theological or historical discussion. It won't be based on any truth or insight. It will just be an analysis of a table in the above Wikipedia entry.

INRI is the inscription which appears above the cross of Jesus. It stands for Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum. It means Jesus the Nazarene, King of the Jews. Pontius Pilate put it there because... well, because he was a bit of a dick, really. Controversial, I know. But I think - and I may be alone here - that Pilate was a nasty piece of work. There, I said it.

The grand inscription above the crucified Christ becomes a symbol of mockery. Probably. I don't know. I basically just read the Wikipedia entry, as I said.

What I'm interested in is the various translations of the inscriptions. There's a helpful table summarising the subtle differences between the gospels.

And whilst these differences may be related to the nuances of language, or social norms, or personal experience, I like to think of it in terms of a marketing slogan.

Imagine Mark, Luke, Matthew and John each having a crack at a snappy summary. In reality, I suppose it would be their interpretation of what Pilate wanted written there. But that gets in the way of my analysis.

So as far as I'm concerned, the Four Evangelists are writing the sign themselves. That's heretical and incoherent. But it's Friday. I should get some leeway.

Mark's version is just:

The King of the Jews

Nice and simple. The King of the Jews.  No room for confusion there. The King of the Jews. Nice, neat, functional. A good sign. People will look at that sign and think, "Oh. The King of the Jews has been killed. That's a shame/blessing." (Depending on their personal beliefs)

Luke, on the other hand, seems to generally approve of the expression, but feels it needs a touch more clarification. His reads:

This is the King of the Jews

Luke's attempt has the core of Mark's, but he's added a "This is" to the beginning. And you can see why. Even though the legend is attached to the cross of a specific man, there's no guarantee that people will associate the sign with the dead man beneath it.

If it's just "The King of the Jews", they might just think that it's a non sequitur.

"Hey, that man has been horrifically killed. Hey, there's a sign about the King of the Jews. Why have they put that there?"

By adding "This is", Luke has made the connection clear.

"Ohhhhh. That's the King of the Jews. I thought he looked familiar."

Spinal Tap later used the same technique when naming their documentary.

Matthew decides to up the ante. He goes for:

This is Jesus, the King of the Jews

He clearly owes a debt to Mark and Luke (even though I'm not sure which came first). He likes "King of the Jews". He's not messing with a winning formula. He likes the introductory "This is". But he feels that it's not quite specific enough.

It's important to include not just his title (it could be any King of the Jews), but his Christian name as well. (People forget that Jesus, in addition to all his good works and miracles, was also the inventor of the Christian name)

Matthew has covered: a) who it is, b) his job title, and c) the relationship between the sign and the dead man beneath it.

Finally, John takes it on even further:

Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews

He, like Matthew is keen to impart information. He has the Christian name. He has the job title. But he doesn't feel that this is enough. What they really need is the home town.

There could be dozens of Kings of the Jews called Jesus. It's important to geographically narrow-down the candidates. Also, it's important to attract the attention of any Nazarenes that might be nearby. I know that I personally would only be interested in a dead messiah if he (or she) shared my postcode.

But with all that information, it's getting a bit unwieldy. It's not going to be a big sign. This is Golgotha, not Vegas. So Matthew has opted to cut the "This is" from the beginning.

I suppose he thought it was unnecessary. He must have assumed that people would put two and two together. Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews is probably that guy there. The guy under the sign.

That's how signs work in the modern world. If you see a shoe shop, and above it, the sign "Bill's Shoe Shop", you tend to assume that the shop above which it sits is, in fact, Bill's Shoe Shop.

You don't need "This is Bill's Shoe Shop".

So, what's your favourite?

I feel that 'The King of the Jews' is better from Pilate's point of view. It's so sneering and dismissive. 'Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews' is too wordy.

I think Matthew's version is best: "This is Jesus, King of the Jews". It's informative enough to be clear to the neophyte, it's snide enough to appeal to Pilate, and it's dignified enough to provide a genuine epitaph.

Well done, Matthew. You win a £10 book token (which was worth a lot more back then).

***

I'm bailing out of this blog post.

I don't think I've done either of these topics the service they deserve. Actually, the second one doesn't deserve any service. Service on that topic is just flippant - like a sarcastic waiter. Any service whatsoever is underserved.

But never mind.

...

That's it: never mind.

I haven't got any further justification.

Pinker, Paler, Soldier, Spy

I've written about something for a change!

***


Steven Pinker - The Better Angels of Our Nature

This isn't exactly a book review. It isn't part of my Idiot Flaps Odyssey either (which seems to be lying dormant at the moment). I just happened to finish this yesterday and felt like writing about it for the following reasons:

1) It's long, and so I feel like I've achieved something for once
2) Writing about it will help me remember things
3) It's an interesting and important subject
4) I want you to think that I'm clever (though as you'll discover, I will probably demonstrate the opposite)

I'll try not to summarise the book in too much detail, as I'll probably mess things up, and will have Pinker on the phone saying "No, no, no, you've misunderstood everything and you have a ridiculous face. Even evolution can't explain THAT."

But the basic premise is that violence in the world has greatly declined, both in the long and short term.

Despite our notions of the modern world as an very violent place, and our romantic ideas of the past as being an Eden-like wonderland where you can leave your kids unlocked and buy some corn from an elf, the present day is (proportionally) the safest time to be alive.

He looks at many types of violence - war, murder, rape, torture, pushing a friend's face into a gorse bush, animal cruelty, Swingball - and has shown that they have all greatly declined.

Pinker also demonstrates that the commonly accepted belief that the 20th century is the most violent is probably untrue (proportional to population), and that the period since the end of the Second World War has been one of unprecedented peace.

To explain these ideas, Pinker looks at violence through a number of lenses: historical, political, philosophical, economic, biological, psychological, neuroscientific and probably some kind of futuristic space glasses. The discussion is supported by a wide range of statistical evidence. There are lots of graphs and tables, useful case studies and interesting experiments.

Pinker identifies the nature of the change and what has caused it, both in terms of social and political movements, morality and the functioning of the human brain.

So it's a pretty broad remit. Some of the smallest chapter sub-sections could have justified entire books. But Pinker writes fluidly and interestingly, and explains his findings well. Even I, with an attention span shorter than the word 'than', found it easy to follow.

I enjoyed it, and was convinced by most of what he had to say. Violence has declined. Put that in your pipe and smoke it humanely.

But I don't want to jump on his bandwagon just yet. I suspect that I could be easily bamboozled by a clever writer. Though I "studied" philosophy, politics and economics at university, and so should be used to looking at academic writing in a critical way, it's been ages since I had to do it. I reckon an eloquent person could write about why pigs invented the Super Bowl, and I'd believe them.

I don't want to be a chump. I don't want someone to suddenly bring up some point that contradicts his entire thesis, so I'm going to engage my critical faculties.

I've read a bit of commentary and criticism of the book. I've thought hard about the implications of his writing. I've sat in a dark room stroking my chin and folding paper into the shape of a light bulb.

I wear a neon badge on my lapel, and that badge says: RIGOROUS.

Luckily I didn't have to think too far outside the box, because The Guardian did a whole feature on the book, including some reviews and discussions. One review is particularly scathing, though amusingly, the columnist hasn't even read the book, and tries to judge it based on the index. It's an interesting technique. Like judging it based on the font. But as with most of the other criticisms I've seen of the book, the concerns raised seem to be dealt with, in depth, in the book itself.

There are lots of reader comments on these pieces, offering their usual mix of prejudice, self-importance and the simultaneous missing of dozens of points. It's always a mistake to read these comments, I know. There's a curious mindset in some of these people that makes them see changing your mind as a terrible sin. Well, not changing your mind. Changing your mind is a noble crusade. It's changing their mind that's an unforgivable sin. It's a parade of snappy, snide, self-congratulatory hate speech. My comments, on the other hand, are always gracious and productive.

Even given my low expectations, I was surprised at the conviction of so many people who hadn't read the book. They were sure they'd nailed a pithy refutation of the whole argument, even though Pinker had anticipated their glib idiocy and disproved it at length.

I've read several other reviews of the book. Most of them more reasonable than Captain Index. I wanted to be open to arguments against Pinker. I was on the look out for convincing counter-examples, and gaping holes in his argument. But I haven't found any of them yet. Most people who are critical of the book seem to dislike the implications of the central premise. But that doesn't mean that Pinker is necessarily wrong.

I think a lot of people have judged this book based on their preconceptions. And so have I. I'll look at these preconceptions first, and then identify some common objections. After which, I expect to receive my PhD.

What is it about claiming there's a decline in violence that people find so distasteful? No-one wants to admit that things are getting better.

Those on the right find the whole idea ridiculous. The world is clearly going to hell in a handbasket. There was a a vague golden age, not long ago, in which children did what they were told, old women could walk the streets at night, and you wouldn't say boo the goose. You'd call the goose "sir".

Now it's all violent video games and disrespect and suicide bombers performing their own one-woman plays, written with apostrophes in all the wrong places. The job of the conservative is to halt this terrible decline, by returning to nature and family values. The world was better in this non-specific past, even though similar conservatives were complaining about similar things for as long as we can remember.

So saying that violence is declining is anathema. They see violence everywhere, and will believe in this modern evil, no matter how many "facts" you throw at them.

Those on the left are similarly appalled by the idea that we live in a more peaceful world. Injustice is everywhere, people in the third world are suffering, capitalism is causing harm, the West is fighting immoral wars. If violence is declining, it doesn't help their campaigns. They see it as a type of blindness that encourages complacency, and lessens the need for change.

A lot of criticism I've read comes from this latter position. (I haven't read much right-wing reaction to the Pinker book. I doubt the Mail has discussed it in-depth, because it would involve reading a book.)

I've written before about how I hate this glory of the past, and the assumption that the current generation is going down the toilet. The current generation always thinks that theirs is the the most significant, that their young people are stupid and disrespectful, and that modern culture is rubbish. They've thought that for thousands of years, I reckon.

I was pleased to hear about this book, because it supports my view that the past was just as horrible as now, if not more so. I'm biased, then. I just read this because it agreed with me, and then patted myself on the back. It's always good to read a clever person corroborating your world view.

That's why I looked at the counter-arguments. I didn't want my preconceptions to colour my judgement. I want to feel legitimately smug. Blinkered smugness is no fun.
 
What I was mainly looking for was for clever people to tell me if anything was wrong with Pinker's statistical analysis. His graphs are all very convincing, and I don't really understand stats. I tend to assume that if they've been published, they'll probably be quite reliable. (I'm sure this is a dangerous assumption.) I was waiting to read that he's mislabelled the 'x' axis, or reported on a scientific trial done in another dimension. But I haven't seen any of that so far, so I think I'm reasonably safe to trust the numbers.

Pinker has answered a lot of possible objections in an FAQ here, so I won't go over too much of that.

Some of them are interesting, and I can see where they might be concerned. But some people are just idiots. You see things like:

"I read a news story yesterday about a boy killing bees with a hammer. How can Pinker say that violence is in decline?"

or

"My racist aunt is scared to leave the house. Call that peaceful?"

These people make my statistical analysis look like... uh... some kind of... good statistical analysis. (And make my comparisons seem devastatingly apt.) A single recent violent act will define the world. It's that same lack of proportion that leads people to claim that white middle-class men are the most oppressed group in the country, or that climate change is a myth because it's chilly today.

People tend to give their own experiences prominence. And if their own experiences involve watching the news, and TV shows about crime, and films in which a bomb has to defuse another bomb, they will probably have a warped idea of what's happening. But I don't believe my eyes. I believe a GRAPH.

More understandable criticism is of the implications of this study. If you want to discourage illegal wars, it's not useful to have someone talking about how relatively insignificant they are. People are dying and horrible things are happening.

Of course, Pinker thinks they're horrible too. He's not trying to say "Everything's OK! Everyone disband your charities and protest groups!". He's just trying to describe a change that has taken place.

Likewise, when people rightly campaign against the appalling conviction rates for rape, it doesn't help to have him talking about how incidents of rape have decreased.

He's just trying to present the facts. It's just that some of the facts are a little "off-message".

Fear is a tool that can be used by people of all political persuasions. We don't want society to rest on its laurels. We want new and better laurels, and better living standards for laurels (fewer people resting on them and for shorter hours).


But knowing what is contributing to long-term change isn't an impediment to change. If anything, knowing the progress we've made will encourage people. It will let them know that their campaigns, their protests, their policies, their witty placards, actually can do some good. It doesn't mean we have to accept illegal wars and massacres and Jeremy Kyle.

Yes, fear is a tool that people like to use. But the truth is a useful tool too, and one that is more difficult (though not impossible) to misuse.

One of the funniest criticisms of the decline of violence is that there could be a big war tomorrow that ruins Pinker's whole argument (and presumably his shirt). People seem to think he's arguing that everything is going to be fine, that war is over, that stabbings are going the way of the MiniDisc.

But of course, this isn't some teleological, utopian belief. He's not predicting that peace is inevitable, but reporting on the increase in peace that has already happened. He makes a point of stating that wars can still occur, and the conditions that have led to this state of peace could change.

You'd have to be pretty sure of yourself to write a book that guaranteed peace. If I was doing it, I'd hedge my bets. Even if it was just a tiny footnote at the end, which said: "Or, you know, maybe not".

Anyway, that's all the stuff I looked at. I'm reasonably happy with what I've read. If anyone has any convincing arguments that violence is not in decline, please let me know. I'd be happy to hear them. (And, no, punching me in the face is not an argument.)

I'm going to keep believing that I might be wrong, and that Pinker might be a charlatan with a ridiculous haircut. But until I read something conclusive, I'm going to go along with the conclusions in this book. I'd much rather be alive today than fifty years ago, a hundred years ago, or five thousand years ago (or any number of years in between, smart guy).

There. I hope I've shown how thoughtful I am, and that I know what the term 'teleological' means. Do you respect me more now? Does this make up for the months of nonsense, stupid dialogues and childlike drawings of ducks?

Or have I blundered all over the place? I might have made a foolish pig's ear of the whole thing. I might have angered and bored you.

Blogging is a subtle art.

I'll be back soon, with some more funny observations about water and scratching yourself.

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.

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.