Under the plan, the Pope will issue an apostolic constitution, a form of papal decree, that will lead to the creation of “personal ordinariates” for Anglicans who convert to Rome. These will provide a legal framework to allow Anglicans to enter full communion with the Catholic Church while preserving distinctive elements of their Anglican identity, such as liturgy.
But, but, but... if it is now possible for Church of England vicars to achieve full communion with Rome and yet still remain Church of England vicars, if the Anglican liturgy is to be incorporated into the Catholic creed... then Rome cannot any longer be Rome. It will have become, at least in part, the Church of England. The Reformation has reached the Vatican.
Of course, I dare say that Archbishop Cranmer would never have seen the Reformation as fully complete until the conversion of the Jews, that being their obsession back then, but I think he might have settled for the conversion of the Pope as a fair compromise. The Jesuits of his day, however, would have demanded an auto da fe and stuck Benedict on top of it themselves. To them, Holy Mother Church would have welcomed the Protestant heresy into its very heart.
Benedict is smiling at the supposed cleverness of his plan. Thousands of Anglicans will defect to his new half-way house, his modified Catholicism, and this will be a deadly blow to the enemy. I would humbly suggest he may not quite thought this through... so uncharacteristic of the present Pope. If married clergy are absorbed unchanged into the Mother Church, are not existing Catholic priests going to feel snubbed? Is it not as likely that disgruntled cradle Catholics may also defect to this new constitution as Protestants?
The Pope has already shown his determination to reunite Christendom at almost any price, welcoming back the traditionalist Society of Saint Pius X despite a Holocaust-denying bishop in its ranks...
The Vatican is acting like Seth Brundel, just after he has been through the telepod. It feels masterful, renewed, all-conquering. After a while, though, evidence of the weird mutation it has undergone will to start to appear. It is not going to be pretty. It will dawn on Catholics around the world that their faith has become a completely new animal, one they thought could never exist in nature.
Maledict could win 400,000 disgruntled Anglicans now, and lose far, far more Catholics later. He could forfeit all of Brazil, for instance. Evangelical missionaries are gaining ground in South America and they now need only point out to hesitant converts that there is no risk to their souls in making the leap, as the Vatican has already smoothed the way!
St Malachi’s prophesy is fulfilled. Maledict is indeed the last ever Catholic Pope. He has destroyed the church, as it was foreseen that he would. As I commented when Mr Blair converted, I trust that the bears’ personal sanitary arrangements remain unchanged, but in future, whenever anyone asks “Is the Pope a Catholic” the answer will have to be ’...er, well, no actually...’
See also: 400,000 former Anglicans worldwide seek immediate unity with Rome
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/science/biology_evolution/article6879293.ece
Friday 23 October 2009
Sunday 18 October 2009
Dead or No Dead?
I just spotted this report on the website of the German newsmagazine Die Stern. It is all about a new game show on Japanese television. It is not unlike the 1980s British prime time, er, ‘entertainment’ Game for a Laugh but this one, though, ramps up the fear factor a little bit more than Jeremy Beadle used to. Just a little...
The German-language commentary starts off roughly like this:
“Do you find hidden camera shows boring? The Japanese do. That’s why they’ve taken to ‘pranking“ people with fake terror attacks in the popular “Candid Camera” style show, Panic Face King. The unwitting victim in this edition thinks that he alone has survived a terrorist onslaught - how his friends and the audience laugh as he tries to escape what he thinks is certain death...”
You shouldn’t need much in the way of translation after that. The pictures speak for themselves. This makes The Endurance Game that Clive James made his name laughing at back in the 80s look, well, almost gentle. I think the bit that gets me the most is the inset picture of people laughing. What a great joke!
“Der Clip hat im Netz zweifelhafte Popularität erlangt the reporter comments, noting that the YouTube videos from the show are proving a massive, though morally dubious, hit.
What next for Japanese TV fun? Well, The Endurance Game is still going and I recall seeing a report not long ago after a contestant lost all his fingers in one of their stunts, so there is only one place left for them to go. Saw, Hostel and My Little Eye the gameshow... but the twist? It’s a comedy! Laugh as they die! It’s hilarious. Naturally, they will want Noel Edmonds as a consultant. He's got previous on that one, of course. Which box has the Semtex under the lid, eh Noel?
The German-language commentary starts off roughly like this:
“Do you find hidden camera shows boring? The Japanese do. That’s why they’ve taken to ‘pranking“ people with fake terror attacks in the popular “Candid Camera” style show, Panic Face King. The unwitting victim in this edition thinks that he alone has survived a terrorist onslaught - how his friends and the audience laugh as he tries to escape what he thinks is certain death...”
You shouldn’t need much in the way of translation after that. The pictures speak for themselves. This makes The Endurance Game that Clive James made his name laughing at back in the 80s look, well, almost gentle. I think the bit that gets me the most is the inset picture of people laughing. What a great joke!
“Der Clip hat im Netz zweifelhafte Popularität erlangt the reporter comments, noting that the YouTube videos from the show are proving a massive, though morally dubious, hit.
What next for Japanese TV fun? Well, The Endurance Game is still going and I recall seeing a report not long ago after a contestant lost all his fingers in one of their stunts, so there is only one place left for them to go. Saw, Hostel and My Little Eye the gameshow... but the twist? It’s a comedy! Laugh as they die! It’s hilarious. Naturally, they will want Noel Edmonds as a consultant. He's got previous on that one, of course. Which box has the Semtex under the lid, eh Noel?
Monday 12 October 2009
Pithead Ballot
Good ol’ Normo Tebbs. Bless him. Such an innocent lamb. Heard him last night on the radio reacting to the visit of the now-released Brighton bomber to the Houses of Parliament. Cracking stuff. All about how he hopes there is a Hell so that the bombers can suffer the worst punishments in the lowest pits of all. Classic! I love the way he thinks his Earthly snobbery is going to be continued into the afterlife. Those dirty working-class terrorists are going to be at the bottom of the nastiest, grungiest dungeon, whereas my mate, the Devil, is going to have a Lake-of-Fire-side penthouse apartment ready for me on the upper levels, where I can look down on you in your pain and grin. Really, Normo? Is that what you think? That’s what it’s going to be, then? Listen, sweetheart, Lord Satan is going to sort out your ironically-appropriate torment soon enough, straight after you check in. Quite frankly, at your age, I wouldn’t go putting any ideas into his head. If the Dark Prince knows you don’t want to be near any Irish terror-merchants, where’s the first place he’ll put you? You’re not so naive as to imagine he’s going to reward you for being such a good servant of his up here, do you? Sorry, Norm, but it just doesn’t work that way. Read the instruction manual again. They’ve got their own class system down there. See, unless you’re one of the original angels who fought with him against God, then... Sorry? What’s that, Norm? You’re not going to Hell? You’re going to be up in Heaven, with the Baby Jesus? No, it’s okay. I am still listening. It’s just that you’ll have to excuse me because I think I’ve just given myself a hernia laughing...
Saturday 10 October 2009
Let us now praise famous men
When I saw the phrase “Minor tears in PM’s eye” on the BBC website I did wonder if Gordon Brown’s heart were melting, at last. Was he feeling a tinge of sorrow for the dead of Iraq and Afghanistan, maybe sympathy for the victims of the recession? I was, just for a moment, touched that he might cry for us all, instead of just for himself.
Then I heard it pronounced and realised it was the other kind of tear, the one that rhymes with bare. Oh well.
As for Obama’s peace prize, I was surprised, but pleased enough. Why not? As I was fond of saying when he was elected, it is good to see an Irishman back in the White House and so this is yet another Nobel peace prize success for Ireland... Of course, I was being silly about O’Bama sounding like an Irish name, but then I flicked through a recent copy of the Irish Enquirer and discovered that County Cork’s finest genealogists have outdone themselves, proving that both he and Michelle Obama are as Irish as the shamrocks. Well done to them. I wonder if they can do as well for former Japanese prime minister Ohara.
Anyway, it is a good omen. On the bright side, I suspect that the prize was given more in hope than anything else... and was that not his poster campaign slogan? On the dark side, I have a horrible suspicion that the Norwegian committee have chosen to laud him now because they secretly fear that he may not be with us the next time they convene.
Then I heard it pronounced and realised it was the other kind of tear, the one that rhymes with bare. Oh well.
As for Obama’s peace prize, I was surprised, but pleased enough. Why not? As I was fond of saying when he was elected, it is good to see an Irishman back in the White House and so this is yet another Nobel peace prize success for Ireland... Of course, I was being silly about O’Bama sounding like an Irish name, but then I flicked through a recent copy of the Irish Enquirer and discovered that County Cork’s finest genealogists have outdone themselves, proving that both he and Michelle Obama are as Irish as the shamrocks. Well done to them. I wonder if they can do as well for former Japanese prime minister Ohara.
Anyway, it is a good omen. On the bright side, I suspect that the prize was given more in hope than anything else... and was that not his poster campaign slogan? On the dark side, I have a horrible suspicion that the Norwegian committee have chosen to laud him now because they secretly fear that he may not be with us the next time they convene.
Sunday 20 September 2009
Out Cold
A curious boxing story, pointed out to me by the ever-watchful Savage Hamster. It seems that our brave boys have had the diarrhoea kicked out of them by a little girl. In a battle royale of the kind not seen since Ken Airconditioningsystem hung up his gloves, Ashley Wolfe, twenty-four years-old and five foot three in her stockinged feet, cold-cocked a contingent of Coldstream Guards in Canada. As the Vancouver Sun puts it:
A petite Vancouver woman is being sought by an English court after wiping the floor with a collection of Britain’s premier soldiers...
Well, her floor must have been spotless by the end of that little lot. Not even Cilit Bang could clean up that well!
It seems the soldiers were making unwelcome advances, so she knocked a sergeant out “cold with one punch after pushing two other guardsmen to the floor.”
Woolwich magistrates have had the audacity to try this Mighty Atom over the incident in absentia, as though British courts still had any jurisdiction over events occurring in Canada... which ceased to be a colony of ours some good few years ago now, I believe. Though I dare say the army may be embarrassed at the outcome of the fight and want the wigs and gowns to take revenge for them. The tone of the Vancouver Sun article is such that I doubt the Canadian authorities are going to treat the call for an international arrest warrant any too seriously, though. Patriotic pride mixed with equal parts smirking humour come across strongly in the reporting, I would say. On the basis of this story, I think we would be well advised not to start any wars with Canada.
To see a dramatic, artist’s impression of the fight, click here:
http://www.metrokitty.com/blog_files/min_page.jpg
As Savage Hamster says, Rule Britannia!
A petite Vancouver woman is being sought by an English court after wiping the floor with a collection of Britain’s premier soldiers...
Well, her floor must have been spotless by the end of that little lot. Not even Cilit Bang could clean up that well!
It seems the soldiers were making unwelcome advances, so she knocked a sergeant out “cold with one punch after pushing two other guardsmen to the floor.”
Woolwich magistrates have had the audacity to try this Mighty Atom over the incident in absentia, as though British courts still had any jurisdiction over events occurring in Canada... which ceased to be a colony of ours some good few years ago now, I believe. Though I dare say the army may be embarrassed at the outcome of the fight and want the wigs and gowns to take revenge for them. The tone of the Vancouver Sun article is such that I doubt the Canadian authorities are going to treat the call for an international arrest warrant any too seriously, though. Patriotic pride mixed with equal parts smirking humour come across strongly in the reporting, I would say. On the basis of this story, I think we would be well advised not to start any wars with Canada.
To see a dramatic, artist’s impression of the fight, click here:
http://www.metrokitty.com/blog_files/min_page.jpg
As Savage Hamster says, Rule Britannia!
Saturday 29 August 2009
La Mer, qu’on voit danser...
Merely passing on a few links here, courtesy of one of my favourite bloggers, the wonderful Agnès Giard who writes for the French daily, Libération. That’ll be political, then, eh? Pas de tout! Agnès’ blog, Les 400 culs, devotes itself to La planète sexe and this week reports from Venice.
The Divine Annie Sprinkle has been there, conducting a mass wedding in which artists and lovers marry the sea. This is the Blue Wedding, to match the Red, Green and Yellow ones previously enacted. It’s a four elements thing.
See the pictures here:
http://thefearsociety.wordpress.com/
and read the CVs of the Big Blue’s marriage partners here:
http://loveartlab.org/our-bios.php
Also highly recommended, while you’re on her page, is Agnès’provocative essay La fellation - acte rebelle which views the Ur-Eve, Lilith, from a radical new angle: elle fait l’amour d’une façon mystique, recevant le phallus comme une hostie, à genoux devant le fétiche qu’elle embrasse, éblouie par la grâce…
In poor taste? Er, hardly!
The Divine Annie Sprinkle has been there, conducting a mass wedding in which artists and lovers marry the sea. This is the Blue Wedding, to match the Red, Green and Yellow ones previously enacted. It’s a four elements thing.
See the pictures here:
http://thefearsociety.wordpress.com/
and read the CVs of the Big Blue’s marriage partners here:
http://loveartlab.org/our-bios.php
Also highly recommended, while you’re on her page, is Agnès’provocative essay La fellation - acte rebelle which views the Ur-Eve, Lilith, from a radical new angle: elle fait l’amour d’une façon mystique, recevant le phallus comme une hostie, à genoux devant le fétiche qu’elle embrasse, éblouie par la grâce…
In poor taste? Er, hardly!
Monday 24 August 2009
Shooting the breeze
Ambient weirdness factor higher than it has been lately. A two on the Beaufort scale, I would judge. Stronger than just blowing smoke sideways. A tangible feeling of it on the face, as though breathing nearby.
First, half of a conversation on a mobile telephone, overheard:
‘He’s stupid. He thinks squirrels came to Britain from North America by flying. He thinks they flew here. First, the Atlantic Ocean’s three thousand miles across, right? And for another thing, squirrels can’t fly!’
Not long after this, I am on the top deck of a bus. There are a lot of things you can see from this vantage point that you miss on the ground. For one, the curious objects that have been placed on top of London’s bus-stops. My favourite is a potato struck all around with coloured, plastic cocktail sticks. It looks like a giant amoeba.
Then there are the trees. As we pulled up, I noticed a small metal name-plate nailed into the bark of a tree. Far too high up to read from the pavement, it was visible only to bus passengers, if they saw it. Very small and faded, I took it to be the scientific name of the tree. I read it:
‘Eugene A Cernan.’
One of the Apollo astronauts. Someone has named a tree after an astronaut, I thought. But not just that one tree. As we passed them, I saw that every single tree on the street had a tiny name-tag bolted to it, and each and every one bore the name of an astronaut. Why? I could not imagine. Perhaps as the trees grow, the tags move a little bit closer to the Moon. They are quite invisible to those on the Earth. Only in transit can they be seen at all.
Then there was the Polish argument. Three Polish people got on. They were in furious debate about something. Or, rather, about someone. I can little understand bits of Polish now and then. It shares its grammar and about half its vocabulary with Russian, which I do know, although the pronunciation is a world of its own.
‘It’s true,’ the older man was saying. He was wearing, for some reason, the Ghana national football strip. His two friends strongly disagreed with him. Tiny scraps came through to me. They were discussing the differences between English people and Polish people and money matters... I had missed the beginning of the argument so had no way of grasping even the gist of it now.
Then a man with a thick African accent interrupted them. I suspected he may actually have been from Ghana.
‘Do not speak about people in a disrespectful way!’ he shouted, in English.
I turned in as much surprise as the Polish people. Does he know? Does he speak Polish? How?
‘Are they listening to us?’ the Ghana-top wearer said, in Polish. His friends waved their hands, dismissing such a daft idea. But they had been disrespectful. I knew just enough to work that out. Did their heckler really understand them, or was he acting up? He interrupted their discussion many times more, though by the end he was laughing to himself like a crazy man. Did he really know Polish, or was he just mad?
By the time I got off, smoke was rising straight again, weather vanes still. The wind of weird had blown over.
First, half of a conversation on a mobile telephone, overheard:
‘He’s stupid. He thinks squirrels came to Britain from North America by flying. He thinks they flew here. First, the Atlantic Ocean’s three thousand miles across, right? And for another thing, squirrels can’t fly!’
Not long after this, I am on the top deck of a bus. There are a lot of things you can see from this vantage point that you miss on the ground. For one, the curious objects that have been placed on top of London’s bus-stops. My favourite is a potato struck all around with coloured, plastic cocktail sticks. It looks like a giant amoeba.
Then there are the trees. As we pulled up, I noticed a small metal name-plate nailed into the bark of a tree. Far too high up to read from the pavement, it was visible only to bus passengers, if they saw it. Very small and faded, I took it to be the scientific name of the tree. I read it:
‘Eugene A Cernan.’
One of the Apollo astronauts. Someone has named a tree after an astronaut, I thought. But not just that one tree. As we passed them, I saw that every single tree on the street had a tiny name-tag bolted to it, and each and every one bore the name of an astronaut. Why? I could not imagine. Perhaps as the trees grow, the tags move a little bit closer to the Moon. They are quite invisible to those on the Earth. Only in transit can they be seen at all.
Then there was the Polish argument. Three Polish people got on. They were in furious debate about something. Or, rather, about someone. I can little understand bits of Polish now and then. It shares its grammar and about half its vocabulary with Russian, which I do know, although the pronunciation is a world of its own.
‘It’s true,’ the older man was saying. He was wearing, for some reason, the Ghana national football strip. His two friends strongly disagreed with him. Tiny scraps came through to me. They were discussing the differences between English people and Polish people and money matters... I had missed the beginning of the argument so had no way of grasping even the gist of it now.
Then a man with a thick African accent interrupted them. I suspected he may actually have been from Ghana.
‘Do not speak about people in a disrespectful way!’ he shouted, in English.
I turned in as much surprise as the Polish people. Does he know? Does he speak Polish? How?
‘Are they listening to us?’ the Ghana-top wearer said, in Polish. His friends waved their hands, dismissing such a daft idea. But they had been disrespectful. I knew just enough to work that out. Did their heckler really understand them, or was he acting up? He interrupted their discussion many times more, though by the end he was laughing to himself like a crazy man. Did he really know Polish, or was he just mad?
By the time I got off, smoke was rising straight again, weather vanes still. The wind of weird had blown over.
Thursday 20 August 2009
Tie a Yellow Ribbon...
Good old Bertie Basset al Mick McGahey returned to a hero's welcome in Libya tonight. Thank goodness we live in a country where justice is tempered with mercy. He’s served his time... well, a little bit of time, anyway, and as he is dying, it is surely right for us to free him at once. Even as we speak, prayers are being offered up to St Ernest of Saunders and St Augusto of Valparaiso for his miraculous recovery.
Some may say this contrasts oddly with Jack Straw’s decision in the case of Ronnie Biggs, just lately reversing a judgment he had made only a month ago never to release him Biggs, of course, was “wholly unrepentant” about his actions, said Straw, while, by complete contrast, Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi has always insisted on his innocence.
Age is a factor, too. Biggs is a mere 79, whereas the Libyan is an elderly 57. Fortunately, unlike many barbarous, uncivilised countries, Britain is free of any statute of limitations. Thus Biggs could be locked up the moment he arrived home even though his sentence would have been finished with years before, and his crime written off as being just too long ago in places like the degenerate United States. Thank heavens Britons could sleep soundly knowing that this vile old man was safely behind bars, just as they can now that Fred Basset al-Mugabe is free as a bird in Libya.
Well, those people who carp about this decision tonight should remember something important. Ronnie Biggs committed a foul, filthy and inhuman crime. He stole bags of money! He savagely parted bankers and businessmen from their loved ones. They were never to see them again.
Some of this cash was to have been destroyed by the Royal Mint, so it could have been included in Britain’s famous Back Hand Aid Programme and helped needy politicians and civil servants in their retirement. Biggs cruelly prevented this. He is an evil, evil man, and none should pity him.
On the other hand, Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi never stole a penny. All he did was help remove a couple of hundred perfectly ordinary people from the surplus population. It is not as though there is any shortage of them! He did, admittedly, cost an airline company the price of a new plane, so it is right that he should have served eight years for that, but surely enough is enough.
Some may say this contrasts oddly with Jack Straw’s decision in the case of Ronnie Biggs, just lately reversing a judgment he had made only a month ago never to release him Biggs, of course, was “wholly unrepentant” about his actions, said Straw, while, by complete contrast, Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi has always insisted on his innocence.
Age is a factor, too. Biggs is a mere 79, whereas the Libyan is an elderly 57. Fortunately, unlike many barbarous, uncivilised countries, Britain is free of any statute of limitations. Thus Biggs could be locked up the moment he arrived home even though his sentence would have been finished with years before, and his crime written off as being just too long ago in places like the degenerate United States. Thank heavens Britons could sleep soundly knowing that this vile old man was safely behind bars, just as they can now that Fred Basset al-Mugabe is free as a bird in Libya.
Well, those people who carp about this decision tonight should remember something important. Ronnie Biggs committed a foul, filthy and inhuman crime. He stole bags of money! He savagely parted bankers and businessmen from their loved ones. They were never to see them again.
Some of this cash was to have been destroyed by the Royal Mint, so it could have been included in Britain’s famous Back Hand Aid Programme and helped needy politicians and civil servants in their retirement. Biggs cruelly prevented this. He is an evil, evil man, and none should pity him.
On the other hand, Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi never stole a penny. All he did was help remove a couple of hundred perfectly ordinary people from the surplus population. It is not as though there is any shortage of them! He did, admittedly, cost an airline company the price of a new plane, so it is right that he should have served eight years for that, but surely enough is enough.
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Hard-Boiled Defective
I can’t believe it of him. Talk about feet of clay. The other day I picked up a curiosity. A Hercule Poirot mystery I had never previously encountered. The Labours of Hercules it was called. Strange, I said to myself. I thought I knew all of them, but that title is news to me. There had never been a film of it, with the immortal Peter Ustinov, nor a TV version with the actor whose performance seems to have surgically moulded him into Poirot - David Suchet - nor yet a radio adaptation with the excellent John Moffat. It was an old edition, circa 1970, although the fly-leaf recorded that it was first published in 1939. So, it had been in print thirty odd years but faded since. I wondered why. It was on a bric-a-brac stall in a small market town, far from London and very cheaply priced. I bought it and tucked in on the way home, but soon discovered why it is somewhat less famous than other classic Poirots.
“Oh, I know,” you’ll be thinking. “It’s going to be like with that other famous Belgian, Tin Tin. It’ll be Poirot in the Congo - right?” Actually, no. It is politically dated, but not in that way. If anything, this one is worse...
I was highly impressed with the problem story, at first. Hercule is called in by the ‘People’s Party’ to deal with exactly the circumstances that overtook Westminster this year. Soon to be accused of presiding over a massive plundering of public funds for their own enrichment, party grandees admit that all the allegations are true, but can the story be suppressed? It’s so prescient, it’s almost spooky. The story is even called ‘The Augean Stables’! A passage from seventy years ago that sounds like it has come straight out of today’s papers.
I am sure that many politicians besieged by the expenses scandal might have wished for some help from a legendary detective to rid them of their duck house and moat-cleaning shame. Weirdly, Agatha Christie had foreseen all, in 1939, and put her top man on the case. So what happened?
Ah, well, that is where the clay feet come in. Poirot does exactly as he is told. He sets about ruining the newspaper that is preparing to air the story by feeding them a fake ‘scoop’ that he himself has engineered. They seize the bait, print the posed ‘sex scandal’ photos he has given them, and in no time Poirot has them in court for libel, trotting out a host of actors he has primed to testify the version of events that suit his clients. Success! The newspaper is forced to close as the case goes against its owners. Now no-one will believe their real story! Hurrah for Poirot! Lashings of ginger beer all round!
I turned the page, waiting for the O Henry ending, the one where Poirot reveals a far worse scandal that he has uncovered, one which will send the whole rotten People’s Party to prison forever. It was not there. I was aghast. There was no trace of irony in the mystery. Hercule Poirot, the great detective, had lied, set a ‘honey-trap’ for investigative reporters, fabricated evidence, wasted police time, solicited others to perjure themselves, faked a scandal to ruin a campaigning newspaper... and done all this purely and simply to make it safe for politicians to steal as much money from the tax-payer as they could carry! This was the moral of the story: helping good chaps in government to plunder the public purse in secret is a jolly good thing, don’cha know!
Oh, Hercule, Hercule... how you sold yourself! No wonder Ustinov, Suchet and Moffat never enacted this one. Those journalists were just like your famous compatriot! It is as if you were helping crooks that Tin Tin was trying to expose! That’s how ghastly this is! Maybe your readers cheered your actions in 1939, but today, as events repeat themselves, your reputation would look about as good as Hazel Blear’s car does right now, and you wouldn’t be using your little gray cells... you’d be in one.
“Oh, I know,” you’ll be thinking. “It’s going to be like with that other famous Belgian, Tin Tin. It’ll be Poirot in the Congo - right?” Actually, no. It is politically dated, but not in that way. If anything, this one is worse...
I was highly impressed with the problem story, at first. Hercule is called in by the ‘People’s Party’ to deal with exactly the circumstances that overtook Westminster this year. Soon to be accused of presiding over a massive plundering of public funds for their own enrichment, party grandees admit that all the allegations are true, but can the story be suppressed? It’s so prescient, it’s almost spooky. The story is even called ‘The Augean Stables’! A passage from seventy years ago that sounds like it has come straight out of today’s papers.
I am sure that many politicians besieged by the expenses scandal might have wished for some help from a legendary detective to rid them of their duck house and moat-cleaning shame. Weirdly, Agatha Christie had foreseen all, in 1939, and put her top man on the case. So what happened?
Ah, well, that is where the clay feet come in. Poirot does exactly as he is told. He sets about ruining the newspaper that is preparing to air the story by feeding them a fake ‘scoop’ that he himself has engineered. They seize the bait, print the posed ‘sex scandal’ photos he has given them, and in no time Poirot has them in court for libel, trotting out a host of actors he has primed to testify the version of events that suit his clients. Success! The newspaper is forced to close as the case goes against its owners. Now no-one will believe their real story! Hurrah for Poirot! Lashings of ginger beer all round!
I turned the page, waiting for the O Henry ending, the one where Poirot reveals a far worse scandal that he has uncovered, one which will send the whole rotten People’s Party to prison forever. It was not there. I was aghast. There was no trace of irony in the mystery. Hercule Poirot, the great detective, had lied, set a ‘honey-trap’ for investigative reporters, fabricated evidence, wasted police time, solicited others to perjure themselves, faked a scandal to ruin a campaigning newspaper... and done all this purely and simply to make it safe for politicians to steal as much money from the tax-payer as they could carry! This was the moral of the story: helping good chaps in government to plunder the public purse in secret is a jolly good thing, don’cha know!
Oh, Hercule, Hercule... how you sold yourself! No wonder Ustinov, Suchet and Moffat never enacted this one. Those journalists were just like your famous compatriot! It is as if you were helping crooks that Tin Tin was trying to expose! That’s how ghastly this is! Maybe your readers cheered your actions in 1939, but today, as events repeat themselves, your reputation would look about as good as Hazel Blear’s car does right now, and you wouldn’t be using your little gray cells... you’d be in one.
Wednesday 5 August 2009
Seen it all before...
“Jordan’s Naked Hols Romp... Amazing Pictures...” yelled the cover of today’s Daily Star. Really? I mean, really “amazing”? There’s no doubting what the pictures will show: topless glamour model Jordan naked, having a “romp” (I believe that is a journalistic expression referring to sexual intimacy, m’lud) on her holidays. What larks! But how exactly do these pictures qualify as “amazing”? Do they feature Jordan “romping” with Elvis? Bigfoot? A space alien? The Duke of Edinburgh? Those images might well be amazing, though not because of Jordan. The sight of any of these individuals involved in “naked romp” on holiday would be amazing in and of itself, but the presence or otherwise of Jordan would produce scarcely any additional amazement value. Having sex in flagrante, on holiday is well within the bounds of what might reasonably be considered expected behaviour for Jordan, and as for being naked that is, after all, her metier.
But doncha, eh, wanna see Jordan, like nude and, you know what I mean, going at it? Yes, I know what you mean, but ho-hum. It’s not like I haven’t seen Jordan naked before. Of course, I haven’t ever actively sought out such images, but they are impossible to avoid. They are as ubiquitous these days as the adverts for Chelsea Lately that are plastered all across London in the most over-the-top campaign for a TV show I have seen since the Living channel scooped the rights to Season 5 of Will and Grace. Actually, I am a bit unsure about the image they have chosen. I don’t really know it’s doing them any favours. Yes, that picture is on every third billboard in this city right now. Mind you, it got me to watch last night, just to see if the show itself could be as appalling as the poster. It did at least answer one question for me - what Whose Line Is It Anyway? regular Greg Proops is up to these days. He is one of Chelsea’s “Round Table Regulars” it would seem. The show is not exactly funny, but it gives a strong sense of having been taped before a live studio audience... in 1981. Greg’s new hair-style - a buffant mullet - adds to the retro feel here no end. Hey, this is a show for men who love to leer up women’s skirts and drool over their gussets... what could be more 80s than that? Let’s all have a holiday from the 21st century, just like Jordan, yeah!
As for Jordan, well, if her snaps were to show her demurely dressed, reading a book or watching the races from Goodwood on TV while having a crafty fag, or talking to a plastic surgeon about having her breasts restored to their original size while not making any attempt whatever to seek publicity for herself, perhaps even shielding her face from the cameras... now that would amaze me!
But doncha, eh, wanna see Jordan, like nude and, you know what I mean, going at it? Yes, I know what you mean, but ho-hum. It’s not like I haven’t seen Jordan naked before. Of course, I haven’t ever actively sought out such images, but they are impossible to avoid. They are as ubiquitous these days as the adverts for Chelsea Lately that are plastered all across London in the most over-the-top campaign for a TV show I have seen since the Living channel scooped the rights to Season 5 of Will and Grace. Actually, I am a bit unsure about the image they have chosen. I don’t really know it’s doing them any favours. Yes, that picture is on every third billboard in this city right now. Mind you, it got me to watch last night, just to see if the show itself could be as appalling as the poster. It did at least answer one question for me - what Whose Line Is It Anyway? regular Greg Proops is up to these days. He is one of Chelsea’s “Round Table Regulars” it would seem. The show is not exactly funny, but it gives a strong sense of having been taped before a live studio audience... in 1981. Greg’s new hair-style - a buffant mullet - adds to the retro feel here no end. Hey, this is a show for men who love to leer up women’s skirts and drool over their gussets... what could be more 80s than that? Let’s all have a holiday from the 21st century, just like Jordan, yeah!
As for Jordan, well, if her snaps were to show her demurely dressed, reading a book or watching the races from Goodwood on TV while having a crafty fag, or talking to a plastic surgeon about having her breasts restored to their original size while not making any attempt whatever to seek publicity for herself, perhaps even shielding her face from the cameras... now that would amaze me!
Sunday 2 August 2009
The Chicken and the Yegg
I hadn’t realised the new film Public Enemies was based on a book, nor that the book was a straight history of the gangsters of the 1930s. I turned up a copy of it the other day and have not been able to put it down since. The revelation in it is that although I was vaguely familiar with the names and exploits of the prominent do-badders of the period, like Bonnie and Clyde, Baby-Face Nelson, Pretty Boy Floyd and John Dillinger, I never realised that they were all operating at the same time... nor that most of them knew one another. The gangs were in each other’s pockets the whole time. The crest of their crimewave took place during just two years, from 1933 to 1934, and the focus of Brian Burrough’s excellent history is how these ‘supervillains’ pushed the formation and development of the FBI. Out of this remarkable period in Depression-hit America come the stereotypes that informed so much of future crime fiction. I have long suspected that the pantheon of super-criminals of this era fuelled the imaginations of the cartoonists of both Dick Tracy and The Batman which emerged in the 1930s - Bob Kane’s Batman making his first outing in May 1939. Most striking was a reference in a contemporary newspaper to John Dillinger treating one of his many arrests ‘as a joke’. An inspiration for The Joker, perhaps? Certainly Two-Face and Baby Face are not a million miles apart. Pretty Boy Floyd must have been named ironically, as he wasn’t very pretty, indeed to my mind he did bear a vague resemblance to the Penguin, although it is also alleged that he served as the model for Chester Gould’s Flattop Jones. Bonnie and Clyde left mocking poems behind them, a little like The Riddler, maybe?
Without a doubt the idea of the supervillain emerges at the time, stoked by J Edgar Hoover, keen to promote a need for his ‘G-Men’ to combat the rising menace. Dick Tracy is much more the corporate detective, perhaps owing a little to Hoover’s star lawman, the effete and immaculate Melvin Purvis.
I was pleasantly surprised to read how much of Arthur Penn’s film Bonnie and Clyde actually seemed to be accurate, but I was disappointed to learn that Ma Barker was really a confused little old lady who lived only for her jigsaw puzzles - not the leader of the Barker-Karpis gang by any stretch of the imagination and nothing like the machine-gun toting Bloody Mama, or Ma Grissom in Roger Corman and Robert Aldritch’s versions of her life.
In the case of this outfit, something that has been forgotten is how much the emphasis was placed on kidnapping rather than bank jobs. The bank-robbers (or ‘yeggs’ as they were then called) made no secret of their Robin Hood ambitions, striking at the bankers who had caused the Depression. No prizes, then, for guessing why Michael Mann should be interested in the theme now that there is another great crisis in the banking system, but what sort of response should we expect? Will there be a new generation of supervillains, reincarnations of John Dillinger and Alvin Karpis? I somehow doubt it.
As noted, Karpis and the Barker brothers specialised in kidnapping the sons of mighty business magnates and holding them for extortionate ransoms. In each case, they paid up, anxious to be reunited with their loved ones. I cannot see that working nowadays. Who or what could anyone take away from, say, Fred Goodwin that he could possibly love more than his money? The supervillains of the 1930s were still dealing with robber-barons who had human emotions. I think that is long gone. The monsters of the old days have been reincarnated, but this time ‘Ugly Boy’ Goodwin and ‘Pruneface’ Paulson were running the banks, not robbing them. It’s now like the old Jack Benny radio sketch where a stick-up man points a gun and yells, ‘Your money or your life!’ There follows a long, long silence. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ shouts the stick-up man. ‘I said, your money or your life!’ After another long pause, Jack Benny replies, ‘I’m thinking about it.’ 1940s audiences thought that hilarious, but who would laugh now? With our new breed of super-banksters, there would be no thinking time necessary. ‘Kill the baby!’ they would scream. ‘Save my money!’
Without a doubt the idea of the supervillain emerges at the time, stoked by J Edgar Hoover, keen to promote a need for his ‘G-Men’ to combat the rising menace. Dick Tracy is much more the corporate detective, perhaps owing a little to Hoover’s star lawman, the effete and immaculate Melvin Purvis.
I was pleasantly surprised to read how much of Arthur Penn’s film Bonnie and Clyde actually seemed to be accurate, but I was disappointed to learn that Ma Barker was really a confused little old lady who lived only for her jigsaw puzzles - not the leader of the Barker-Karpis gang by any stretch of the imagination and nothing like the machine-gun toting Bloody Mama, or Ma Grissom in Roger Corman and Robert Aldritch’s versions of her life.
In the case of this outfit, something that has been forgotten is how much the emphasis was placed on kidnapping rather than bank jobs. The bank-robbers (or ‘yeggs’ as they were then called) made no secret of their Robin Hood ambitions, striking at the bankers who had caused the Depression. No prizes, then, for guessing why Michael Mann should be interested in the theme now that there is another great crisis in the banking system, but what sort of response should we expect? Will there be a new generation of supervillains, reincarnations of John Dillinger and Alvin Karpis? I somehow doubt it.
As noted, Karpis and the Barker brothers specialised in kidnapping the sons of mighty business magnates and holding them for extortionate ransoms. In each case, they paid up, anxious to be reunited with their loved ones. I cannot see that working nowadays. Who or what could anyone take away from, say, Fred Goodwin that he could possibly love more than his money? The supervillains of the 1930s were still dealing with robber-barons who had human emotions. I think that is long gone. The monsters of the old days have been reincarnated, but this time ‘Ugly Boy’ Goodwin and ‘Pruneface’ Paulson were running the banks, not robbing them. It’s now like the old Jack Benny radio sketch where a stick-up man points a gun and yells, ‘Your money or your life!’ There follows a long, long silence. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ shouts the stick-up man. ‘I said, your money or your life!’ After another long pause, Jack Benny replies, ‘I’m thinking about it.’ 1940s audiences thought that hilarious, but who would laugh now? With our new breed of super-banksters, there would be no thinking time necessary. ‘Kill the baby!’ they would scream. ‘Save my money!’
Monday 27 July 2009
Barefoot in the Head
I had to clamp my hands over my mouth and nose and press hard to stop laughing out loud. I had found this source of merriment by chance while looking for something else and could not believe my eyes. Hooting with hysteria in the middle of the British Library is somewhat frowned upon, but all the same, this scientific paper had to be craziest I had ever encountered. Was it a joke? No, it was in a serious journal. It had been cited by other researchers, too.
Jarl Flensmark has discovered the cause of schizophrenia and it’s right under our feet. That’s right, under our feet, because the cause of schizophrenia is shoes! Shoes are the source of all mental disease! Shoes dampen down eccentric contractions of the foot when walking, and this produces tension signals from Golgi tendon organs. Calamity ensues, because the ‘electrical stimulation of the vermis inhibits the limbic structures and increases neurogenesis, and so do the signals from eccentric contractions...’
And, as we all know, the foot bone’s connected to the heel bone and ‘the use of heeled shoes results in less eccentric contractions with decreased neurogenesis.’ Now hear the word of the Lord! We are starving our brains of vital electricity by wearing shoes! As a result we suffer from depression, epilepsia, Alzheimer's disease, Parkinson's disease, schizophrenia, diabetes, and myopia!
Of course, I wondered for a moment whether this had not been written by a schizophrenic, but no. This is peer-reviewed journal, and this article has been picked up by others. An anti-shoe movement must surely follow.
But there is hope... ‘Bicycle riding reduces depression in schizophrenia due to stronger stimulation by improved lengthening contractions of the triceps surae muscles.’
Was it about a bicycle? The spirit of Myles na Gopaleen was alive and well here. A case for the Third Policeman if ever I heard one!
As I gasped for air and wiped the tears from my eyes, I had a moment of disquiet. What if he was right? I have recently become aware of the Barfuss (or ‘barefoot’) movement and even snipped out an article for a friend on the Trentham Gardens Adventure Barfuss Play-Park.
Perhaps there is something to be said for going unshod, as nature intended.
Is humanity’s ill-judged embracing of heeled shoes a devilish plot by the Dolman-Saxlil Shoe Corporation after all?
(Flensmark’s paper, ‘Physical activity, eccentric contractions of plantar flexors, and neurogenesis: Therapeutic potential of flat shoes in psychiatric and neurological disorders’ is to be found in Medical Hypotheses, Volume 73, Issue Number 2, August 2009, pp 130 - 132)
Jarl Flensmark has discovered the cause of schizophrenia and it’s right under our feet. That’s right, under our feet, because the cause of schizophrenia is shoes! Shoes are the source of all mental disease! Shoes dampen down eccentric contractions of the foot when walking, and this produces tension signals from Golgi tendon organs. Calamity ensues, because the ‘electrical stimulation of the vermis inhibits the limbic structures and increases neurogenesis, and so do the signals from eccentric contractions...’
And, as we all know, the foot bone’s connected to the heel bone and ‘the use of heeled shoes results in less eccentric contractions with decreased neurogenesis.’ Now hear the word of the Lord! We are starving our brains of vital electricity by wearing shoes! As a result we suffer from depression, epilepsia, Alzheimer's disease, Parkinson's disease, schizophrenia, diabetes, and myopia!
Of course, I wondered for a moment whether this had not been written by a schizophrenic, but no. This is peer-reviewed journal, and this article has been picked up by others. An anti-shoe movement must surely follow.
But there is hope... ‘Bicycle riding reduces depression in schizophrenia due to stronger stimulation by improved lengthening contractions of the triceps surae muscles.’
Was it about a bicycle? The spirit of Myles na Gopaleen was alive and well here. A case for the Third Policeman if ever I heard one!
As I gasped for air and wiped the tears from my eyes, I had a moment of disquiet. What if he was right? I have recently become aware of the Barfuss (or ‘barefoot’) movement and even snipped out an article for a friend on the Trentham Gardens Adventure Barfuss Play-Park.
Perhaps there is something to be said for going unshod, as nature intended.
Is humanity’s ill-judged embracing of heeled shoes a devilish plot by the Dolman-Saxlil Shoe Corporation after all?
(Flensmark’s paper, ‘Physical activity, eccentric contractions of plantar flexors, and neurogenesis: Therapeutic potential of flat shoes in psychiatric and neurological disorders’ is to be found in Medical Hypotheses, Volume 73, Issue Number 2, August 2009, pp 130 - 132)
Friday 10 July 2009
Ptang! Ptow! Ptath!
For obscure but pertinent reasons I have become highly interested in the works of A.E. van Vogt once again. By chance I picked up an old Panther Books edition of his 1940s space opera The Book of Ptath. It’s a gem.
Nobody ever did utterly insane plots like old A.E van V and this one does not disappoint. A typical van Vogtian superman appears from nowhere, does all of Craig Raine’s ‘Martian’ poet concept forty years early and far better, then goes... oh, I’m bored with the superman discovering his powers thing, I’m going to make him a WWII fighter teleported into the far future... oh, no... er, he’s a reincarnation... It’s 200 million years AD. Er, no, I like ancient Egypt better. There’s a temple and a goddess with super powers too. Oh, no, er, I think I’ll have two goddesses. And there’s a magic chair... a magic chair to turn the superman into a god, if he sits down in it but he has to invade the supercontinent that’s stolen it first, but, er, for some reason he’s just been mistaken for a prince who’s got an army of billions and he’ll do it, but he’s not sure if he’s going to sit down in the chair or not. Only if it the opportunity presents itself. And one of the goddesses wants to kill him... er, no, to save him, er, no, she’s the reincarnation of his lost love... er, no, I think I’ll make her the Nemesis of the other goddess, and she wants to save the superman... or kill him... I’m not sure. Maybe both. And maybe the evil goddess wants him to start the war, or maybe she wants him not to invade after all... or maybe she wants both. Yeah. Both. That’s better...
Like I said, no-one wrote completely raving mad make-it-all-up-as-I-go-along plots like vV, and no-one managed to infuse every word with their own unique crazed brand of man-and-superman triumphant will philosophy better than him... not even Ayn Rand.
The best thing about the edition I have though, is that it features what has to be the laziest piece of SF cover art I have ever seen. Have a look. Is it a many tentacled creature from a black lagoon? Er, no. Is it a scene from a psychedelic freak-out? A little more homespun than that. A household object seen from an unusual angle, would you believe? No need to ask the family, though. Have another, closer look! That’s right! It’s a rubber bathmat!
Does the bathmat play an important part in the drama? It hasn’t so far, but it is so barking bonkers that it would not be out of place.
Nobody ever did utterly insane plots like old A.E van V and this one does not disappoint. A typical van Vogtian superman appears from nowhere, does all of Craig Raine’s ‘Martian’ poet concept forty years early and far better, then goes... oh, I’m bored with the superman discovering his powers thing, I’m going to make him a WWII fighter teleported into the far future... oh, no... er, he’s a reincarnation... It’s 200 million years AD. Er, no, I like ancient Egypt better. There’s a temple and a goddess with super powers too. Oh, no, er, I think I’ll have two goddesses. And there’s a magic chair... a magic chair to turn the superman into a god, if he sits down in it but he has to invade the supercontinent that’s stolen it first, but, er, for some reason he’s just been mistaken for a prince who’s got an army of billions and he’ll do it, but he’s not sure if he’s going to sit down in the chair or not. Only if it the opportunity presents itself. And one of the goddesses wants to kill him... er, no, to save him, er, no, she’s the reincarnation of his lost love... er, no, I think I’ll make her the Nemesis of the other goddess, and she wants to save the superman... or kill him... I’m not sure. Maybe both. And maybe the evil goddess wants him to start the war, or maybe she wants him not to invade after all... or maybe she wants both. Yeah. Both. That’s better...
Like I said, no-one wrote completely raving mad make-it-all-up-as-I-go-along plots like vV, and no-one managed to infuse every word with their own unique crazed brand of man-and-superman triumphant will philosophy better than him... not even Ayn Rand.
The best thing about the edition I have though, is that it features what has to be the laziest piece of SF cover art I have ever seen. Have a look. Is it a many tentacled creature from a black lagoon? Er, no. Is it a scene from a psychedelic freak-out? A little more homespun than that. A household object seen from an unusual angle, would you believe? No need to ask the family, though. Have another, closer look! That’s right! It’s a rubber bathmat!
Does the bathmat play an important part in the drama? It hasn’t so far, but it is so barking bonkers that it would not be out of place.
Sunday 5 July 2009
Right Herberts
Curious thing... Twice in the same week I have heard, on quite separate and unrelated podcast networks, former oil company executives turned New Age gurus insisting that the idea of oil being a fossil fuel is a mere conspiracy theory. It was the conclusion of just one man more than a hundred years ago. There is no other evidence that it is so, they said. Not only that, they revealed that this opinion is the accepted wisdom of the oil industry. They said this in tones that suggested their own exits from that industry had not changed their belief that oil is not a fossil.
Highly interesting. If oil is not a fossil, then what is it? That coal is a fossil ought to be without doubt, since even I have seen the ghost veins of ancient leaves etched onto the surface of that black stuff. Since you can compress and crack coal into oil does strongly suggest that it is merely an older form of the same fossil.
Yet, it seems, industry insiders are sceptical of this theory. I had never heard this before. I have, though, long wondered why they took the approach to oil that it do, namely one of always assuming they will find more of the stuff and that we should never worry about it running out. I have long wondered why our political leaders act as though there is no crisis coming, as though there will always be plenty of oil forever and infinitely into the future.
They have no Plan B because in their minds, evidently, there is no need for a Plan B. Presumably they must believe that oil is a living substance, that it is still being manufactured, generated by some underground organism that secretes it and fills pockets in the crust as it passes through its tiny burrows.
It dawned on me that I had heard this before. This is the origin of Spice on Dune... Arrakis... Desert Planet. The ‘Little Makers’, deep below the surface generate the beginnings of it, and then the sandworms feed and process their makings into the finished product...
I then remembered that Frank Herbert began his career as an oil company executive, and that Dune is a fantasy version of Arabia, the extraction of Spice based on his own experience on the rigs. Was Herbert telling us the secret theory of oil that industry high-ups believe?
I think he might have been. But is there anything in it?
I do doubt it, but even if it were true, were oil like the everlasting cheese in the Grimm Brothers’ folktale, we are tearing into it at far too great a speed for it ever to regenerate. Their story, after all, ends with no crumb of cheese left for it to regrow, so greedy have the family been to consume it all. Herbert’s novel, though, ends with the Spice provoking a powerful new level of consciousness that spreads across the galaxy... as does a Jihad which leaves billions dead and Dune a lifeless rock. That oil will provoke the former is already evident as the world wakes up to the effect it is having on our planet. Whether Herbert’s second avatar will also follow is another question.
Highly interesting. If oil is not a fossil, then what is it? That coal is a fossil ought to be without doubt, since even I have seen the ghost veins of ancient leaves etched onto the surface of that black stuff. Since you can compress and crack coal into oil does strongly suggest that it is merely an older form of the same fossil.
Yet, it seems, industry insiders are sceptical of this theory. I had never heard this before. I have, though, long wondered why they took the approach to oil that it do, namely one of always assuming they will find more of the stuff and that we should never worry about it running out. I have long wondered why our political leaders act as though there is no crisis coming, as though there will always be plenty of oil forever and infinitely into the future.
They have no Plan B because in their minds, evidently, there is no need for a Plan B. Presumably they must believe that oil is a living substance, that it is still being manufactured, generated by some underground organism that secretes it and fills pockets in the crust as it passes through its tiny burrows.
It dawned on me that I had heard this before. This is the origin of Spice on Dune... Arrakis... Desert Planet. The ‘Little Makers’, deep below the surface generate the beginnings of it, and then the sandworms feed and process their makings into the finished product...
I then remembered that Frank Herbert began his career as an oil company executive, and that Dune is a fantasy version of Arabia, the extraction of Spice based on his own experience on the rigs. Was Herbert telling us the secret theory of oil that industry high-ups believe?
I think he might have been. But is there anything in it?
I do doubt it, but even if it were true, were oil like the everlasting cheese in the Grimm Brothers’ folktale, we are tearing into it at far too great a speed for it ever to regenerate. Their story, after all, ends with no crumb of cheese left for it to regrow, so greedy have the family been to consume it all. Herbert’s novel, though, ends with the Spice provoking a powerful new level of consciousness that spreads across the galaxy... as does a Jihad which leaves billions dead and Dune a lifeless rock. That oil will provoke the former is already evident as the world wakes up to the effect it is having on our planet. Whether Herbert’s second avatar will also follow is another question.
Monday 29 June 2009
Doing Alright With The Boys
You know who I feel sorry for? Gary Glitter. This must be very galling for him. “He was the same as me,” I can hear him thinking, “but they love him and they hate me.” Well, as the old saying goes, some animals are more equal than others. Gary, you didn‘t have $25,000,000 as a sweetener for accusers to drop the charges, did you? And you didn‘t have Jean Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monnet, Chevalier de Lamarck in you corner, either. Learn from the master, Gary. That dead, French aristo is like two Johnny Cochranes on your team.
What the Chevalier de Lamarck taught us is that Darwin was wrong. Now, that’s a lesson every true Creationism-believing American wants to hear, so Jacko got the public on his side right away. He appealed to good, old fashioned common-sense, the kind that tells us iron ships sink and aeroplanes drop out of the sky.
Lamarckian evolution proposes not survival of the fittest, but improvement by design. Weaklings who become blacksmiths and build up bulging biceps at work will pass on their brawny arms to their sons. Short-necked giraffes have to stretch to reach the best leaves and they pass on the stretching to their off-spring who will have longer necks. Stands to reason doesn’t it?
So that is why a man who is born black and then undergoes years of painful plastic surgery to become white, will sire white children. And he did! Lamarck triumphant!
The only newspaper to discuss this topic in any detail, that I recall, was The Daily Star, which ran a memorable headline on the day Jackson’s first son was born:
“Jacko’s Kiddo Ain’t Blacko!”
What they lacked in English grammar, they made up for in basic biology. Even The Star knew something was strange there and anyone who has ever heard Public Enemy’s classic Fear of a Black Planet album would know why. But believers in the Chevalier’s theory had no qualms. Why shouldn’t his children inherit his new whiteness? Surely you’re not trying to say he hired surrogates to bear another man’s children and pretended he was the father just so as they’d be accepted as legally his, even though they weren’t? That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard! Only an evil paedophile would do that! This is Michael Jackson we’re talking about here!
Of course. No-one would ever suggest such a thing, because it would also imply that Jackson had bought his children. Certainly that he had paid for them... and I half remember the Americans had some sort of contretemps a while back about the rights and wrongs of buying human beings. Now I think of it, the question of being black or white was involved too. I wonder if they ever resolved that one.
You never thought of having your own captive clutch of kids, did you Gary, but I know what you’re thinking now. You’re thinking: “If I took an overdose of drugs, just like him, would they love me again then?”
Hold that thought, Gary, hold that thought.
What the Chevalier de Lamarck taught us is that Darwin was wrong. Now, that’s a lesson every true Creationism-believing American wants to hear, so Jacko got the public on his side right away. He appealed to good, old fashioned common-sense, the kind that tells us iron ships sink and aeroplanes drop out of the sky.
Lamarckian evolution proposes not survival of the fittest, but improvement by design. Weaklings who become blacksmiths and build up bulging biceps at work will pass on their brawny arms to their sons. Short-necked giraffes have to stretch to reach the best leaves and they pass on the stretching to their off-spring who will have longer necks. Stands to reason doesn’t it?
So that is why a man who is born black and then undergoes years of painful plastic surgery to become white, will sire white children. And he did! Lamarck triumphant!
The only newspaper to discuss this topic in any detail, that I recall, was The Daily Star, which ran a memorable headline on the day Jackson’s first son was born:
“Jacko’s Kiddo Ain’t Blacko!”
What they lacked in English grammar, they made up for in basic biology. Even The Star knew something was strange there and anyone who has ever heard Public Enemy’s classic Fear of a Black Planet album would know why. But believers in the Chevalier’s theory had no qualms. Why shouldn’t his children inherit his new whiteness? Surely you’re not trying to say he hired surrogates to bear another man’s children and pretended he was the father just so as they’d be accepted as legally his, even though they weren’t? That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard! Only an evil paedophile would do that! This is Michael Jackson we’re talking about here!
Of course. No-one would ever suggest such a thing, because it would also imply that Jackson had bought his children. Certainly that he had paid for them... and I half remember the Americans had some sort of contretemps a while back about the rights and wrongs of buying human beings. Now I think of it, the question of being black or white was involved too. I wonder if they ever resolved that one.
You never thought of having your own captive clutch of kids, did you Gary, but I know what you’re thinking now. You’re thinking: “If I took an overdose of drugs, just like him, would they love me again then?”
Hold that thought, Gary, hold that thought.
Saturday 27 June 2009
We're bad, we're bad...
"Michael Jackson's family blame London for death" (Evening Standard headline)
It had to happen. Old Persian proverb: when you are walking through the desert and you trip on a stone, be sure an Englishman has placed it there.
That Ayatollah, he knows the score. What did I tell you? We’re EVIL! Yeah! A frail and somewhat wobbly pop singer keels over in his crib and croaks... terribly sad, ain’t it, but who are you going to blame it on? The boogie? No chance. Blame it on the bogeyman! Even from thousands of miles away, London - the most evil city in the most evil nation on Earth - is so poisonous it can reach out across the whole world and strike Jackson down in his prime. Oh, we’re good. Or rather, we’re bad! You weren’t baaad, Michael, we’re baaaaad! We’re the best at being bad. There is nothing evil in the universe but we are at the back of it somewhere. We’re number one, again! Is there no end to our infamy?
(Oh, don’t think I’ve finished about Michael Jackson either...)
It had to happen. Old Persian proverb: when you are walking through the desert and you trip on a stone, be sure an Englishman has placed it there.
That Ayatollah, he knows the score. What did I tell you? We’re EVIL! Yeah! A frail and somewhat wobbly pop singer keels over in his crib and croaks... terribly sad, ain’t it, but who are you going to blame it on? The boogie? No chance. Blame it on the bogeyman! Even from thousands of miles away, London - the most evil city in the most evil nation on Earth - is so poisonous it can reach out across the whole world and strike Jackson down in his prime. Oh, we’re good. Or rather, we’re bad! You weren’t baaad, Michael, we’re baaaaad! We’re the best at being bad. There is nothing evil in the universe but we are at the back of it somewhere. We’re number one, again! Is there no end to our infamy?
(Oh, don’t think I’ve finished about Michael Jackson either...)
Friday 19 June 2009
We’re Number One!
He said the election was a "political earthquake" for Iran's enemies - singling out Britain as "the most evil of them" - whom he accused of trying to foment unrest in the country.
Yay us! We shoot, we score! Top of the World, ma! We’re the worst - official! We out-evil America, Russia and North Korea, put together! We were up against stiff competition, but we won the Ayatollah Trophy: Most Evil Nation on Earth! We’re bad widdle boys! Better watch your back, Barack. Don’t start shootin’, Putin. You’re out on a limb, Kim. We’re evil. Yeah! You know what I'm sayin’?
Yay us! We shoot, we score! Top of the World, ma! We’re the worst - official! We out-evil America, Russia and North Korea, put together! We were up against stiff competition, but we won the Ayatollah Trophy: Most Evil Nation on Earth! We’re bad widdle boys! Better watch your back, Barack. Don’t start shootin’, Putin. You’re out on a limb, Kim. We’re evil. Yeah! You know what I'm sayin’?
Thursday 7 May 2009
Day of the **** All
Well, it’s finally simmering down now. Pig Flu is only about as dangerous as ordinary flu, the one that kills thousands every year anyway, without raising a rumpus. So, that’s all right then. It was interesting to me, though, that you had so many prominent commentators asking why the media had gone so crazy on this story. Simon Jenkins, in his piece ‘There is no known antidote for panic’ made the point very well, and even repeated it on BBC radio, in no uncertain terms. Of course, they defended themselves, assuring us all that there had been no over-reaction after all. It was perfectly justified. Phew!
What might otherwise have appeared on the front pages, I wondered. What would it take? Perhaps a madman trying to kill the royal family by ramming them in a speeding car, killing by-standers during a patriotic pageant, live on TV. That would have knocked swine flu off the front pages, wouldn’t it?
Well, it didn’t. Unless you speak German or Dutch you may be forgiven for having missed this one last week. Yes... last week. It made massive headlines on the Continent, but was relegated to a tiny byline, on page twenty or something, in The Guardian, a sidebar tucked well inside the freesheet Metro and, well, and that was about it.
But what happened? The entire Dutch royal family were parading through the town of Apeldoorn when a car crashed through the barriers and ploughed through marchers, intent on ramming the Queen’s open-topped bus and taking out both her and her heir apparent.
The attempt failed, but only just. The motives of would-be assassin, Karst T. are still a mystery (Motief Karst T. voor zijn ouders ook een raadsel Friends and relatives are baffled. ’Dit was niet de Karst die wij kennen’ (’This wasn’t the Karst we know,’) said his father.
If this had taken place in America, we would never hear the end of it, but this was a suspected terror attack (the guy had guns and explosives at home) and certainly an assassination attempt in a country that is actually next-door to our own... and we hear virtually nothing. I can’t figure what their game is, but this has made me more troubled about the media agenda even than I was before. If this does not puncture their navel-gazing insularity, then what will? What else have they shovelled off the front pages lately?
I shall be following this story, though. It’s a mystery, it’s bizarre and it’s insane: just my cup of tea. And our news-outlets are keeping very, very quiet about it. Day of the Jackal? So what? Was Jordan involved? Don’t want to know, mate.
Footage of the attack (with German language commentary):
http://www.spiegel.de/video/video-1000528.html
What might otherwise have appeared on the front pages, I wondered. What would it take? Perhaps a madman trying to kill the royal family by ramming them in a speeding car, killing by-standers during a patriotic pageant, live on TV. That would have knocked swine flu off the front pages, wouldn’t it?
Well, it didn’t. Unless you speak German or Dutch you may be forgiven for having missed this one last week. Yes... last week. It made massive headlines on the Continent, but was relegated to a tiny byline, on page twenty or something, in The Guardian, a sidebar tucked well inside the freesheet Metro and, well, and that was about it.
But what happened? The entire Dutch royal family were parading through the town of Apeldoorn when a car crashed through the barriers and ploughed through marchers, intent on ramming the Queen’s open-topped bus and taking out both her and her heir apparent.
The attempt failed, but only just. The motives of would-be assassin, Karst T. are still a mystery (Motief Karst T. voor zijn ouders ook een raadsel Friends and relatives are baffled. ’Dit was niet de Karst die wij kennen’ (’This wasn’t the Karst we know,’) said his father.
If this had taken place in America, we would never hear the end of it, but this was a suspected terror attack (the guy had guns and explosives at home) and certainly an assassination attempt in a country that is actually next-door to our own... and we hear virtually nothing. I can’t figure what their game is, but this has made me more troubled about the media agenda even than I was before. If this does not puncture their navel-gazing insularity, then what will? What else have they shovelled off the front pages lately?
I shall be following this story, though. It’s a mystery, it’s bizarre and it’s insane: just my cup of tea. And our news-outlets are keeping very, very quiet about it. Day of the Jackal? So what? Was Jordan involved? Don’t want to know, mate.
Footage of the attack (with German language commentary):
http://www.spiegel.de/video/video-1000528.html
Monday 27 April 2009
El Gordo
‘This is it - the pig one!’
In Mexico - where the outbreak began - there are now 26 confirmed cases. Some reports say as many as 149 people may have died from swine flu, but WHO officials put the figure much lower and said only about 20 of the deaths could be definitely attributed to swine flu.
The thing with diseases is not that people die of them, but how many die out of those who catch it. With SARS the death rate is about 10%: roughly ten or twelve people will die for every hundred who get infected. That’s very high. People are right to be worried about SARS, but it’s not in quite the same league as The Black Death, which slashed Europe’s population by a third in the late fourteenth century. If you caught that one, it was pretty much curtains for you, really. Once you started sneezing it was all over bar the buboes.
So what concerned me was the death rate. It’s really impossible to judge from such a small number of cases, but I guess that is rather worrying if twenty out of twenty-six have succumbed. That’s a seventy-seven percent death rate, which would mean you would have less than a one-in-four chance if you came down with it. Now that’s well into the Black Death kill ratio.
Mind you, if - as the report appears to suggest - one hundred and forty nine people have died out of only twenty-six infected... then we are dealing with a disease of terrifying potency, one that kills through the power of suggestion. In that case, the thing we should most fear is fear itself.
Actually, a bizarre hysterical illness known as Grisi Siknis has been reported just lately in Mexico’s near neighbour, Nicaragua;
"Grisi Siknis turns people into witches and they go crazy," [said traditional healer Doña Porcela]. Last year there were 65 cases of Grisi Siknis, which translates from the local Miskito language as ’crazy sickness’. It behaves like a virus, sending teenager after teenager into a frenzied state followed by long periods of coma-like unconsciousness...
Of course, some uncharitable souls may suggest that sounds like normal teenage behaviour anyway, but I can’t help wondering if this is more than just a coincidence. During both World Wars, army doctors noted many cases of hysterical syphilis, as shell-shocked soldiers believed they were dying, and exhibited very real symptoms, yet showed no trace of infection. In our fevered climate of crisis and anxiety, I would not be surprised to see more casualties from imagined illness than the real thing. I expect to see London anonymised behind face masks by the end of the week.
In Mexico - where the outbreak began - there are now 26 confirmed cases. Some reports say as many as 149 people may have died from swine flu, but WHO officials put the figure much lower and said only about 20 of the deaths could be definitely attributed to swine flu.
The thing with diseases is not that people die of them, but how many die out of those who catch it. With SARS the death rate is about 10%: roughly ten or twelve people will die for every hundred who get infected. That’s very high. People are right to be worried about SARS, but it’s not in quite the same league as The Black Death, which slashed Europe’s population by a third in the late fourteenth century. If you caught that one, it was pretty much curtains for you, really. Once you started sneezing it was all over bar the buboes.
So what concerned me was the death rate. It’s really impossible to judge from such a small number of cases, but I guess that is rather worrying if twenty out of twenty-six have succumbed. That’s a seventy-seven percent death rate, which would mean you would have less than a one-in-four chance if you came down with it. Now that’s well into the Black Death kill ratio.
Mind you, if - as the report appears to suggest - one hundred and forty nine people have died out of only twenty-six infected... then we are dealing with a disease of terrifying potency, one that kills through the power of suggestion. In that case, the thing we should most fear is fear itself.
Actually, a bizarre hysterical illness known as Grisi Siknis has been reported just lately in Mexico’s near neighbour, Nicaragua;
"Grisi Siknis turns people into witches and they go crazy," [said traditional healer Doña Porcela]. Last year there were 65 cases of Grisi Siknis, which translates from the local Miskito language as ’crazy sickness’. It behaves like a virus, sending teenager after teenager into a frenzied state followed by long periods of coma-like unconsciousness...
Of course, some uncharitable souls may suggest that sounds like normal teenage behaviour anyway, but I can’t help wondering if this is more than just a coincidence. During both World Wars, army doctors noted many cases of hysterical syphilis, as shell-shocked soldiers believed they were dying, and exhibited very real symptoms, yet showed no trace of infection. In our fevered climate of crisis and anxiety, I would not be surprised to see more casualties from imagined illness than the real thing. I expect to see London anonymised behind face masks by the end of the week.
Friday 24 April 2009
Crash
I could not help wondering if fate had played a hand in making the headlines on today’s BBC news page an unintended tribute to J.G. Ballard:
Titan prisons plans 'abandoned'
Dissidents issue SF death threat
Body parts pair still questioned
Of course, I am disappointed to learn that Saturn’s largest moon will not now become the new Botany Bay after all, that the British Interplanetary Society will never witness a fresh generation of Tolpuddle Martyrs blasting off for cells with a view of the ethane sea. Mind you, that Science-Fiction death threat sounds fearful indeed. A laser from space? Flying saucers?
I suspect Ballard would have appreciated the Evening Standard headline from Budget Day too - “Drink and Fuel Up!” I take it to be read as an instruction to binge drinkers to derive their energy from booze. It reminded me of the locals’ reaction to explorer Brigadier Blashford-Snell and his party going off-road in the bush: ‘They poured some of the firewater into their engines, and then the rest into themselves, and then they left.’ That’s the spirit. Get charged up.
Titan prisons plans 'abandoned'
Dissidents issue SF death threat
Body parts pair still questioned
Of course, I am disappointed to learn that Saturn’s largest moon will not now become the new Botany Bay after all, that the British Interplanetary Society will never witness a fresh generation of Tolpuddle Martyrs blasting off for cells with a view of the ethane sea. Mind you, that Science-Fiction death threat sounds fearful indeed. A laser from space? Flying saucers?
I suspect Ballard would have appreciated the Evening Standard headline from Budget Day too - “Drink and Fuel Up!” I take it to be read as an instruction to binge drinkers to derive their energy from booze. It reminded me of the locals’ reaction to explorer Brigadier Blashford-Snell and his party going off-road in the bush: ‘They poured some of the firewater into their engines, and then the rest into themselves, and then they left.’ That’s the spirit. Get charged up.
Sunday 12 April 2009
Happy Easter
I have been silent for a while, it’s true, and questions have been asked. The fact is, I have had nothing much to say and if I don't have much to say, then I don’t say anything. I have had a lot to think about, but very little worth repeating. There has also been illness on the radar and it’s taken time to break. I shall resurface, rest assured.
Of course, this blog has become infected itself, with hate-filled ‘Believers’, and I thought it best to give them time to get bored and drift away. They will not intimidate me, you may be pleased to hear. You see, one product of my new thinking is that the religions are not the problem. I used to think, as Dr Dawkins, that if only people could be cured of their extreme beliefs and superstitions then they could get on with their lives in peace with the rest of us. I now understand that the beliefs are not at fault. Oh, certainly, a lot of them are pernicious and vile, but some also have the noble and good tucked into the folds of the bad. They do not deserve our hate. They are no more than a fig-leaves: fig-leaves the believers hold to cover up that which truly shames them. They hope we will all focus on the leaf and not on the shrimpy member that lies beneath.
So, I am no longer going to laugh at their fig-leaves... I am going to start laughing at the things they hide. Those are much funnier!
In the meantime, in fresh (near) health, I intend to hate the sin, but love the sinner - and the first on that list is my own self.
Of course, this blog has become infected itself, with hate-filled ‘Believers’, and I thought it best to give them time to get bored and drift away. They will not intimidate me, you may be pleased to hear. You see, one product of my new thinking is that the religions are not the problem. I used to think, as Dr Dawkins, that if only people could be cured of their extreme beliefs and superstitions then they could get on with their lives in peace with the rest of us. I now understand that the beliefs are not at fault. Oh, certainly, a lot of them are pernicious and vile, but some also have the noble and good tucked into the folds of the bad. They do not deserve our hate. They are no more than a fig-leaves: fig-leaves the believers hold to cover up that which truly shames them. They hope we will all focus on the leaf and not on the shrimpy member that lies beneath.
So, I am no longer going to laugh at their fig-leaves... I am going to start laughing at the things they hide. Those are much funnier!
In the meantime, in fresh (near) health, I intend to hate the sin, but love the sinner - and the first on that list is my own self.
Saturday 14 March 2009
The Trouble with Harry
On Friday morning, on Radio Bloke, Nicky Campbell chose to ask the White Van drivers of the nation for their thoughts on the whys and wherefores of torturing terror suspects. You can imagine what that was like, can’t you, and the replies, for the most part, were what you’d expect. However, this particular exchange between Campbell and ‘Harry in Birmingham’ (twenty minutes and thirty-four seconds into the podcast) on what did and/or should happen to Binyam Mohamed made me prick up my ears:
Campbell: If he was tortured, was it justified?
Harry: I would put the adeno... er, the electrodes onto his testes and put ’em on! This guy’s a pathological, homoeopathic murderer, a terrorist, and I’d do that just to get vengeance back off him! Okay?
A pathological, homoeopathic murderer? How would a pathological, homoeopathic murderer operate? Would he stab his victims with a microscopic knife? Would he strangle them with a human hair? Now we know what those bombers had in their water-bottles... infinitely diluted tinctures of Semtex.
Of course, if a murderer were to adhere to the homoeopathic principle - to cure like with like - then he or she would have to kill by using the life force against itself. The only way I could imagine this happening would be to shag the victims to death, to subject them to such an orgiastic, orgasmic marathon of debauchery that they would expire out of sheer sexual exhaustion. To coin a War-On-Terror phrase... bring it on!
I also quite liked Harry’s phrasing at the end there: ‘I’d do that just to get vengeance back off him!’ In other words, he’d commit the torture especially so that he could, later, be the victim of his own victim’s vengeance, enacted upon himself... which is, er, both sadism and masochism in perfect - almost homoeopathic - harmony.
Campbell: If he was tortured, was it justified?
Harry: I would put the adeno... er, the electrodes onto his testes and put ’em on! This guy’s a pathological, homoeopathic murderer, a terrorist, and I’d do that just to get vengeance back off him! Okay?
A pathological, homoeopathic murderer? How would a pathological, homoeopathic murderer operate? Would he stab his victims with a microscopic knife? Would he strangle them with a human hair? Now we know what those bombers had in their water-bottles... infinitely diluted tinctures of Semtex.
Of course, if a murderer were to adhere to the homoeopathic principle - to cure like with like - then he or she would have to kill by using the life force against itself. The only way I could imagine this happening would be to shag the victims to death, to subject them to such an orgiastic, orgasmic marathon of debauchery that they would expire out of sheer sexual exhaustion. To coin a War-On-Terror phrase... bring it on!
I also quite liked Harry’s phrasing at the end there: ‘I’d do that just to get vengeance back off him!’ In other words, he’d commit the torture especially so that he could, later, be the victim of his own victim’s vengeance, enacted upon himself... which is, er, both sadism and masochism in perfect - almost homoeopathic - harmony.
Thursday 12 March 2009
There Will Be Blood
I have been silent lately because I have had very little to say. But I have been reading a lot - inspired and galvanized as I have been by the thinking of my friend Cat Vincent. Like me, he has been exercised by the men - and they are nearly always men - who scream their fanaticism for religious and political manias in fit and fury. He names them after ‘the unintelligent cartoon character’ of the old Viz comic. These souls take offence at the least perceived slight, and their fizzing hatred can do nought to sixty in under a second. The Stig!
Why are they so furious? I, too, have been wondering this. For a long time I have questioned whether ‘believers’ are, indeed, quite right in the head. Now I have read a lot of scientific papers over the past month or so... enough that I am beginning to see some evidence that, just maybe, they are not. The part of the brain that seems to be involved in their ill-behaviour is an area known as the temporoparietal junction. If you’re outraged to unblinking frenzy by anyone’s lack of faith in whatever personal obsession rules every minute of your day, then your t-junction may well have sustained a bit of damage along the way. Too many philosophical handbrake turns coming home from late-night mental ram-raids, I expect.
Of course, all the world’s muckers, hate-mongers, rude-kids and flame-boys are deft hands at DIY and will want to put it right themselves. I recommend a Black and Decker CD18CA Drill Driver with a 5mm bit in the keyless metal chuck. Angle it towards the nexus of the temporal and parietal lobes. Keep a steady hand and you'll surely get there, and after you do, admire your work in the mirror. As you gaze on that little round aperture, you will be able to see exactly how the rest of the world needs any of you.
Why are they so furious? I, too, have been wondering this. For a long time I have questioned whether ‘believers’ are, indeed, quite right in the head. Now I have read a lot of scientific papers over the past month or so... enough that I am beginning to see some evidence that, just maybe, they are not. The part of the brain that seems to be involved in their ill-behaviour is an area known as the temporoparietal junction. If you’re outraged to unblinking frenzy by anyone’s lack of faith in whatever personal obsession rules every minute of your day, then your t-junction may well have sustained a bit of damage along the way. Too many philosophical handbrake turns coming home from late-night mental ram-raids, I expect.
Of course, all the world’s muckers, hate-mongers, rude-kids and flame-boys are deft hands at DIY and will want to put it right themselves. I recommend a Black and Decker CD18CA Drill Driver with a 5mm bit in the keyless metal chuck. Angle it towards the nexus of the temporal and parietal lobes. Keep a steady hand and you'll surely get there, and after you do, admire your work in the mirror. As you gaze on that little round aperture, you will be able to see exactly how the rest of the world needs any of you.
Thursday 12 February 2009
Putting the mockers on it
I would direct your attention to a recent post by a very good friend of mine who, like me, has been worrying away at the conundrum of the nutty fundamentalists and their inability to take a joke. He has put together some provocative ideas, and even gives me a name-check into the bargain, for which many thanks.
I have thoughts on this same topic a brewing, but am holding back just for now. Soak up Cat Vincent’s considered wisdom on the subject, though. ‘I’ve finally nailed that piece about satire and mockery,’ he says. I think so too. Have a look at it here:
http://catvincent.wordpress.com/2009/02/11/making-a-mockery/
The video inserts are spectacularly well chosen, too!
I have also been enjoying these podcast feeds, and cannot recommend them too highly to all psychonauts and alternative thinkers. Shamanic Freedom Radio has an interview with scientific heretic Dr Rupert Sheldrake and also a recording of his recent talk at Goldsmith’s College for Dr Chris French’s psychology department.
Much as I massively respect him, Sheldrake is a little too wary of Dr French in his interview, though, accusing him of being the leader in the promotion of the debunking school of British scepticism. I would award that accolade to Dr Richard Wiseman, myself, however. He is what I would call a sKeptic - namely someone whom no amount of evidence would ever convince, while Dr French is a true sceptic (note I differentiate the spelling!) who remains to be convinced, but I believe he really would be if the evidence was there. I have met both these men, and... well, I do not think Dr Wiseman would invite Dr Sheldrake to breathe anywhere near him, let alone speak to his students; quite unlike Chris French, who hosted the lecture. Listen and be informed!
The other podcast page to watch is Psychonautica in which ‘Max Freakout’ introduces some outstanding talks from the World Psychedelic Forum. Of special interest are podcasts 060 and 059 in which legendary psi-science guru Dr Stanislav Grof talks at the forum on the ‘psychology of the future: lessons from modern consciousness research.’ Also highly recommended are the sessions with Daniel Pinchbeck on the future of psychedelics, science and technology.
Feed your head!
I have thoughts on this same topic a brewing, but am holding back just for now. Soak up Cat Vincent’s considered wisdom on the subject, though. ‘I’ve finally nailed that piece about satire and mockery,’ he says. I think so too. Have a look at it here:
http://catvincent.wordpress.com/2009/02/11/making-a-mockery/
The video inserts are spectacularly well chosen, too!
I have also been enjoying these podcast feeds, and cannot recommend them too highly to all psychonauts and alternative thinkers. Shamanic Freedom Radio has an interview with scientific heretic Dr Rupert Sheldrake and also a recording of his recent talk at Goldsmith’s College for Dr Chris French’s psychology department.
Much as I massively respect him, Sheldrake is a little too wary of Dr French in his interview, though, accusing him of being the leader in the promotion of the debunking school of British scepticism. I would award that accolade to Dr Richard Wiseman, myself, however. He is what I would call a sKeptic - namely someone whom no amount of evidence would ever convince, while Dr French is a true sceptic (note I differentiate the spelling!) who remains to be convinced, but I believe he really would be if the evidence was there. I have met both these men, and... well, I do not think Dr Wiseman would invite Dr Sheldrake to breathe anywhere near him, let alone speak to his students; quite unlike Chris French, who hosted the lecture. Listen and be informed!
The other podcast page to watch is Psychonautica in which ‘Max Freakout’ introduces some outstanding talks from the World Psychedelic Forum. Of special interest are podcasts 060 and 059 in which legendary psi-science guru Dr Stanislav Grof talks at the forum on the ‘psychology of the future: lessons from modern consciousness research.’ Also highly recommended are the sessions with Daniel Pinchbeck on the future of psychedelics, science and technology.
Feed your head!
Phoney Business
I met a good friend a few nights ago and asked him what he thinks about the political scene. His is normally a very informed opinion, rubbing shoulders as he does with the movers and shakers of London politics. He has been surprised how much new freedom he has with the contractors he needs to deploy on big council projects.
‘People who wouldn’t have discussed business seriously at all before are now offering me as much as I want!’ he told me. ‘It’s not the public sector that’s making me the big offers, it’s the private companies because they’re quick off the mark. They know they have to adapt or die and so they’re doing it, while government has to sit around and hold meetings before they can make a decision.’
‘That’s why planned economies fail,’ I said. ‘The free market does work, but it only works if you have swift circulation of money. You can’t have survival-of-the-fittest competition if all your consumers are beggar-poor. That’s why Thatcher failed, too. She was obsessed with reducing the circulation, cutting the money supply, and then she couldn’t understand why everyone else in Europe was overtaking us, like we were a Vintage Model T in Formula One race. Well, now the banks have cut off the money supply entirely, and everyone can see it’s not good for business.’
‘These new Tories, though,’ he said, ‘they’re different. I had a meeting with them the other day and I was surprised. To me, Tories have always meant Margaret Thatcher and her old Fascists,’ he said. ‘But these ones are a different breed. They’re educated. And a lot of them are gay.’
‘William Haig’s front bench was almost entirely gay,’ I said. ‘Although they weren’t ‘out’, of course.’
‘Well these new Tories are and they impressed me,’ he said. ‘They’re going to win. Trust me on this. The next election’s got to be in the next twelve months. What can Brown do between now and then?’
‘A year’s a long time,’ I said. ‘A year ago everyone thought he was finished. Who’d have guessed he’d look so much better now? He’s playing the old Thatcher strategy: we got you into this mess, and we’re the only ones who can get you out of it.’
‘I still say the Tories’re going to win,’ he said. ‘And when they do, they’ll hold a second term.’
‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘As I’ve mentioned before, elections aren’t won on poll leads, they’re won on swing, and this is still a big swing for them to pull off. Besides, it doesn’t matter how we vote, or how anyone votes...’
‘I know, it’ll be down to the key marginals,’ he said.
‘And they’re all in the West Midlands,’I said.
‘The BNP’s going to win, then, if that’s the case,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’ll be a good time for Fascists. It was in the last Great Depression.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘I look around at the world from the top deck of the bus and it’s a very revealing picture. If there’s an economic disaster, where is it? Nothing’s different. Everyone’s still driving around in their gas-guzzling, four-by-fours, just like they ever did. Pull up to the bumper, baby! You wouldn’t think there was anything wrong. I saw a man the other night, all on his own, in his giant People Carrier, a long jam of equally vast cars ahead of him but he was happy. He had an animatronic toy chihuahua dancing about on his dashboard, wiggling its ears. The ears were tiny tweeters. It was attached by a cable to his iPod. This was a singing, dancing robot dog! Where is this Great Depression with executive toys like that about?’
‘You see,’ I went on, ‘this is the Phoney War. This’s like the Autumn of 1939. Everyone knew war had been declared, but nothing had happened. So they all went on about their business. There was a bit of news in the papers about some of our boys going out to France, getting holed up near some place called Dunkerque. Well, that would discourage Fritz. No reason to worry. And this went on for a while, but then, come 1940, it was: “Jesus! Christ! They’re dropping bombs on us!” And then they remembered they were in a war. We haven’t reached that point yet, but it’s coming. If the Tories win, they’ll come in during the Phoney War. They will then be sitting on the Treasury Bench when the Blitz arrives. That second term won’t look so easy after that. But whoever it is, whether it’s Brown pulling off a narrow-squeak victory, or Cameron, they’ll both come off as weak as Chamberlaine in the face of the blast. I don’t see any sign of a new Churchill, either.’
‘People who wouldn’t have discussed business seriously at all before are now offering me as much as I want!’ he told me. ‘It’s not the public sector that’s making me the big offers, it’s the private companies because they’re quick off the mark. They know they have to adapt or die and so they’re doing it, while government has to sit around and hold meetings before they can make a decision.’
‘That’s why planned economies fail,’ I said. ‘The free market does work, but it only works if you have swift circulation of money. You can’t have survival-of-the-fittest competition if all your consumers are beggar-poor. That’s why Thatcher failed, too. She was obsessed with reducing the circulation, cutting the money supply, and then she couldn’t understand why everyone else in Europe was overtaking us, like we were a Vintage Model T in Formula One race. Well, now the banks have cut off the money supply entirely, and everyone can see it’s not good for business.’
‘These new Tories, though,’ he said, ‘they’re different. I had a meeting with them the other day and I was surprised. To me, Tories have always meant Margaret Thatcher and her old Fascists,’ he said. ‘But these ones are a different breed. They’re educated. And a lot of them are gay.’
‘William Haig’s front bench was almost entirely gay,’ I said. ‘Although they weren’t ‘out’, of course.’
‘Well these new Tories are and they impressed me,’ he said. ‘They’re going to win. Trust me on this. The next election’s got to be in the next twelve months. What can Brown do between now and then?’
‘A year’s a long time,’ I said. ‘A year ago everyone thought he was finished. Who’d have guessed he’d look so much better now? He’s playing the old Thatcher strategy: we got you into this mess, and we’re the only ones who can get you out of it.’
‘I still say the Tories’re going to win,’ he said. ‘And when they do, they’ll hold a second term.’
‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘As I’ve mentioned before, elections aren’t won on poll leads, they’re won on swing, and this is still a big swing for them to pull off. Besides, it doesn’t matter how we vote, or how anyone votes...’
‘I know, it’ll be down to the key marginals,’ he said.
‘And they’re all in the West Midlands,’I said.
‘The BNP’s going to win, then, if that’s the case,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’ll be a good time for Fascists. It was in the last Great Depression.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘I look around at the world from the top deck of the bus and it’s a very revealing picture. If there’s an economic disaster, where is it? Nothing’s different. Everyone’s still driving around in their gas-guzzling, four-by-fours, just like they ever did. Pull up to the bumper, baby! You wouldn’t think there was anything wrong. I saw a man the other night, all on his own, in his giant People Carrier, a long jam of equally vast cars ahead of him but he was happy. He had an animatronic toy chihuahua dancing about on his dashboard, wiggling its ears. The ears were tiny tweeters. It was attached by a cable to his iPod. This was a singing, dancing robot dog! Where is this Great Depression with executive toys like that about?’
‘You see,’ I went on, ‘this is the Phoney War. This’s like the Autumn of 1939. Everyone knew war had been declared, but nothing had happened. So they all went on about their business. There was a bit of news in the papers about some of our boys going out to France, getting holed up near some place called Dunkerque. Well, that would discourage Fritz. No reason to worry. And this went on for a while, but then, come 1940, it was: “Jesus! Christ! They’re dropping bombs on us!” And then they remembered they were in a war. We haven’t reached that point yet, but it’s coming. If the Tories win, they’ll come in during the Phoney War. They will then be sitting on the Treasury Bench when the Blitz arrives. That second term won’t look so easy after that. But whoever it is, whether it’s Brown pulling off a narrow-squeak victory, or Cameron, they’ll both come off as weak as Chamberlaine in the face of the blast. I don’t see any sign of a new Churchill, either.’
Sunday 1 February 2009
Vertrauensverlust
Long have I wondered whether I should live to see the final prophecy of St Malachi come about. Is it possible that Maladict, sorry, Benedict XVI is indeed the last ever Pope? In the saint’s future chronology, none follow him, save Petrus Romanus, whose destiny is to destroy the Church forever... but apparently this figure was added in the nineteenth century. According to the original list, the present Pope is the last Supreme Pontiff the Catholic Church is ever to have.
Well, nothing Papa Ratzi has done so far has led me to believe St Malachi was wide of the mark. But the decision today to have a denier of the Holocaust ordained as a bishop really is a classic, even by Maladict’s sterling standards.
I have been following this story for the past couple of weeks, via the BBC’s excellent Sunday programme, which I highly recommend, actually. It’s broadcast at 7am on Sunday morning - crazy early for me, although I’m well aware it’s on at that time so that pious folk (its intended audience) can listen to it over breakfast before heading off to church. There is, fortunately, a weekly podcast, though.
The editorial line seems to be strictly C of E and so it can get a bit All Gas and Gaiters at times, devoting substantial coverage to Lambeth Palace, Synods and Archbishops’ meetings, but it still has some of the best ethical interviews and debates on any channel for my money.
Anyway, they were well ahead of the major news-sources on this story, covering it anxiously last week, and doing a very good follow-up this morning. The understanding was that in the reordination of Bishop Williamson, the Pope was more interested in Catholic unity than in either what anyone inside the Church had to say about it, or in the feelings of those outside it, especially among the Jewish community. But nothing that Roger Bolton and his ecclesiastical guests said, though, quite prepared me for the reaction on today’s Der Spiegel website:
That word Vertrauensverlust is especially interesting because it could also be interpreted as ‘crisis of faith’ in a religious context. Spiegel is clear, this is a decision that actually threatens the continuing faith of Catholic believers. Of course, although Sunday took this story seriously, their strict C of E perspective blinded them to the seriousness of the story. It’s about the Pope so it’s foreign news. Thus they reported it as they might an item about Islam or Judaism. In a country with a substantial Catholic population, like Germany, it has another weight altogether. I don’t believe I have ever seen such language from the sombre and serious Der Spiegel on a subject like this, and certainly not about the Pope.
Needless to say, the Italian press have been covering the story too, although with more measured language. See:
Rompere i rapporti con il Vaticano
...while in France, government minister Christine Boutin has also condemned the move:
Boutin condamne le négationnisme, pas la main tendue aux intégristes
I am reminded of Dr Johnson’s comment that one who converted away from Catholicism was likely to suffer ‘lacerations of the mind’ and can’t help but wonder that this might be a reasonable description of what a great many Catholics across Europe must be feeling right now.
Well, nothing Papa Ratzi has done so far has led me to believe St Malachi was wide of the mark. But the decision today to have a denier of the Holocaust ordained as a bishop really is a classic, even by Maladict’s sterling standards.
I have been following this story for the past couple of weeks, via the BBC’s excellent Sunday programme, which I highly recommend, actually. It’s broadcast at 7am on Sunday morning - crazy early for me, although I’m well aware it’s on at that time so that pious folk (its intended audience) can listen to it over breakfast before heading off to church. There is, fortunately, a weekly podcast, though.
The editorial line seems to be strictly C of E and so it can get a bit All Gas and Gaiters at times, devoting substantial coverage to Lambeth Palace, Synods and Archbishops’ meetings, but it still has some of the best ethical interviews and debates on any channel for my money.
Anyway, they were well ahead of the major news-sources on this story, covering it anxiously last week, and doing a very good follow-up this morning. The understanding was that in the reordination of Bishop Williamson, the Pope was more interested in Catholic unity than in either what anyone inside the Church had to say about it, or in the feelings of those outside it, especially among the Jewish community. But nothing that Roger Bolton and his ecclesiastical guests said, though, quite prepared me for the reaction on today’s Der Spiegel website:
Empörung über den Papst
Vatikan-Diplomaten kehren Benedikts Scherben zusammen
“Katastrophe”, “Vertrauensverlust”, “Unsensibilität”: Mit der Rehabilitierung eines Holocaust-Leugners hat der Papst seine Kirche blamiert, die Reaktionen sind verheerend.
Der Vatikan will nun retten, was an Glaubwürdigkeit noch übrig ist.
Doch der katholische Fels bröckelt bereits...
Outrage at the Pope
Vatican diplomats are sweeping up the fragments after Benedict’s shattering action.
“A disaster,” “a loss of confidence”, “insensitivity”: with the rehabilitation of a Holocaust denier, the Pope has disgraced his Church, and the reactions are devastating.
The Vatican now wants to save whatever credibility it still has left.
But the Catholic rock is crumbling already...
That word Vertrauensverlust is especially interesting because it could also be interpreted as ‘crisis of faith’ in a religious context. Spiegel is clear, this is a decision that actually threatens the continuing faith of Catholic believers. Of course, although Sunday took this story seriously, their strict C of E perspective blinded them to the seriousness of the story. It’s about the Pope so it’s foreign news. Thus they reported it as they might an item about Islam or Judaism. In a country with a substantial Catholic population, like Germany, it has another weight altogether. I don’t believe I have ever seen such language from the sombre and serious Der Spiegel on a subject like this, and certainly not about the Pope.
Needless to say, the Italian press have been covering the story too, although with more measured language. See:
Rompere i rapporti con il Vaticano
...while in France, government minister Christine Boutin has also condemned the move:
Boutin condamne le négationnisme, pas la main tendue aux intégristes
I am reminded of Dr Johnson’s comment that one who converted away from Catholicism was likely to suffer ‘lacerations of the mind’ and can’t help but wonder that this might be a reasonable description of what a great many Catholics across Europe must be feeling right now.
Wednesday 28 January 2009
Old Scrotum
A bit of a balls-up, but they’ve been stringing them along... A World Service interview that amused me, revealing that the medical condition of “cello scrotum” was a hoax all along, invented to counter another condition reported in the BMJ that the hoaxers felt sure was surely also a joke.
The bit that most amused me, however, was the incidental fact that the Musicians’ Union has been lobbying to have “cello scrotum” recognised as an “industrial injury” and that even cellists in the then-USSR claimed to suffer from it. Now that we can rest assured it is (a) fictitious and (b) impossible anyway, Jerome K Jerome’s belief that anyone reading a medical text-book will convince themselves they suffer from every ailment in it (save Housemaid’s Knee) survives the passage of time.
The bit that most amused me, however, was the incidental fact that the Musicians’ Union has been lobbying to have “cello scrotum” recognised as an “industrial injury” and that even cellists in the then-USSR claimed to suffer from it. Now that we can rest assured it is (a) fictitious and (b) impossible anyway, Jerome K Jerome’s belief that anyone reading a medical text-book will convince themselves they suffer from every ailment in it (save Housemaid’s Knee) survives the passage of time.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Top of the Morning
A sign of the times? A bus-stop advertisement had broken down, such that only the top of one poster appeared at the bottom of the frame. “Top ur self” it read. That’s text-speak, of course. I knew that. But the message was a grim one. Has the credit crunch become that serious? “It’s hopeless, so why not do yourself in right now and get it over with?” What were they advertising? Futurama-style suicide booths? Or was it a public service, to push enough people over the edge so as to reduce the surplus population, as Ebeneezer Scrooge (and doubtless Gordon Brown) would have phrased it?
Then a man who had been standing in front of the display moved to the right and the whole slogan was revealed. “Top ur self up for £1.99”. It was for fried chicken. Great. But for a mad moment I had genuinely entertained the idea that a billboard advertising campaign might have started to encourage mass euthanasia. “Visit Switzerland! £65 (one way).” Of course, the cynical might have felt the fried chicken would do the same job in the end. Oh, sorry, that’s me that is - the cynical. I thought that too. Either way, as the drunken crazyman sitting next to me (where else?) on the bus put it later on, “We’re all going to the same place. We're all going to the same place.” Too right, Joe. Top up?
Then a man who had been standing in front of the display moved to the right and the whole slogan was revealed. “Top ur self up for £1.99”. It was for fried chicken. Great. But for a mad moment I had genuinely entertained the idea that a billboard advertising campaign might have started to encourage mass euthanasia. “Visit Switzerland! £65 (one way).” Of course, the cynical might have felt the fried chicken would do the same job in the end. Oh, sorry, that’s me that is - the cynical. I thought that too. Either way, as the drunken crazyman sitting next to me (where else?) on the bus put it later on, “We’re all going to the same place. We're all going to the same place.” Too right, Joe. Top up?
Sunday 18 January 2009
Captain Peng Watch
There is a great deal I could say about the current round of fighting in the ‘Holy Land’, but I really find it too depressing to add to all the words already wasted over it. It reminds me of a thought I have long and often held... that in this world there is - and has only ever been - one single conflict. On the one side are the Men of Violence. On the other side is everybody else.
However, two stories have stood out in terms of what they say about the nature of wars, terrorism and the human use of human beings. One flows from a conflict which bears astonishing parallels to the Middle Eastern troubles, yet is largely overlooked by the world's media. A prominent Sri Lankan journalist foretold his own assassination and wrote about it. His words from beyond the grave were read out on BBC World Service by actor Bill Nye. It is astounding, and worth listening to in full. It maps onto so many conflicts and addresses us all in what we think of as our havens of safety.
The other was another World Service story, but one that offers more hope. To me, the actions of Captain Peng battling pirates on his ship exemplifies the spirit of Shaolin.
As my old martial arts teacher used to say to me, when an enemy approaches the Kung Fu man he (or she) should first tell the enemy that they do not want to fight and warn the aggressor to go away. The enemy continues his advance. The warrior runs. The enemy runs after. The warrior again warns the enemy that they do not want to fight. The warrior should then hide or run further. The enemy attacks. The warrior is trapped in a corner. Now the warrior has no choice. The warrior must fight, and fight like fury. The warrior will use the enemy's own strength against him, exhausting him with the futility of his aggression. In the end, the enemy has to retreat. But, the enemy must not be humiliated or dishonoured in defeat, for then the warrior is disgraced.
All of these elements are present in this story, but it is that last bit about the shoes that made my spirit soar. I would never suggest that Captain Peng was consciously invoking the practices of the Shaolin Temple, but he did not need to. It has soaked through into Chinese culture. This story gives me hope. Should that nation come to the greater prominence in the world that so many expect, that tradition of conflict and its resolution may radiate outward. There is a proverb in China that goes something like this: I used to weep because I had no shoes, until I met a man with no feet.
However, two stories have stood out in terms of what they say about the nature of wars, terrorism and the human use of human beings. One flows from a conflict which bears astonishing parallels to the Middle Eastern troubles, yet is largely overlooked by the world's media. A prominent Sri Lankan journalist foretold his own assassination and wrote about it. His words from beyond the grave were read out on BBC World Service by actor Bill Nye. It is astounding, and worth listening to in full. It maps onto so many conflicts and addresses us all in what we think of as our havens of safety.
The other was another World Service story, but one that offers more hope. To me, the actions of Captain Peng battling pirates on his ship exemplifies the spirit of Shaolin.
As my old martial arts teacher used to say to me, when an enemy approaches the Kung Fu man he (or she) should first tell the enemy that they do not want to fight and warn the aggressor to go away. The enemy continues his advance. The warrior runs. The enemy runs after. The warrior again warns the enemy that they do not want to fight. The warrior should then hide or run further. The enemy attacks. The warrior is trapped in a corner. Now the warrior has no choice. The warrior must fight, and fight like fury. The warrior will use the enemy's own strength against him, exhausting him with the futility of his aggression. In the end, the enemy has to retreat. But, the enemy must not be humiliated or dishonoured in defeat, for then the warrior is disgraced.
All of these elements are present in this story, but it is that last bit about the shoes that made my spirit soar. I would never suggest that Captain Peng was consciously invoking the practices of the Shaolin Temple, but he did not need to. It has soaked through into Chinese culture. This story gives me hope. Should that nation come to the greater prominence in the world that so many expect, that tradition of conflict and its resolution may radiate outward. There is a proverb in China that goes something like this: I used to weep because I had no shoes, until I met a man with no feet.
Sunday 11 January 2009
La Lutte Continue...
¡Che! He’s a sexy boy, eh? A beardy beatnik in a beret who beat up Batista’s bastards. Who could fail to love him? Er, well, lots of people, actually. How about the thousands slung into jail for daring to criticise the vile, repressive regimes he helped put in power? The ones who were murdered outright, either by the Communists or by Che himself would not, of course, have been able to comment. But, hey, he’s got a sexy beard... eh? And great cheekbones. So, you forgive him, yeah?
No, I bloody don’t. All this Che adoration that’s coming out of the film world... arencha sick of it? I am. First The Motorcycle Diaries and now we’ve got another one - the first of a two parter, no less. How would we react to a major Hollywood film depicting the early life of Frederico Franco, I wonder. Well, he was very sexy too, when he was young, and - what a hero! - he liberated Spain from democracy and brought in a fine, enduring Fascist tyranny. Hurrah!
And how about Tristan, the life of thrusting, sexy German revolutionary Reinhardt ‘Hangman’ Heydrich, who stormed across Europe, spreading Nazism wherever he went. Just like Che, he cheerfully killed and tortured everyone who dared criticise his inspiring leader (in his case Adolf Hitler) or stood in the way of his glorious vision - a Nazi in every home! Cheer as he helps mastermind the Final Solution! Weep as his sexy, thrusting life is cut short by terrorists in the pay of those evil, dastardly Allies - Boo!
Can we not also look forward to Hendrik - the life of sexy, thrusting racist Dr Hendrik Verwoerd and his heroic struggle to establish Apartheid in South Africa, before he was cruelly gunned down by beastly supporters of (ugh!) democracy - ‘Boo’ and ‘Boo’ again!
I don’t see any difference between Nazism and Communism. Both were evil ideologies, both ordered the wholesale slaughter, torture, and oppression of millions, while raking in cash and corruption for their kleptomaniac tyrants. Che was a cold-blooded killer who wanted only to impose a foul, repressive dictatorship on the world. The dead cannot accuse him. We should not celebrate him.
Oh, and all you beardy beatniks out there who still love the blood-soaked Che Guevara, let me tell you a home-truth you won’t like. You only support revolution because you think that, if it came, you’d be at the captain’s table afterwards, yes? Because you were good Commies all along, right? Think again! The first thing a fresh tyrant always does - and must always do - is massacre the revolutionaries who put him in power. After all, if they could pull off one revolution successfully, they might be able to do it again and get rid of him! So you Che-ite nitwits out there would be first for the chop.
Mind you, speaking of biopics for prominent torturers, I’m still looking forward to seeing Forces Sweetheart: the Lynndie England Story. Come on, come on! Surely that’s got to get the green light soon?
(It also made me smile to see what you get if you go to www.che.com)
No, I bloody don’t. All this Che adoration that’s coming out of the film world... arencha sick of it? I am. First The Motorcycle Diaries and now we’ve got another one - the first of a two parter, no less. How would we react to a major Hollywood film depicting the early life of Frederico Franco, I wonder. Well, he was very sexy too, when he was young, and - what a hero! - he liberated Spain from democracy and brought in a fine, enduring Fascist tyranny. Hurrah!
And how about Tristan, the life of thrusting, sexy German revolutionary Reinhardt ‘Hangman’ Heydrich, who stormed across Europe, spreading Nazism wherever he went. Just like Che, he cheerfully killed and tortured everyone who dared criticise his inspiring leader (in his case Adolf Hitler) or stood in the way of his glorious vision - a Nazi in every home! Cheer as he helps mastermind the Final Solution! Weep as his sexy, thrusting life is cut short by terrorists in the pay of those evil, dastardly Allies - Boo!
Can we not also look forward to Hendrik - the life of sexy, thrusting racist Dr Hendrik Verwoerd and his heroic struggle to establish Apartheid in South Africa, before he was cruelly gunned down by beastly supporters of (ugh!) democracy - ‘Boo’ and ‘Boo’ again!
I don’t see any difference between Nazism and Communism. Both were evil ideologies, both ordered the wholesale slaughter, torture, and oppression of millions, while raking in cash and corruption for their kleptomaniac tyrants. Che was a cold-blooded killer who wanted only to impose a foul, repressive dictatorship on the world. The dead cannot accuse him. We should not celebrate him.
Oh, and all you beardy beatniks out there who still love the blood-soaked Che Guevara, let me tell you a home-truth you won’t like. You only support revolution because you think that, if it came, you’d be at the captain’s table afterwards, yes? Because you were good Commies all along, right? Think again! The first thing a fresh tyrant always does - and must always do - is massacre the revolutionaries who put him in power. After all, if they could pull off one revolution successfully, they might be able to do it again and get rid of him! So you Che-ite nitwits out there would be first for the chop.
Mind you, speaking of biopics for prominent torturers, I’m still looking forward to seeing Forces Sweetheart: the Lynndie England Story. Come on, come on! Surely that’s got to get the green light soon?
(It also made me smile to see what you get if you go to www.che.com)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
