Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm not particularly interested in crystals, astrology and all that other jazz that desperate people cling to. So when I decided to have a tarot reading on December 31st, 2009, I was only mildly preturbed when my future, indicated by the Ten of Swords, decided that my life was mainly going to consist of "desolation beyond tears", possibly with a smattering of tears before the bone-crushing futility of not being able to cry kicks in. So has it been a year of absolute desolation? Has reality melted into a warped vision of a dsytopian future? Are we all dddddoooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeddddd?
I would do a round-up of 2010 for everyone's benefit, of the main events in the world but quite frankly, I'm far too lazy. So here is the abridged version.
Earthquakes, fire, flood, global terrorism, domestic terrorism, plane crash, plane grounding, bad weather, great weather, swine flu, bird flu, flu, flu vaccines, charity, austerity, Conservatives, Liberal Democrats, cuts, unemployment, reality television, round-ups of reality television, immigration, emmigration, celebrity deaths, celebrity marriages, anger, apathy, and "something must be done!"
So, really, its not been terribly apocalyptic by any standard, which further reinforces my belief that tarot cards are a massive pile of fail designed to part fools from their money. Call me cynical, but I'm waiting for the Four Horsemen to ride out before I believe this year has been anything more than a little below average. Anyway, New Years Eve is hardly a time for people to be filled with misery and regrets.
Going back to the start, no one really knows what the future has in store, although for the remainer of this post anyone who guesses "lashings of cliche'" will probably be right. Turth is, 2011 could be the best damn year of anyone's entire life, just as much as the world could end in 2012. So, more philosophically, I guess, you've just got to make the best of it. Anyone who is familiar with Neil Gaiman's fantastic series The Sandman may remember that cute little goth girl, the anthromorphic personification of Death. And when Death does her rounds in one story, she comes across a little baby complaining that it hadn't really had a fair shot at life. Sounds a bit grim, I suppose, but I think its good to remember.
"You got the same as anyone else. One lifetime."
So maybe 2010 hasn't been a fantastic year for many people, if you want to brood one it. Anyway, you've got a whole lifetime to get it right. So chin up, raise a glass, and be of good cheer.
Happy New Year everyone.
Friday 31 December 2010
A Year in Sixty Seconds
So I didn't realize that the library closed early because it was a Bank Holiday sometime in the near future, so I guess this is going to have to be brief. I have twenty five seconds in which to wish everyone who may ever stumble across this a Happy New Ye...
Wednesday 29 December 2010
Festive Frenzy
This post was originally going to be done some time ago, but unfortunately, work got in the way. It was about how many people kill themselves at Christmas, which is probably just about all the festive jollies that you need. But things happen, so instead you're getting something similar, I suppose. Humbug.
So, unless you've been living someplace that doesn't value Saturday's very highly, you'll maybe have noticed that this last particular Saturday was Christmas Day. Now, usually there is a set pattern we follow at Christmas, and every year I just wonder more and more why we subject ourselves to it.
It starts with the lights. Bright, dazzling lights appear all over our towns and cities with no particularly good reason, unless it is to work their way into our subconscious and send us some sort of collective madness. This usually happens in November, but may happen earlier, especially if we're not considering public sector job cuts that year. With the lights up, a terrible change comes over people. Children begin to demand things of their parents, gnashing their dribbling red jowls together and crying out for expensive shiny things. Parents, in turn, lie to their children, usually about a giant clad in red, breaking into houses around this time of year. His beard is thick and unkempt, his eyes flame like coals, and apparently he drags a magical reindeer powered sledge across the world like the Fifth Horsman of the Apocalypse.
We begin to buy things, slowly at first but with increasing frantic desperation. Plauges sweep the nation, wiping out pretty much everyone except you when it comes to being available for work. Hundreds flee to the cities, seeking to spend as much money as is humanly possible in an attempt to win favour with their family and friends. Roads are gridlocked by a few inches of snow and ice, planes are grounded and trains just stop in the middle of nowhere.
Now, if it sounds a bit less like Christmas and a bit more like Ragnorok, in which a giant Viking Wolf eats the world to death, then imagine how it must look to people who don't necessarily celebrate it. In the final days before the inevitable climax, we hoard up far too much food, complain about eating it, and then eventually share it grudgingly with people we don't really like before throwing it in the bin. Then we roll our vast, bloated bodies to sit in a nest of dismantled paper, usually wrapped the night before, to gaze at a pile of stuff. Some of it is nice. Some of it is crap. All of it was bought because of some insane notion that we should do this kind of thing. Christmas usually ends around the 28th or 29th of December, when the corpses of slaughtered birds and threadbare Christmas Trees are surreptitiously thrown over the garden wall into the neighbours yard.
And then we return to hating people again. But now we've got more stuff.
Anyway, as Christmas' go, I don't suppose it was that bad. It was better than the year before, which revolved largely around arguments, desperate Christmas shopping and then finally being dumped with a shrug and a few choice words. I suppose relationships are a bit like expensive electrical gadgets. If you don't have one, you want one. Then you spend good money on it, then it works for about two days because it was designed to break from the start. Crying out in frustration, you drag it into the garden and smash it in with a hammer. Then, realizing the enormity of your actions, you dump the evidence in secluded woodland late at night.
But hey, I suppose its a rather delayed 'Merry Christmas', followed up by an insane amount of alcohol abuse on Friday night, a lot of regrets on Saturday, and the notion that 'peace on earth and goodwill to all' is a bit like quitting smoking. Its difficult, and you'll probably be dead before it really takes off.
So, unless you've been living someplace that doesn't value Saturday's very highly, you'll maybe have noticed that this last particular Saturday was Christmas Day. Now, usually there is a set pattern we follow at Christmas, and every year I just wonder more and more why we subject ourselves to it.
It starts with the lights. Bright, dazzling lights appear all over our towns and cities with no particularly good reason, unless it is to work their way into our subconscious and send us some sort of collective madness. This usually happens in November, but may happen earlier, especially if we're not considering public sector job cuts that year. With the lights up, a terrible change comes over people. Children begin to demand things of their parents, gnashing their dribbling red jowls together and crying out for expensive shiny things. Parents, in turn, lie to their children, usually about a giant clad in red, breaking into houses around this time of year. His beard is thick and unkempt, his eyes flame like coals, and apparently he drags a magical reindeer powered sledge across the world like the Fifth Horsman of the Apocalypse.
We begin to buy things, slowly at first but with increasing frantic desperation. Plauges sweep the nation, wiping out pretty much everyone except you when it comes to being available for work. Hundreds flee to the cities, seeking to spend as much money as is humanly possible in an attempt to win favour with their family and friends. Roads are gridlocked by a few inches of snow and ice, planes are grounded and trains just stop in the middle of nowhere.
Now, if it sounds a bit less like Christmas and a bit more like Ragnorok, in which a giant Viking Wolf eats the world to death, then imagine how it must look to people who don't necessarily celebrate it. In the final days before the inevitable climax, we hoard up far too much food, complain about eating it, and then eventually share it grudgingly with people we don't really like before throwing it in the bin. Then we roll our vast, bloated bodies to sit in a nest of dismantled paper, usually wrapped the night before, to gaze at a pile of stuff. Some of it is nice. Some of it is crap. All of it was bought because of some insane notion that we should do this kind of thing. Christmas usually ends around the 28th or 29th of December, when the corpses of slaughtered birds and threadbare Christmas Trees are surreptitiously thrown over the garden wall into the neighbours yard.
And then we return to hating people again. But now we've got more stuff.
Anyway, as Christmas' go, I don't suppose it was that bad. It was better than the year before, which revolved largely around arguments, desperate Christmas shopping and then finally being dumped with a shrug and a few choice words. I suppose relationships are a bit like expensive electrical gadgets. If you don't have one, you want one. Then you spend good money on it, then it works for about two days because it was designed to break from the start. Crying out in frustration, you drag it into the garden and smash it in with a hammer. Then, realizing the enormity of your actions, you dump the evidence in secluded woodland late at night.
But hey, I suppose its a rather delayed 'Merry Christmas', followed up by an insane amount of alcohol abuse on Friday night, a lot of regrets on Saturday, and the notion that 'peace on earth and goodwill to all' is a bit like quitting smoking. Its difficult, and you'll probably be dead before it really takes off.
Tuesday 14 December 2010
Holding Out for a Hero
Well, these are dark times, peasants. The dragon of austerity is swooping low over the village, looking for young girls to devour, ruining crops and generally making us all pretty miserable. In days gone by, it was fairly easy to find a hero. Samson killed 1,000 Philistines using nothing more than part of a donkey's face, Beowulf kills lots of monsters and their parents, Perseus slew an evil woman with snakes for hair who could turn people to stone, reputed to be an ancestor of Teresa May. The list of heroes goes on, particularly in Greek and Roman mythology, as well as early Britis legends about Camelot and King Arthur and all that jazz. More recently, James Bond overthrew Communism and Jack Bauer defeats global terrorism by extremely dubious means like torture, execution and beating up lawyers.
But where are all the heroes when we need them?
The whole public sector is facing massive cuts, with the private sector and charities set to take the fall. Only, given that it's the private sector and dedicated to making money, I think it's going to take a little more convincing before it suddenly starts acting contrary to hundreds of years of capitalism, but one can be opermistic. Charities could of course, step in, assuming that all they've been doing recently is hoarding gold. Nay, the solution does not rest with society, but the determined actions of heroic individuals who can rise up, fight injustice, and keep us safe.
Now, traditionally, a hero has a few defining characteristics.
1) He is a manly man:
The hero espouses manly virtues, women find him irresistable, men want to be him, and children adore him. He is strong, brave, kind, and loves justice. He does not flinch in the face of certain death, and cooly delivers witty one-liners as he foils wicked plots laid by his enemies. The hero is more than a man. He's a cracking bloke.
2) He has armour:
A hero does not go into battle without his armour. Such notions are foolish. Sometimes, in the case of Conan, his iron hard ribs and chiseled jaw will deflect the worst of the damage, whereas people like King Arthur and Sir Gawain are more traditionally pictured wearing platemail. Batman has his toughened bodyshell, Spiderman has lightning reflexes and the ability to shoot sticky white gunk from his arms, and Superman is invincible, which kind of ruins the whole thing, really. But still, a hero must be armoured both with protection for the body - even if it is just rock hard abs, and for the mind - an unswerving belief in the supreme justice of his cause.
3) He has a weapon.
Of course he has a weapon. How else would he vanquish evil? Sometimes it is an enchanted sword, some sort of Batspray and fists, laser eyes, reflective shields, oversized and overabundant machineguns, wands, or the jawbone of an ass. The hero has a weapon, and with it, he overcomes the baddies and saves the world.
So, with those three criteria in mind, I present to you candidates for the 2010 hero award. All wear armour and carry weapons. All uphold justice and decency. All have come face to face with, and bested, evil.
Simon Harwood
Faced with chaotic scenes at the G20, Simon Harwood had to think fast and take decisive action. Armed only with a metal pole, CS gas, handcuffs, and the strength of his will, Simon managed to best and kill Ian Tomlinson. For those of you who have never heard of Ian, he happened to be known as "The Terror of the West End". At night, Ian would steal into people's houses and eat their newborns while they slept. By day, he was seemingly docile, but what you didn't know what that he could actually turn people inside out using only his eyes. Harwood approaches stealthily from behind, unwilling to endure the same fate as his so many of his brave comrades. When the time is right, Harwood pounces, driving Ian to the floor and shortly after, to his death.
A decorated and dedicated officer of the Met, Harwood is up for nomination today. He espouses all the virtues of manliness required of a hero. He is brave - as shown by tackling the dreaded Ian "Gorgon" Tomlinson. He is humble - as shown by his unwillingness to reveal his identity. And he is virteous - as proved by his aquittal for what some people foolishly believe was "murder".
Sergeant Mark Andrews
Sergeant Mark Andrews also had it tough. When confronted with what was apparently nothing more than a woman sleeping in her car, Andrews intuitively knew something was amiss. When the report came through on the raido that she was actually a metamorphing GIANT COBRA LADY, Andrews knew he had just one choice. Bravery must come naturally to Mark. A former soldier, he knew what he had to do, and he did it. Grabbing Pamela Somerville by her arm, he dragged her towards the nearest police cell.
An important aside here, when handling dangerous snakes, one needs to immobilize the head, which is precisely what Andrews did, sort of. He followed up, thinking nothing of his own safety, by hurling her face first into the floor in order to further disorientate the beast. When it became clear that her acid snake-blood was leaking all over the cell floor, Andrew rushed in to prevent the creature from tunnelling its way out using only its own wounds. It shows the sheer inhuman determination of some people. Unfortunately, Andrews is currently serving six months in jail for daring to tackle Somerville alone. Maybe he should have called in backup. The truth is, no real man, in the heat of the moment, using courage we can never truely fathom, would even consider putting others in danger.
A full round up of the merits of Mark Andrews vs Simon Harwood can be found here.
Next on the list is Sergeant Delroy Smellie
Like Harwood, Smellie was at the infamous G20 protests, which by all accounts were something a bit like Ragnork, as our brave boys looked certain to be overwhelmed by the Herald of the End Times and all his gribbly monsters. As you can see, Delroy matches all the criteria required of a hero. He is tall, dashing, and strikes a heroic figure in the braying mob, their banners red with the blood of fallen Policemen. Then you see the approach of what appears to be a small angry gnome. Repeatedly ignoring Smellie's reasonable demands to move back, the hobbit creature approaches closer, gripping a carton of orange juice. Delroy tries to use minimum force, granting a sharp backhand with some reinforced gloves, but then he catches sight of something that must surely chill his blood.
The gnome lady is coming right at him, frothing at the mouth and gibbering incomprehensibly. The fate of all London rests on Smellie's shoulders. Time slows, and what seems like about ten seconds is really - quite obviously - less than two as Smellie draws his baton and lashes out in self defence. The most chilling detail in this whole thing is the carton of orange juice, which might have concealed a bomb, or a gun, or a garotte, or orange juice. Quite rightly, Smellie was not convicted of any misconduct. He acted appropriately and proportionately in what was a difficult situation. If anyone has ever been attacked by a goose, you'll know exactly where Delroy was at that fateful day.
The Unknown Hero
Another day, another riot. This is London, less than a week ago. Disabled Jody McIntyre was blockading a road, attempting to prevent medical supplies and food from reaching needy people in somewhere. Anyway, two officers tackled this guy, and honestly, there should have really been more. Let me put it this way. The guy is mobile. He is young. He has no use of his legs, ergo, he has nothing to lose. He is free to employ them as meaty clubs. Now imagine that. Imagine a world where disabled people can barrel headlong into crowd, flailing around with their useless appendages and battering people to the point of unconciousness. Police react quickly, dragging Joey out of his scythed chariot and placing him away from where he can do any harm.
Jody's blog is here
Friends, we need a hero. We need people like Sergeant Smellie, Andrews, and Harwood. We need protectinng from all the bad things in the world. And in the tradition of all tragic and flawed heroes, most of all, we need protecting from people like them.
But where are all the heroes when we need them?
The whole public sector is facing massive cuts, with the private sector and charities set to take the fall. Only, given that it's the private sector and dedicated to making money, I think it's going to take a little more convincing before it suddenly starts acting contrary to hundreds of years of capitalism, but one can be opermistic. Charities could of course, step in, assuming that all they've been doing recently is hoarding gold. Nay, the solution does not rest with society, but the determined actions of heroic individuals who can rise up, fight injustice, and keep us safe.
Now, traditionally, a hero has a few defining characteristics.
1) He is a manly man:
The hero espouses manly virtues, women find him irresistable, men want to be him, and children adore him. He is strong, brave, kind, and loves justice. He does not flinch in the face of certain death, and cooly delivers witty one-liners as he foils wicked plots laid by his enemies. The hero is more than a man. He's a cracking bloke.
2) He has armour:
A hero does not go into battle without his armour. Such notions are foolish. Sometimes, in the case of Conan, his iron hard ribs and chiseled jaw will deflect the worst of the damage, whereas people like King Arthur and Sir Gawain are more traditionally pictured wearing platemail. Batman has his toughened bodyshell, Spiderman has lightning reflexes and the ability to shoot sticky white gunk from his arms, and Superman is invincible, which kind of ruins the whole thing, really. But still, a hero must be armoured both with protection for the body - even if it is just rock hard abs, and for the mind - an unswerving belief in the supreme justice of his cause.
3) He has a weapon.
Of course he has a weapon. How else would he vanquish evil? Sometimes it is an enchanted sword, some sort of Batspray and fists, laser eyes, reflective shields, oversized and overabundant machineguns, wands, or the jawbone of an ass. The hero has a weapon, and with it, he overcomes the baddies and saves the world.
So, with those three criteria in mind, I present to you candidates for the 2010 hero award. All wear armour and carry weapons. All uphold justice and decency. All have come face to face with, and bested, evil.
Simon Harwood
Faced with chaotic scenes at the G20, Simon Harwood had to think fast and take decisive action. Armed only with a metal pole, CS gas, handcuffs, and the strength of his will, Simon managed to best and kill Ian Tomlinson. For those of you who have never heard of Ian, he happened to be known as "The Terror of the West End". At night, Ian would steal into people's houses and eat their newborns while they slept. By day, he was seemingly docile, but what you didn't know what that he could actually turn people inside out using only his eyes. Harwood approaches stealthily from behind, unwilling to endure the same fate as his so many of his brave comrades. When the time is right, Harwood pounces, driving Ian to the floor and shortly after, to his death.
A decorated and dedicated officer of the Met, Harwood is up for nomination today. He espouses all the virtues of manliness required of a hero. He is brave - as shown by tackling the dreaded Ian "Gorgon" Tomlinson. He is humble - as shown by his unwillingness to reveal his identity. And he is virteous - as proved by his aquittal for what some people foolishly believe was "murder".
Sergeant Mark Andrews
Sergeant Mark Andrews also had it tough. When confronted with what was apparently nothing more than a woman sleeping in her car, Andrews intuitively knew something was amiss. When the report came through on the raido that she was actually a metamorphing GIANT COBRA LADY, Andrews knew he had just one choice. Bravery must come naturally to Mark. A former soldier, he knew what he had to do, and he did it. Grabbing Pamela Somerville by her arm, he dragged her towards the nearest police cell.
An important aside here, when handling dangerous snakes, one needs to immobilize the head, which is precisely what Andrews did, sort of. He followed up, thinking nothing of his own safety, by hurling her face first into the floor in order to further disorientate the beast. When it became clear that her acid snake-blood was leaking all over the cell floor, Andrew rushed in to prevent the creature from tunnelling its way out using only its own wounds. It shows the sheer inhuman determination of some people. Unfortunately, Andrews is currently serving six months in jail for daring to tackle Somerville alone. Maybe he should have called in backup. The truth is, no real man, in the heat of the moment, using courage we can never truely fathom, would even consider putting others in danger.
A full round up of the merits of Mark Andrews vs Simon Harwood can be found here.
Next on the list is Sergeant Delroy Smellie
Like Harwood, Smellie was at the infamous G20 protests, which by all accounts were something a bit like Ragnork, as our brave boys looked certain to be overwhelmed by the Herald of the End Times and all his gribbly monsters. As you can see, Delroy matches all the criteria required of a hero. He is tall, dashing, and strikes a heroic figure in the braying mob, their banners red with the blood of fallen Policemen. Then you see the approach of what appears to be a small angry gnome. Repeatedly ignoring Smellie's reasonable demands to move back, the hobbit creature approaches closer, gripping a carton of orange juice. Delroy tries to use minimum force, granting a sharp backhand with some reinforced gloves, but then he catches sight of something that must surely chill his blood.
The gnome lady is coming right at him, frothing at the mouth and gibbering incomprehensibly. The fate of all London rests on Smellie's shoulders. Time slows, and what seems like about ten seconds is really - quite obviously - less than two as Smellie draws his baton and lashes out in self defence. The most chilling detail in this whole thing is the carton of orange juice, which might have concealed a bomb, or a gun, or a garotte, or orange juice. Quite rightly, Smellie was not convicted of any misconduct. He acted appropriately and proportionately in what was a difficult situation. If anyone has ever been attacked by a goose, you'll know exactly where Delroy was at that fateful day.
The Unknown Hero
Another day, another riot. This is London, less than a week ago. Disabled Jody McIntyre was blockading a road, attempting to prevent medical supplies and food from reaching needy people in somewhere. Anyway, two officers tackled this guy, and honestly, there should have really been more. Let me put it this way. The guy is mobile. He is young. He has no use of his legs, ergo, he has nothing to lose. He is free to employ them as meaty clubs. Now imagine that. Imagine a world where disabled people can barrel headlong into crowd, flailing around with their useless appendages and battering people to the point of unconciousness. Police react quickly, dragging Joey out of his scythed chariot and placing him away from where he can do any harm.
Jody's blog is here
Friends, we need a hero. We need people like Sergeant Smellie, Andrews, and Harwood. We need protectinng from all the bad things in the world. And in the tradition of all tragic and flawed heroes, most of all, we need protecting from people like them.
Monday 13 December 2010
Suicide Hippies
Today, in lieu of anything really important to mention, I'm going to give a nod to the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement and its slogan "May we live long and die out". Bare with me, I'm going to try to do this seriously.
Philisophically, I suppose, there might be a certain attractiveness to what is essentially an extremely slow suicide pact of an entire species. What VHEM says is:
"In the end, the real “enemies” are human greed, ignorance, and oppression. We can achieve more by promoting generosity, awareness, and freedom than we can by vainly kicking at a buttless foe."
What I think is going on here, is there's some sort of ecological movement which has got the not unreasonable idea that we, as a species, are wrecking the planet. Then they've taken it a little bit further by advocating that we don't reproduce. I do have a certain amount of sympathy for that idea too. The prospect of anything sprouting from the loins of George Osbourne or Borris Johnson (or George Osbourne AND Borris Johnson) is totally hideous beyond comprehension. I imagine it would look something like what happens when a dog crossbreeds with a fascist, and then they both explode into a multilimbed extra-dimensional monster with far too many eyes, or Russel Brand*.
Cheap shots at politicans aside, the VHEM is something I don't really know how to approach. I guess, in a sad way, its funny. At its very worst, it seems to be a gross over-reaction by the ecology movement, and at its best it is some sort of peverse intellectual form of natural selection. I'd be interested to see population demiographs vs people who hold these views, just to do the maths. But I guess the best part of VHEM is that it is some sort of autonomous movement centered around a philosophical view and without and concrete numbers behind it. Which is handy really, because I'm pretty sure its growing slightly slower than the worlds population, which would make it an unreachable goal, but anyway. I suppose theoretically you could drag it out as long as you wanted.
I really don't know if I should laugh or cry. Fortunately enough, "VHEMT (No, I don't know what the T is for) is naturally in opposition to involuntary extinction of any species, as well as any efforts encouraging human extermination." So we don't have to worry about a bunch of pyschotic environmentalists running around with axes, chopping people down and turning them into pamplets, wearing their skin, eating the soft bits and grinding the hard bits into sweets. Which, since humans already do that, I guess, in the end looks bad on us as a species, I suppose.
And no, I'm not going all vegan or anything. I'm off home to eat some pink curly things with far too many legs and eyes on stalks. Because I hold a deep beleif that man is distinct from animals because we can use guns.
Anyway, tune in next time and remember not to breed.
*Because I hate him
Philisophically, I suppose, there might be a certain attractiveness to what is essentially an extremely slow suicide pact of an entire species. What VHEM says is:
"In the end, the real “enemies” are human greed, ignorance, and oppression. We can achieve more by promoting generosity, awareness, and freedom than we can by vainly kicking at a buttless foe."
What I think is going on here, is there's some sort of ecological movement which has got the not unreasonable idea that we, as a species, are wrecking the planet. Then they've taken it a little bit further by advocating that we don't reproduce. I do have a certain amount of sympathy for that idea too. The prospect of anything sprouting from the loins of George Osbourne or Borris Johnson (or George Osbourne AND Borris Johnson) is totally hideous beyond comprehension. I imagine it would look something like what happens when a dog crossbreeds with a fascist, and then they both explode into a multilimbed extra-dimensional monster with far too many eyes, or Russel Brand*.
Cheap shots at politicans aside, the VHEM is something I don't really know how to approach. I guess, in a sad way, its funny. At its very worst, it seems to be a gross over-reaction by the ecology movement, and at its best it is some sort of peverse intellectual form of natural selection. I'd be interested to see population demiographs vs people who hold these views, just to do the maths. But I guess the best part of VHEM is that it is some sort of autonomous movement centered around a philosophical view and without and concrete numbers behind it. Which is handy really, because I'm pretty sure its growing slightly slower than the worlds population, which would make it an unreachable goal, but anyway. I suppose theoretically you could drag it out as long as you wanted.
I really don't know if I should laugh or cry. Fortunately enough, "VHEMT (No, I don't know what the T is for) is naturally in opposition to involuntary extinction of any species, as well as any efforts encouraging human extermination." So we don't have to worry about a bunch of pyschotic environmentalists running around with axes, chopping people down and turning them into pamplets, wearing their skin, eating the soft bits and grinding the hard bits into sweets. Which, since humans already do that, I guess, in the end looks bad on us as a species, I suppose.
And no, I'm not going all vegan or anything. I'm off home to eat some pink curly things with far too many legs and eyes on stalks. Because I hold a deep beleif that man is distinct from animals because we can use guns.
Anyway, tune in next time and remember not to breed.
*Because I hate him
Thursday 9 December 2010
Conscience Tax
Did you now know that it is possible to sponsor just about anything? You can sponsor a dog, jaguar, a variety of children, or just girls, a polar bear, a donkey, wikipedia, ethno-nationalist terrorism and even fools. With such a bewildering array of websites dedicated to building wells, performing Shakespeare, vaccinating donkeys and blowing up Thatcher, one has to wonder just where to spend your hard earned money. People everywhere seem to be suffering a little harder than usual, and the problem of just which one deserves a bit of nobilis oblige from the worlds richest nations is a pressing concern.
Of course, we do have rampant drug abuse and crippling poverty at home. I was a British Red Cross donor for some time, so I frequently got emails thanking me for my meagre coins and telling me that people are dying. Lots of people. All the time. Which is not the kind of news you want first thing in a morning, but whatever. Nothing quite like economic genocide and cornflakes to wake you up.
Anyway, there is also a plethora of price comparison websites, and that gave me a bit of an idea for a double tiered charity system.
First, we can do a general donation website. Charities pay a fee to join it, which then goes into a pot. People who put money into it by sponsorship and donations also pay into this gigantic wellspring of philanthropy, which is then distributed between all the charities that have joined it.
Second, for the more discerning scrooge amongst us who doesn't want to give up too much of his hard-earned cash, we can create a series of drop-bars and questionnaires. These are based on a maximum limit that the donor wants to pay, and a fangled system which asks them a series of bizzare questions. After that, the prospective donor is matched against a charity that accepts the level of donation they are willing to pay, whilst checking for compatibility with their innermost emotional and intellectual beliefs. That way, you can find a charity that is right for you both financially and spiritually.
All television advertising for charity is condensed into a sixty second clip which contains black and white images and short clips containing the following:
Starving child, starving dog, starving donkey, sad music, some flies crawling on a baby, a dirty well, a bulldozer clearing the rainforest, thermonuclear war, jam sandwiches, American bombing runs, smiling politicians and a polar-bear drowning as his home melts. Once you've been subjected to this harrowing display of snap-images burning their way into your brain, a website link and telephone number will appear for ten seconds at the end of the commercial, with a voice over provided by Private Joker at the end of Full Metal Jacket.
"I am in a world of shit. But I am alive, and I am not afraid".
Happily, we don't have to go to such terrific lengths, though. Some global corporations have decided to throw profit to the wind and help stop the 4,000 children that die every day from preventable diseases. We can satisfy our grieving consciences by buying fair trade, buying promotional packs, buying less packaging, recycling our old phones (for cash!) and some companies will, gosh darn it, even pay for vaccines. How kind of them.
You see, the thing about this whole sorry lark is that there is some sort of weird heirachy we follow. Someone will sponsor a cute dog at Dog's Trust over a dying child in Africa, because well, you know, dogs are nice. Some heartless bastard would choose to save a Jaguar over a Polar Bear, because, well, bears are dangerous, and the world is probably better without them. Personally, I'd only sponsor a donkey in Africa if someone was actually going to eat it, otherwise I'd rather save real people, please.
But the thing we all seem to be missing these days, as we grate out brains together trying to buy our own food while paying for someone else's, is why are we even expected to have a shred of human decency? We were just fortunate enough to be born into the West, it isn't even our fault. Why should I care about someone in Africa dying if no one else does?
It's funny, when you read those questions, to realize just how abhorrent such a viewpoint is. Of course we should have basic human decency. Of course, if we are able, we should help people who aren't because, after all on a most basic level, wouldn't you just hate to be them? An interesting thought experiment, for anyone wishing to take it, was dreamt up by John Rawls in "A Theory of Justice". He calls it "The Veil of Ignorance", and its an exercise in basic social justice and following your own logic.
You are aware. You know you exist, but everything else is black. You don't know who you are, what country you are from, where you live, who your parents are, the colour of your skin or if you are a man or woman. You don't know the dominant religion, the prevailing social and economic climate. You only know that there is you. So what kind of a world do you want to live in?
Obviously, because there is the chance that you could end up as anything, you wouldn't want an unequal world. You'd want wealth shared. You'd want non-discrimination based on social, religious, ethnic, gender, economic, and pretty darn much just any lines.
But the weirdest question we don't ask ourselves is, why do other people hold these views? Why do we have people in this country who cling to notions of nationalism, and sit on hoarded gold while someone else dies in a dustball we've never even heard of? Why do we tolerate it? Why do we pay the conscience tax on their behalf? Lets go back to Pampers.
Pampers will buy one tetanus vaccine for every pack of Pampers that is sold. A pack of Pampers nappies, if memory serves, is about four quid. According to the same advert, a tetanus jab costs about five pence, probably less. There are millions of cases globally every year, and hundreds of thousands of fatalities. But it costs just five pence to treat. It is a preventable disease.
Proctor and Gamble, which owns Pampers, is a Fortune 500 company. It has earned $3.31 billion dollars in profit in just one quarter. It could, should it desire, eradicate tetanus so badly that it would probably be erased from history and remembered only as "that thing what killed people". Another example is that an MP is paid £65,000 per year plus "allowances to cover the costs of running an office and employing staff, having somewhere to live in London and in their constituency, and travelling between Parliament and their constituency." Now, my maths is a little bit shakey but for £65,000, or just one year's pay for an MP, you could sponsor over 30,000 children (at £2 a go) for one month. Or you could sponsor one child to live for 2,500 years, and set him up as some sort of wise and benevolent God-Emperor of humanity. But whatever.
So for the meantime, I suppose we should all keep chucking money to our favourite causes. But if you ever get a chance to look back and wonder if you're doing everything you can, just have a think about the people who are doing nothing at all.
Of course, we do have rampant drug abuse and crippling poverty at home. I was a British Red Cross donor for some time, so I frequently got emails thanking me for my meagre coins and telling me that people are dying. Lots of people. All the time. Which is not the kind of news you want first thing in a morning, but whatever. Nothing quite like economic genocide and cornflakes to wake you up.
Anyway, there is also a plethora of price comparison websites, and that gave me a bit of an idea for a double tiered charity system.
First, we can do a general donation website. Charities pay a fee to join it, which then goes into a pot. People who put money into it by sponsorship and donations also pay into this gigantic wellspring of philanthropy, which is then distributed between all the charities that have joined it.
Second, for the more discerning scrooge amongst us who doesn't want to give up too much of his hard-earned cash, we can create a series of drop-bars and questionnaires. These are based on a maximum limit that the donor wants to pay, and a fangled system which asks them a series of bizzare questions. After that, the prospective donor is matched against a charity that accepts the level of donation they are willing to pay, whilst checking for compatibility with their innermost emotional and intellectual beliefs. That way, you can find a charity that is right for you both financially and spiritually.
All television advertising for charity is condensed into a sixty second clip which contains black and white images and short clips containing the following:
Starving child, starving dog, starving donkey, sad music, some flies crawling on a baby, a dirty well, a bulldozer clearing the rainforest, thermonuclear war, jam sandwiches, American bombing runs, smiling politicians and a polar-bear drowning as his home melts. Once you've been subjected to this harrowing display of snap-images burning their way into your brain, a website link and telephone number will appear for ten seconds at the end of the commercial, with a voice over provided by Private Joker at the end of Full Metal Jacket.
"I am in a world of shit. But I am alive, and I am not afraid".
Happily, we don't have to go to such terrific lengths, though. Some global corporations have decided to throw profit to the wind and help stop the 4,000 children that die every day from preventable diseases. We can satisfy our grieving consciences by buying fair trade, buying promotional packs, buying less packaging, recycling our old phones (for cash!) and some companies will, gosh darn it, even pay for vaccines. How kind of them.
You see, the thing about this whole sorry lark is that there is some sort of weird heirachy we follow. Someone will sponsor a cute dog at Dog's Trust over a dying child in Africa, because well, you know, dogs are nice. Some heartless bastard would choose to save a Jaguar over a Polar Bear, because, well, bears are dangerous, and the world is probably better without them. Personally, I'd only sponsor a donkey in Africa if someone was actually going to eat it, otherwise I'd rather save real people, please.
But the thing we all seem to be missing these days, as we grate out brains together trying to buy our own food while paying for someone else's, is why are we even expected to have a shred of human decency? We were just fortunate enough to be born into the West, it isn't even our fault. Why should I care about someone in Africa dying if no one else does?
It's funny, when you read those questions, to realize just how abhorrent such a viewpoint is. Of course we should have basic human decency. Of course, if we are able, we should help people who aren't because, after all on a most basic level, wouldn't you just hate to be them? An interesting thought experiment, for anyone wishing to take it, was dreamt up by John Rawls in "A Theory of Justice". He calls it "The Veil of Ignorance", and its an exercise in basic social justice and following your own logic.
You are aware. You know you exist, but everything else is black. You don't know who you are, what country you are from, where you live, who your parents are, the colour of your skin or if you are a man or woman. You don't know the dominant religion, the prevailing social and economic climate. You only know that there is you. So what kind of a world do you want to live in?
Obviously, because there is the chance that you could end up as anything, you wouldn't want an unequal world. You'd want wealth shared. You'd want non-discrimination based on social, religious, ethnic, gender, economic, and pretty darn much just any lines.
But the weirdest question we don't ask ourselves is, why do other people hold these views? Why do we have people in this country who cling to notions of nationalism, and sit on hoarded gold while someone else dies in a dustball we've never even heard of? Why do we tolerate it? Why do we pay the conscience tax on their behalf? Lets go back to Pampers.
Pampers will buy one tetanus vaccine for every pack of Pampers that is sold. A pack of Pampers nappies, if memory serves, is about four quid. According to the same advert, a tetanus jab costs about five pence, probably less. There are millions of cases globally every year, and hundreds of thousands of fatalities. But it costs just five pence to treat. It is a preventable disease.
Proctor and Gamble, which owns Pampers, is a Fortune 500 company. It has earned $3.31 billion dollars in profit in just one quarter. It could, should it desire, eradicate tetanus so badly that it would probably be erased from history and remembered only as "that thing what killed people". Another example is that an MP is paid £65,000 per year plus "allowances to cover the costs of running an office and employing staff, having somewhere to live in London and in their constituency, and travelling between Parliament and their constituency." Now, my maths is a little bit shakey but for £65,000, or just one year's pay for an MP, you could sponsor over 30,000 children (at £2 a go) for one month. Or you could sponsor one child to live for 2,500 years, and set him up as some sort of wise and benevolent God-Emperor of humanity. But whatever.
So for the meantime, I suppose we should all keep chucking money to our favourite causes. But if you ever get a chance to look back and wonder if you're doing everything you can, just have a think about the people who are doing nothing at all.
Tuesday 7 December 2010
The Yellow Brick Road (Is Paved with Good Intentions)
So, here's the scoop.
I've been off blogging for almost two weeks now due to the path to my house turning into a post-apocalyptic version of Lapland, complete with the irradiated corpses of reindeer. But I could wait no longer, so I have heroically decided to brave the frozen tundra of this northern wasteland to bring you the latest edition of A Clockwork Lemon. Now, originally I was going to complain about the weather, people who love themselves too much, Wikileaks, Trots or something else. But a golden oppertunity has presented itself:
Mother of God!
So Ann Widdecombe, the Ghost of Christmas past, has been ressurected from the frozen soil which has surely been her resting place for the last nine years and dressed up as a American teenager from the 1930's. That, though it is almost too horrible to contemplate, lets me have a certain amount of fun. So for anyone who has not already gouged out their eyes or vomited spectacularly, consider the Wizard of Oz as played by our very own beloved government.
Warning, the below post is both factually and politically dubious.
Staring George Osbourne as "Scarecrow"
David Cameron as "Tin Man"
Nick Clegg as "Lion"
Vince Cable as "Toto"
The Rich as "Munchkins"
Ed Milliband as "The Wicked Witch of the West"
The Labour Party as "Flying Monkeys and Winkies"
Our story starts with Ann, who is appearing on some god-awful reality TV show in which she gets to flail around madly for the nation's amusement - kind of like a Battle Royale scenario without the explosive collars. Suddenly, a tornado shaped economic downturn comes tearing down through Britain, uproots the studio and plunges us into a surreal alternative reality known as "Westminister".
First thing to note is that the studio has landed on top of someone and crushed them to death, which had it been anyone other than the Wicked Witch of the East (played by the Working Class), it would have been fairly upsetting. Fortunately, no one really cares about the poor anymore, so Dorothy steals their shoes and embarks on a mad quest while a bunch of Munchkins celebrate their newfound freedom to shit on everyone. I believe the song "Ding Dong, the Union is dead!" is played around this time. Dorothy, meanwhile, has found the Yellow Brick Road that leads to Big Society, which will hopefully save us all.
Anyway, the plot unfolds with a tedious sense of inevitability. First, Dorothy encounters George Osbourne, the Scarecrow, who unfortunately has no brain. He's trying to solve the economic downturn by pandering to the Munchkin people, with the inevitable result that everyone will probably end up dead. George needs a brain - fast. So they hurry along and find David Cameron - the Tin Man. Now, after the undead robotic nightmare has been suitably oiled up, David tells us that he's got no heart, which doesn't come as a massive surpirse, but you at least have to crack a smile at just how cute it is. Finally, they are ambushed by Nick Clegg, who could have probably seriously mauled Dave and George if he had courage, which he doesn't. These three characters share a common lack of humanity, so they set off to try and find it.
So now we've got Dorothy and her Coalition consisting of the spineless, the brainless, and the heartless, tearing it up through Westminister in an attempt to reach the Wizard of Oz (Big Society). You know how this is going to end anyway. Along the way they are harried by the Labour Party, who have taken the guise of ineffectual flying monkeys and idiots in funny hats who can just about articulate their objection with the phrase "Oh We Um, Eoh Um". It is never really explained why they even exist - all we know is that they're pretty useless.
Anyway, they get to the evil castle and someone sets George Osbourne on fire. Everyone cheers. Dorothy throws water on the flames, and catches Ed Milliband who promptly melts into nothing. Everyone seems pretty pleased with themselves. They then head to the Wizard so that he can grant all their wishes. Turns out the Big Society isn't really a Wizard and no one can't save us from the economic downturn. So the slightly-smaller-and-more-ideological type of society finishes by giving an uplifting speech that runs like this.
"George, you came to me for a brain to help you fix the economy. But you can't have a brain if you don't have a soul. Dave, you came to me for a heart, but you'll never need one because you're so incredibly rich you might as well not be a human being. Nick, you came for courage, but you chose to be in this coalition. All the courage in the world wouldn't be enough for you to take that final plunge off a bridge. And Ann, you came for me for a way home. Of course you did. You are a confused and frightened old woman who is probably unaware of what sort of psychadellic adventure is going on around you. You are too old for television."
Then he waves his magic wand and the world gets better again. Or something.
I'd like to round this off politically, but I honestly don't have the motivation. Tune in next time folks.
"Oh We Um, Eoh Um"
"Oh We Um, Eoh Um"
"Oh We Um, Eoh Um"
I've been off blogging for almost two weeks now due to the path to my house turning into a post-apocalyptic version of Lapland, complete with the irradiated corpses of reindeer. But I could wait no longer, so I have heroically decided to brave the frozen tundra of this northern wasteland to bring you the latest edition of A Clockwork Lemon. Now, originally I was going to complain about the weather, people who love themselves too much, Wikileaks, Trots or something else. But a golden oppertunity has presented itself:
Mother of God!
So Ann Widdecombe, the Ghost of Christmas past, has been ressurected from the frozen soil which has surely been her resting place for the last nine years and dressed up as a American teenager from the 1930's. That, though it is almost too horrible to contemplate, lets me have a certain amount of fun. So for anyone who has not already gouged out their eyes or vomited spectacularly, consider the Wizard of Oz as played by our very own beloved government.
Warning, the below post is both factually and politically dubious.
Staring George Osbourne as "Scarecrow"
David Cameron as "Tin Man"
Nick Clegg as "Lion"
Vince Cable as "Toto"
The Rich as "Munchkins"
Ed Milliband as "The Wicked Witch of the West"
The Labour Party as "Flying Monkeys and Winkies"
Our story starts with Ann, who is appearing on some god-awful reality TV show in which she gets to flail around madly for the nation's amusement - kind of like a Battle Royale scenario without the explosive collars. Suddenly, a tornado shaped economic downturn comes tearing down through Britain, uproots the studio and plunges us into a surreal alternative reality known as "Westminister".
First thing to note is that the studio has landed on top of someone and crushed them to death, which had it been anyone other than the Wicked Witch of the East (played by the Working Class), it would have been fairly upsetting. Fortunately, no one really cares about the poor anymore, so Dorothy steals their shoes and embarks on a mad quest while a bunch of Munchkins celebrate their newfound freedom to shit on everyone. I believe the song "Ding Dong, the Union is dead!" is played around this time. Dorothy, meanwhile, has found the Yellow Brick Road that leads to Big Society, which will hopefully save us all.
Anyway, the plot unfolds with a tedious sense of inevitability. First, Dorothy encounters George Osbourne, the Scarecrow, who unfortunately has no brain. He's trying to solve the economic downturn by pandering to the Munchkin people, with the inevitable result that everyone will probably end up dead. George needs a brain - fast. So they hurry along and find David Cameron - the Tin Man. Now, after the undead robotic nightmare has been suitably oiled up, David tells us that he's got no heart, which doesn't come as a massive surpirse, but you at least have to crack a smile at just how cute it is. Finally, they are ambushed by Nick Clegg, who could have probably seriously mauled Dave and George if he had courage, which he doesn't. These three characters share a common lack of humanity, so they set off to try and find it.
So now we've got Dorothy and her Coalition consisting of the spineless, the brainless, and the heartless, tearing it up through Westminister in an attempt to reach the Wizard of Oz (Big Society). You know how this is going to end anyway. Along the way they are harried by the Labour Party, who have taken the guise of ineffectual flying monkeys and idiots in funny hats who can just about articulate their objection with the phrase "Oh We Um, Eoh Um". It is never really explained why they even exist - all we know is that they're pretty useless.
Anyway, they get to the evil castle and someone sets George Osbourne on fire. Everyone cheers. Dorothy throws water on the flames, and catches Ed Milliband who promptly melts into nothing. Everyone seems pretty pleased with themselves. They then head to the Wizard so that he can grant all their wishes. Turns out the Big Society isn't really a Wizard and no one can't save us from the economic downturn. So the slightly-smaller-and-more-ideological type of society finishes by giving an uplifting speech that runs like this.
"George, you came to me for a brain to help you fix the economy. But you can't have a brain if you don't have a soul. Dave, you came to me for a heart, but you'll never need one because you're so incredibly rich you might as well not be a human being. Nick, you came for courage, but you chose to be in this coalition. All the courage in the world wouldn't be enough for you to take that final plunge off a bridge. And Ann, you came for me for a way home. Of course you did. You are a confused and frightened old woman who is probably unaware of what sort of psychadellic adventure is going on around you. You are too old for television."
Then he waves his magic wand and the world gets better again. Or something.
I'd like to round this off politically, but I honestly don't have the motivation. Tune in next time folks.
"Oh We Um, Eoh Um"
"Oh We Um, Eoh Um"
"Oh We Um, Eoh Um"
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