Hello there.
The reason for the lack of updates recently is that I dun been writing a book. I'll put the first four chapters up for your consumption. This is my first real foray into fiction, and as I'm very much a nonfiction writer I know this is probably going to be a bit...well, shit. They're all very much first drafts, so any criticism or suggestions is entirely welcome.
Two days ago
Alex Atkinson had spent the last year watching the tiny kernel of hate that he felt for his job blossom and grow into an all-pervading sense of moral sickness and utter despair. That being the case, it was probably of very little consolation to him that his job was about to get him killed.
To the casual observer of course, there was no hint that they were looking at the features of a doomed man. Quite the opposite, Alex was a tall and strapping fellow in his mid-30s, and one might have thought that the worst care in the world that one could detect on that seemingly open, honest face of his was his receding blonde hairline and thinning scalp. His dark blue eyes were, as is the case in London, watching everything and seeing nothing. No eye contact was made with anyone in the tube carriage. It was full of people who would look at anything except the face of the person near them, although unless they’d brought a newspaper then there would be very little of value to look at, and even then…
Alex was hot and uncomfortable as he stood in the crowded carriage, and it was only the knowledge that he was 3 stops away from home that helped him suppress an irritated sigh as a plump, elderly man forced his way onto the tube at Brent Cross. The TV screens in the carriage continued its usual babble; breathless airheads discussing the minutiae of whichever recycled soap opera plot was currently occupying the hearts and minds of the chav classes. There were human interest stories, which usually consisted of a Z-list celeb (who’d probably begged and pleaded to get the job, hoping to add to their no doubt hopelessly under funded CT Savings Scheme) giving a hushed and reverent narrative over footage of Humanitarian teams picking over the irradiated rubble of Tokyo or Osaka. The shooting of the occasional disfigured survivor always raised a smile from even a jaded audience of tube passengers, so these were on a heavy rotation on the TV screens. And, of course, the ever present and always-shrill public service reminders about Noct Immigrants provided everything a man could want, as long as all he wanted was hysterical hyperbole and fear.
The latest anti-Noct reminder had only started showing a couple of days ago, and so there was more interest than was usual from the passengers. It started out with a shot of a woman’s face, an attractive redhead and probably not even out of her teens. She began talking about how all she wanted was a job. Her voice was joined by another, speaking in a foreign language. Alex could tell that most people on the carriage were unaware that it was Albanian, and that it was echoing the girl’s words. However, the sneers that appeared on the majority of faces at the sound of this second voice indicated firstly that everyone was aware that it was a Noct voice, and secondly that the reaction was the sort of thing that Pavlov would have been deeply impressed with.
The second voice was added to by another, then another and so on. After 20 seconds, one had to struggle to pick out the girl’s voice against a growing roar of different voices and different languages; Alex thought he heard Kiswahili dialects and Urdu mixed up in there, and wondered idly whether or not his own language skills (picked up from 9 years of stilted conversations with sad-eyed Noct Immigrants in pidgin-English and hand gestures) might be enough to get him this sort of work. God knows, there were few enough speakers of Noct languages left in the UK, so there were bound to be at least some jobs going, right? He made a mental note to look into it; if he carried on doing the kind of work he’d been doing over the last 8 or 9 months then he was headed for a nervous breakdown and who knows how many weeks or months out of work and with no financial support. To say nothing of the fact that his job would have gone to someone else if he was absent for more than a week.
The cacophony of voices from the screen increased in pitch and urgency until they were almost unbearable, then just as suddenly died away to leave the girl’s voice loud and clear; “All I want is to work. It’s my right. My birthright. Please, help me find a job.” The girl smiled a comforting, sincere smile whilst looking directly at the camera. Her smiling face filled the screen as an altogether sterner northern male voice added “A job is the birthright of every British citizen. Every job given to a Noct Immigrant robs someone of that right. It could be your wife. Your son. Your sister. Your father. You. Help us to help Britain to stay strong.” By now the smiling face had faded from the screen to be replaced by a telephone number for reporting illegal Nocts that most people knew by heart anyway.
Alex, lost in a daydream where he’d resigned from his current job in the Immigration Law section of Frost, Hutton and Peacock solicitors and was now a well paid and anonymous Noct voiceover in Government announcements barely even registered the end of the announcement and the beginning of the 6 o clock news. He had time to catch the newsreader’s grave tones greet the viewer with news of yet another bombing by Noct terrorists (it had been Paris today) before the tube pulled in to his stop. He pushed his way through the throng of dull-eyed humanity toward the exit, stepped on to the platform, and walked briskly from the station.
As he made his way home from the offices of the law firm where he had worked for just over 9 years, he was lost in a maelstrom of his own thoughts. None of these thoughts were what you might call cheery; he thought about his tattered marriage. He thought about the work colleagues whom he once called friends. He thought about the Anti-Noct rally that was taking place outside Westminster tomorrow that would doubtless see people with whom he could once share a drink and a laugh burning his effigy along with dummies of all the other “Noct lovers” working with or for the UK Vault company. He even thought about just how arrogant that last thought must make him. But mostly he thought about the crushing sense of helplessness and powerlessness that seemed to have consumed his life. It’s a shame that Alex was so intent on his self-indulgent navel-gazing, because if he hadn’t have been, he might have thought a little bit more about the gentleman who had been following him since before he had even caught the tube home.
It was a 15 minute walk from the station to his Flat in North London, but with a shortcut through what had colloquially and mockingly become know as “the Paki maze”, he would be home in 5. His work in Immigration meant that he didn’t have the fear of dark skin and accents that most people in London affected these days. The mockery in the name came from the size of this area of London; less than a few streets large, the maze was a shambolic collection of homes that housed those few people of Indian, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi descent who had been able to either convince Immigration officials that they and their parents were British born, or who had been able to bribe them to overlook that they weren’t. It was neglected, overgrown, and occasionally firebombed by thugs agitating for either the British Conservatives or National Labour parties. It made very little difference to the occupants as to who it was. Suffice to say that they had become steadily ghettoised over the previous years, to the extent that they didn’t even notice Alex as he walked through the estate. Noticing people meant that they might notice you, and no-one in the ghetto wanted to be noticed by a white man. You never knew if they might notice your existence and notice that they wanted to make it more difficult.
Alex strode through the quiet streets. There were no children playing; doubtless their parents had dragged them in on seeing his approach. Or maybe they’d all learned his routine, and knew to stay off the street at about 6pm. For all Alex knew, maybe their parents told stories about the white Boogeyman, who patrolled the streets looking for naughty children whom he’d send off to their NCT Homeland where they would be poor(er) and hungry(er) for the rest of their short lives. For whatever reason, there was (as always) no one else on the streets as he walked.
It was to his great surprise, then, that he became aware of another set of footsteps behind him as he walked. This was something completely out of the ordinary; had someone else decided to use his shortcut, emboldened against the deeply held fear of the ghetto’s inhabitants by his presence? After all, 2 white people would surely be safe together against any Asiatic horde (that, at least, was the kind of mindset prevalent these days). The quickening pace of the footsteps trying to catch up to him before he turned the penultimate corner in the ghetto confirmed this in Alex’s mind; whomever it was didn’t want to be out of sight of a countryman in a place like this. A bitter smile formed on his face, but was wiped away quickly as he turned to see which fine example of English Xenophobia was his companion on this daily journey home; an easy one for him, but no doubt clouded with danger in the mind of the average bigot.
He was unsurprised to see that the man approaching him was a picture of uncertainty and nebulous fear. The man stopped momentarily when Alex turned to glance at him, and began to blush slightly beneath his rather waxy looking face. Alex offered him a brief smile, and then turned to continue his journey home. Presumably the smile had comforted and calmed the man a little, as his pace slowed and he merely kept pace with Alex. He indulged himself in another bitter smile; this was what passed for compassion these days. A calming smile to a stranger in fear of a non-existent threat manufactured to keep people distracted and frightened. He shook his head and quietly chuckled at the ludicrousness of it all. The man behind him had picked up his pace once again. Alex guessed that he’d lost his nerve near the end of the estate, and was now making a panicked run for freedom.
“By the end of the evening,” Alex thought “that stupid frightened soul will be telling all of his friends of his close escape from the Paki Maze. Fucker will probably dine out on that story for weeks…”
It was only the sudden and literally breathtaking impact in his lower left back that indicated to Alex that maybe he had guessed wrong about the man losing nerve. He dropped his briefcase in shock, and tried to turn to face the man. His back suddenly radiated an explosive pain as he half turned and saw the man, eyes wild and waxy face flushed and sweating with terror, twist the knife that he’d just thumped into Alex’s back.
Alex reached out and tried to shove the man away from him. The knife was twisted further still and Alex offered a brief and wordless pained contortion of his features as it did so. He dropped to his knees, and the knife was yanked free. With its withdrawal, Alex began to get his breath back. He fell forward and, on all fours, began panting and crying in pain. He again tried to look at his assailant, hoping to plead with him. By now the man’s face had hardened from the panic he had seen earlier, into the wild cast of a man resolved to see an unpleasant task through. The man’s earlier fear had matured into a terrified determination.
Despite the pain it caused him, Alex threw up his hands to try and protect his face as the man closed in and began slashing at Alex’s face. The only effect that had was to irritate the man, and what might have been a quick and relatively easy death for Alex became a minutes-long ordeal of blood, punctured organs, and pain. By the time the man cried out in a mixture of anger and triumph, he had mutilated Alex’s hands to cracked stumps. His face was an eyeless gaping mess of crimson. As he drew his last breath, as the knife hammered through his ribcage and into his heart in what had become a frenzied orgy of stabbing, his lungs were already filling with blood.
As Alex was hacked to death by a stranger on a warm spring evening under a beautiful blue sky, a few frightened people watched uncertainly from behind their drawn curtains. They shrunk back as the killer gave his triumphant bellow. A lifetime of not being seen stood those watching in good stead, for the eyes of the killer didn’t notice any of the figures peeking through windows at the red tableau that he had created. The killer removed a mobile phone from his jacket and, hands shaking, dialled a number. Less than 2 minutes later, a small blue car had arrived. It drove slowly and deliberately to the man who had remained standing by Alex’s body. An observer who’d had the luxury of observing earlier might have noticed his fidgeting refusal to meet the eyes (or approximation thereof) of person nearest to him, and perhaps commented on how it was remarkably similar to Alex’s when on the tube. The car drew to a close and the passenger door was opened. The driver called out to the man, who jumped slightly as if he hadn’t even noticed its arrival. He paused and looked down at Alex’s body, as if the knowledge that he was imminently leaving the scene gave him the courage to do so. He paused like that for a few more moments until his wordless reverie was interrupted by another shout from the driver. At that, the man climbed in, and the car drove off.
It was over an hour before one of the people living in the ghetto called the police. For his troubles, he was immediately arrested as the prime suspect.
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
Tuesday, 20 March 2007
Conspiracy Theory and Lunacy
Something that has been occupying my thoughts of late is the endless lunacy of those special people who believe that there is a vast, all-encompassing and all powerful conspiracy of shadowy figures that run the world. I've talked about them before and termed them "conspiracy theorists". Last time out I was rather scathing about that broadly defined group. But a few conversations that I've had recently (that, and the excellent program "the conspiracy files") have got me thinking about conspiracy theorists again. Specifically, do any of them actually have a point? And was I wrong to dismiss them en masse?
I'll explain; someone asked me what conspiracies I actually believed in. And I found myself stating that I didn't believe in the official government line about the current Iraq occupation (which, as near as I can make out, is a mish-mash of "it's part of the War on Terror", "It was to stop Saddam getting weapons of Mass Destruction", and "we're improving the life of the people of Iraq"; depending on what day it is, you'll hear a different answer vomiting from the lips of an uncomfortable looking government spokesman) as evidence that I don't unquestioningly believe whatever the official version of events happens to be. I was a little surprised to be told that this shouldn't count as a conspiracy theory because "everyone knows that the Government version is a lie".
Up until then, I'd defined a conspiracy theory as something that differed from an official governmental version of events, and went on to provide it's own explanation of what "really" happened. So if we take the Iraqi land grab as an example, the most commonly accepted conspiracy theory surrounding that one is that the US used 9/11 as an excuse to invade Iraq in order to secure their oil reserves. However, apparently this is not a conspiracy theory and the only reason given for that is because, apparently, everyone knows it. Does that mean then that a conspiracy theory has to be something known only to a select few? Does it have to be something that is rejected by the mainstream in order to qualify? And if that is the case, doesn't that mean I'm entirely correct in dismissing conspiracy theorists as a bunch of burnt out failures who conjure up elaborate fantasies about the way the world works in order to re-assure themselves that they actually have an important part in it?
It took a conversation with a fully fledged conspiracy theorist to demonstrate to me that, in fact, I'd been going about this all wrong. What defines a conspiracy theorist isn't so much their theory, but the way they feel about it. For example, I know of people who believe that JFK was not killed by Lee Harvey Oswald (and I count myself among those people). We all have our different theories about how he was killed and who killed him, and we all have differing degrees of evidence to back up our theories. What we don't have is conclusive proof and (most importantly) we acknowledge this. Oh, we can present a case in a convincing manner but the simple fact is that our belief that Oswald didn't kill JFK is just that; a belief. An article of faith. We’ll ask questions of the official version, but we don't try to tell someone that our belief is 100% incontrovertible fact, and it's there that the main difference lies.
In this same conversation, the conspiracy theorist put forward his belief that the world was being run by a group of Occultists who simultaneously had their roots in both the Nazi movement and ancient history. One of the starting points of his rather bizarre belief was that "the Nazis wanted to rule the world and set up a world government". Now this statement rang alarm bells with me (as opposed to his initial belief, which really should have triggered my "this man is a foaming idiot" bell), because being a bit of a History buff, I was under the impression that the Nazis actually opposed any sort of World Government as it was a "Jewish" concept. Basically, a forged document called the Elder Protocols of Zion together with a long-lived conspiracy theory about a mythical group called "The Illuminati" led many anti-Semites to take the view that any world government would be an organisation secretly run by the Jews.
Not only that, but Hitler himself had gone on record as saying that the Reich he wanted to create would be an organisation much like the British Empire. In other words, it would be the dominant influence on global politics, but not the sole influence. Yes, he wanted to dominate Europe, but he and the rest of the Nazi movement saw that European Empire as something to rival the British Empire. So I asked him to provide some evidence for his assertion that the Nazis wanted a world government.
(At this point I should mention that, having read the last 2 paragraphs back to myself, it sounds like I was conversing with someone who is more than a few bricks short of a load. And I would absolutely agree with that assessment.)
He could provide none. And that's fair enough; as I've mentioned, I can't provide huge swathes of evidence for my belief about JFK being killed by someone other than Oswald. So I asked him to confirm that his assertion about Nazis and world government was an article of faith. And he refused. Not in a "I can't do that, and here is some evidence as to why not" way, but in a "I'm going to stamp my feet and hold my breath until I turn blue unless you believe me lalalalalalalalalalaI’mnotlisteninglalalalalalala!" sort of manner.
Obviously, that is just one example from a wide range of conspiracy theorists, and I hope you see the point I'm trying to make. If not, I'll make it explicit; the gentlemen I was talking to was trying to pass off a belief of his as a stone cold, copper-bottomed fact. The only evidence he was able to produce was "because I say so". And it's this feature of conspiracy theory that caused me to view the whole damned lot of them with suspicion.
They claim to be tellers of truth and guardians of the sacred flame of honesty. They claim that they oppose "them", the ones who are lying to you and trying to make you believe lies, and who condemn any who do not swallow their bullshit. Yet when one presses them for evidence, or even simply asks them a question about their pet theory, they will be evasive and dishonest. They will lie to you, try to make you believe their lie, and condemn you if you don't accept it. Worryingly, they don’t seem to see the irony in this.
This is in stark contrast to the type of conspiracy theorist who is actually interested in debate, and who is as honest about the flaws in their theory as they are its strengths. So I've started to differentiate between the two. Those people who will lie to you to try and convince you of their belief, I now term "Conspiraloons". It's a handy term, an accurate one, and it stops me from unfairly lumping in conspiracy theorists with them.
Of course, I say "condemn you". 9 times out of 10, their condemnation takes the form of the kind of insults one heard at school before one actually learned how to debate; "you're so naïve" is a popular retort by the conspiraloon on the back foot. As is "You're one of THEM!", and (for those conspiraloons who are also Bill Hicks fans) "Go back to bed [insert name here]. You just don't know what's really going on". Hardly the scathing wit and rapier-like intellect of someone who has somehow managed to find out the deepest secrets of a pervasive and omnipresent evil conspiracy and share that truth with the world at a risk to his own life and liberty. More the petulance of someone angry that his or her belief isn’t being unquestioningly accepted. And, I would suspect, the bitterness of one who has seen their life turn out rather worse than they were expecting, and wants to blame someone else for it (preferably a worldwide organisation so that they can also feel important) rather than take responsibility for their own poor decisions in life.
I think one of the reasons that I despise these conspiraloons so much is the same one that I abhor organised religion; they claim to be something they're not, and as such they are liars and hypocrites. Actually, conspiraloons share a lot of traits with evangelical Christians; both want everyone to believe what they do, both view their beliefs and faith as something self-evidently factual, both will go to any lengths to avoid honest debate, and both throw monstrous hissy fits whenever one points out a flaw in their statements.
However, the main reason that I have such a problem with them is their effect on honest debate. It's incredibly easy for any government to dismiss any questioning of their official versions, because that questioning is quickly co-opted by conspiraloons and used as part of the basis for their self-important flights of fancy masquerading as fact. Therefore most people, who may have quite reasonable reservations about just how honest their government is, will not take those doubts any further because it will seem to them that the alternative is a belief that the government are actually an secret cult of Sun Worshippers who want to rule in the name of the Elder Gods (a quick side note; every conspiraloon I have ever talked to, without exception, has a belief structure that reads like an HP Lovecraft or Grant Morrison story. Might I suggest these people look up the definitions of "fact" and "fiction"). And who in their right mind wants to believe that?
I think what I'm trying to say (in amongst all the faintly rationalised bile) is that I made a mistake in dismissing any and all people who could be termed "conspiracy theorists", and I would exhort you all to not make that same mistake. Don't dismiss a conspiracy theory out of hand just because of what it is, but treat with disdain those burnouts and failures who want you to accept their beliefs as fact purely to provide some sort of validation for their empty and wasted lives.
I'll explain; someone asked me what conspiracies I actually believed in. And I found myself stating that I didn't believe in the official government line about the current Iraq occupation (which, as near as I can make out, is a mish-mash of "it's part of the War on Terror", "It was to stop Saddam getting weapons of Mass Destruction", and "we're improving the life of the people of Iraq"; depending on what day it is, you'll hear a different answer vomiting from the lips of an uncomfortable looking government spokesman) as evidence that I don't unquestioningly believe whatever the official version of events happens to be. I was a little surprised to be told that this shouldn't count as a conspiracy theory because "everyone knows that the Government version is a lie".
Up until then, I'd defined a conspiracy theory as something that differed from an official governmental version of events, and went on to provide it's own explanation of what "really" happened. So if we take the Iraqi land grab as an example, the most commonly accepted conspiracy theory surrounding that one is that the US used 9/11 as an excuse to invade Iraq in order to secure their oil reserves. However, apparently this is not a conspiracy theory and the only reason given for that is because, apparently, everyone knows it. Does that mean then that a conspiracy theory has to be something known only to a select few? Does it have to be something that is rejected by the mainstream in order to qualify? And if that is the case, doesn't that mean I'm entirely correct in dismissing conspiracy theorists as a bunch of burnt out failures who conjure up elaborate fantasies about the way the world works in order to re-assure themselves that they actually have an important part in it?
It took a conversation with a fully fledged conspiracy theorist to demonstrate to me that, in fact, I'd been going about this all wrong. What defines a conspiracy theorist isn't so much their theory, but the way they feel about it. For example, I know of people who believe that JFK was not killed by Lee Harvey Oswald (and I count myself among those people). We all have our different theories about how he was killed and who killed him, and we all have differing degrees of evidence to back up our theories. What we don't have is conclusive proof and (most importantly) we acknowledge this. Oh, we can present a case in a convincing manner but the simple fact is that our belief that Oswald didn't kill JFK is just that; a belief. An article of faith. We’ll ask questions of the official version, but we don't try to tell someone that our belief is 100% incontrovertible fact, and it's there that the main difference lies.
In this same conversation, the conspiracy theorist put forward his belief that the world was being run by a group of Occultists who simultaneously had their roots in both the Nazi movement and ancient history. One of the starting points of his rather bizarre belief was that "the Nazis wanted to rule the world and set up a world government". Now this statement rang alarm bells with me (as opposed to his initial belief, which really should have triggered my "this man is a foaming idiot" bell), because being a bit of a History buff, I was under the impression that the Nazis actually opposed any sort of World Government as it was a "Jewish" concept. Basically, a forged document called the Elder Protocols of Zion together with a long-lived conspiracy theory about a mythical group called "The Illuminati" led many anti-Semites to take the view that any world government would be an organisation secretly run by the Jews.
Not only that, but Hitler himself had gone on record as saying that the Reich he wanted to create would be an organisation much like the British Empire. In other words, it would be the dominant influence on global politics, but not the sole influence. Yes, he wanted to dominate Europe, but he and the rest of the Nazi movement saw that European Empire as something to rival the British Empire. So I asked him to provide some evidence for his assertion that the Nazis wanted a world government.
(At this point I should mention that, having read the last 2 paragraphs back to myself, it sounds like I was conversing with someone who is more than a few bricks short of a load. And I would absolutely agree with that assessment.)
He could provide none. And that's fair enough; as I've mentioned, I can't provide huge swathes of evidence for my belief about JFK being killed by someone other than Oswald. So I asked him to confirm that his assertion about Nazis and world government was an article of faith. And he refused. Not in a "I can't do that, and here is some evidence as to why not" way, but in a "I'm going to stamp my feet and hold my breath until I turn blue unless you believe me lalalalalalalalalalaI’mnotlisteninglalalalalalala!" sort of manner.
Obviously, that is just one example from a wide range of conspiracy theorists, and I hope you see the point I'm trying to make. If not, I'll make it explicit; the gentlemen I was talking to was trying to pass off a belief of his as a stone cold, copper-bottomed fact. The only evidence he was able to produce was "because I say so". And it's this feature of conspiracy theory that caused me to view the whole damned lot of them with suspicion.
They claim to be tellers of truth and guardians of the sacred flame of honesty. They claim that they oppose "them", the ones who are lying to you and trying to make you believe lies, and who condemn any who do not swallow their bullshit. Yet when one presses them for evidence, or even simply asks them a question about their pet theory, they will be evasive and dishonest. They will lie to you, try to make you believe their lie, and condemn you if you don't accept it. Worryingly, they don’t seem to see the irony in this.
This is in stark contrast to the type of conspiracy theorist who is actually interested in debate, and who is as honest about the flaws in their theory as they are its strengths. So I've started to differentiate between the two. Those people who will lie to you to try and convince you of their belief, I now term "Conspiraloons". It's a handy term, an accurate one, and it stops me from unfairly lumping in conspiracy theorists with them.
Of course, I say "condemn you". 9 times out of 10, their condemnation takes the form of the kind of insults one heard at school before one actually learned how to debate; "you're so naïve" is a popular retort by the conspiraloon on the back foot. As is "You're one of THEM!", and (for those conspiraloons who are also Bill Hicks fans) "Go back to bed [insert name here]. You just don't know what's really going on". Hardly the scathing wit and rapier-like intellect of someone who has somehow managed to find out the deepest secrets of a pervasive and omnipresent evil conspiracy and share that truth with the world at a risk to his own life and liberty. More the petulance of someone angry that his or her belief isn’t being unquestioningly accepted. And, I would suspect, the bitterness of one who has seen their life turn out rather worse than they were expecting, and wants to blame someone else for it (preferably a worldwide organisation so that they can also feel important) rather than take responsibility for their own poor decisions in life.
I think one of the reasons that I despise these conspiraloons so much is the same one that I abhor organised religion; they claim to be something they're not, and as such they are liars and hypocrites. Actually, conspiraloons share a lot of traits with evangelical Christians; both want everyone to believe what they do, both view their beliefs and faith as something self-evidently factual, both will go to any lengths to avoid honest debate, and both throw monstrous hissy fits whenever one points out a flaw in their statements.
However, the main reason that I have such a problem with them is their effect on honest debate. It's incredibly easy for any government to dismiss any questioning of their official versions, because that questioning is quickly co-opted by conspiraloons and used as part of the basis for their self-important flights of fancy masquerading as fact. Therefore most people, who may have quite reasonable reservations about just how honest their government is, will not take those doubts any further because it will seem to them that the alternative is a belief that the government are actually an secret cult of Sun Worshippers who want to rule in the name of the Elder Gods (a quick side note; every conspiraloon I have ever talked to, without exception, has a belief structure that reads like an HP Lovecraft or Grant Morrison story. Might I suggest these people look up the definitions of "fact" and "fiction"). And who in their right mind wants to believe that?
I think what I'm trying to say (in amongst all the faintly rationalised bile) is that I made a mistake in dismissing any and all people who could be termed "conspiracy theorists", and I would exhort you all to not make that same mistake. Don't dismiss a conspiracy theory out of hand just because of what it is, but treat with disdain those burnouts and failures who want you to accept their beliefs as fact purely to provide some sort of validation for their empty and wasted lives.
Wednesday, 21 February 2007
Where are your manners?
One can always tell when one has begun to grow older. Birthdays stop being days of fun and happiness and gradually take on a pervading sense of creeping doom. Christmas becomes the one day of the year you’re not allowed to sleep off your hangover. You start to have to CHOOSE between Friday or Saturday for your big night out. And ones unguarded thoughts and reactions begin to resemble the front page of the Daily Mail.
Take, for example, take my reaction yesterday to a couple of students with no comprehension of “personal space”, “manners” or “blimey, that bloke is starting to look really really pissed off”. I was sat with my wife at a concert hall (and just the beginning of that sentence alone makes me feel like my dad…), and the 4 gentlemen sat in front of me recognised the one sat behind me. So the first one in front leaned across me to shake the hand of the one behind. A little irritating of course, but nothing too troubling. His friend chose to go one step further. The little shit leant across me and offered a very urban hand slap to his friend. Right next to my fucking ear. It sounded like a fleshy gunshot, and my brain immediately clicked into the “young people today, no manners, no manners at all” gear that one seems to get issued with upon hitting 30.
Anyway, after a couple of minutes of silent fuming (another feature of the over 30s, particularly the English I think), I caught myself and realised that my thoughts were churning over in exactly the same way as the blue-rinsed cockwasps that I despise. The main focus of my ire centred around manners. And it does seem these days that we’re subjected to an endless litany of complaints that the manners of people in general today are not nearly as good as the manners of those in the past. And that got me thinking, is this true? Or is it rose-tinted nostalgia? And if it is true, why is this?
I suppose that if we look at things like doffing ones cap to a lady, opening doors for someone, calling a man “sir” as a mode of address, and simple things like “please”, “thank you”, and “excuse me” then our manners compared to, say, 100 years ago are sorely lacking. But on the other hand, when it comes to mortality rates, life expectancy, and instances of repressed men visiting child brothels, we’re somewhat in advance of our forebears.
So whilst the bigger things (lifespan, general health, standard of living) have improved in the UK, it would seem that the smaller things, manners, have taken a hammering. Is there a reason for this? I would say that there is. I think that the use of what we understand as manners has began to decay in this country for a couple of reasons, and the most obvious one of these is fear.
Fear always, always, re-enforced the use of manners. It used to start at school with the liberal use of corporal punishment. Didn’t call your elders “sir” at school? Then you can win, free of charge, a beating from your teacher. Displayed insolence to one of your peers? Then it’s an all-expenses paid beating for you! Didn’t stand whenever a lady (be a teacher, a nurse, or one of the teachers wives) entered the room? Then allow us to present you with the free gift of a beating.
It continued in ones working and social environment (which, being as many children didn’t even get to school, meant that the same social conditioning to good manners occurred no matter where one grew up). Complaining about poor working conditions and wages? Say goodbye to your job and HELLO to destitution and even more abject poverty. Posterity abounds with tales of the lower classes being treated appallingly by the growing middle classes. And if one goes back further, and we look to times when a Lord literally had the power of life and death over his serfs...well, one is much less likely to be singled out for rough treatment if one is unfailingly polite to the Lord and his representatives.
Even if we look at the societies today that are praised for their excellent manners, they are as well mannered due to fear. Singapore and Malaysia are two nations that are routinely praised by tiresome and reactionary old fucks for having beautifully polite young men and women who don’t spit, don’t chew gum, and don’t listen to loud music in public whilst wearing hoodies. And this is true; they don’t. Mainly because of the Draconian laws that fine, imprison, and generally threaten everyone who deviates from these standards of good manners.
(I should interject on my own behalf here; I’m not trying to say that they people should be free to act and behave like Junior Clockwork Oranges. I feel very strongly that manners have a place in society, and an important place at that. However, when I hear all these reedy-voiced horsefuckers saying that we “need to instil some manners into people!”, I can’t help thinking “what, so you want to make people afraid of you? Wow…how very grown up of you.”)
I guess that a big part of the reason that we don’t feel the sense of fear that gave us our manners is the class system, or lack thereof. We no longer feel that we automatically have to show manners to someone for no reason other than they come from a higher social class than us. The class structure of Britain informed a huge part of British life, and whilst I’m not naïve enough to think that it’s died altogether, its stranglehold has gone and with it have gone the good manners and fear so beloved of wrinkled moaners.
(Another brief interjection; I’m inclined to think that the Internet has also contributed to the death of manners. It would be hypocritical in the extreme of me to lament poor manners without acknowledging that I regularly get involved in the kind of petty, vicious, pointless, and hugely satisfying arguments over the internet that would make polite society shit it’s collective nappy in horror. I’m not sure whether the bitchiness that the anonymity of the net has brought about is also affecting the rest of society, but I know that the Internet is no respecter of status or class, and that this equality tends to mean that everyone is fair game in an argument. Despite the efforts of those few laughable brain donors who try to threaten physical violence to the writer of words on a screen.)
So where does that leave us? Well, I do want to see a better mannered society, but I don’t want it to be done by means of keeping the masses afraid of the few. It strikes me that manners should be about mutual respect. Having enough respect for ones fellow man that one automatically treats them with good manners unless one is given reason not to. What’s more, a society where people respect one another would mean that we’d see less crime, fewer headlines claiming that immigrants are going to ruin the country, and a greater sense of personal happiness and sense of security.
As to how this sense of mutual respect can be created…well, I don’t claim to know exactly how that can be done. All I do know is that as long as we have media headlines encouraging us to fear whichever group in society currently have pariah status, and as long as Governments keep trying to maintain their own personal position at the expense of any genuine advances, and as long as war is waged and then justified using religion, and as long as we all remain totally unwilling to take any responsibility for our own lives and actually try to make a difference, then this society will be either scared or ill-mannered or both.
Take, for example, take my reaction yesterday to a couple of students with no comprehension of “personal space”, “manners” or “blimey, that bloke is starting to look really really pissed off”. I was sat with my wife at a concert hall (and just the beginning of that sentence alone makes me feel like my dad…), and the 4 gentlemen sat in front of me recognised the one sat behind me. So the first one in front leaned across me to shake the hand of the one behind. A little irritating of course, but nothing too troubling. His friend chose to go one step further. The little shit leant across me and offered a very urban hand slap to his friend. Right next to my fucking ear. It sounded like a fleshy gunshot, and my brain immediately clicked into the “young people today, no manners, no manners at all” gear that one seems to get issued with upon hitting 30.
Anyway, after a couple of minutes of silent fuming (another feature of the over 30s, particularly the English I think), I caught myself and realised that my thoughts were churning over in exactly the same way as the blue-rinsed cockwasps that I despise. The main focus of my ire centred around manners. And it does seem these days that we’re subjected to an endless litany of complaints that the manners of people in general today are not nearly as good as the manners of those in the past. And that got me thinking, is this true? Or is it rose-tinted nostalgia? And if it is true, why is this?
I suppose that if we look at things like doffing ones cap to a lady, opening doors for someone, calling a man “sir” as a mode of address, and simple things like “please”, “thank you”, and “excuse me” then our manners compared to, say, 100 years ago are sorely lacking. But on the other hand, when it comes to mortality rates, life expectancy, and instances of repressed men visiting child brothels, we’re somewhat in advance of our forebears.
So whilst the bigger things (lifespan, general health, standard of living) have improved in the UK, it would seem that the smaller things, manners, have taken a hammering. Is there a reason for this? I would say that there is. I think that the use of what we understand as manners has began to decay in this country for a couple of reasons, and the most obvious one of these is fear.
Fear always, always, re-enforced the use of manners. It used to start at school with the liberal use of corporal punishment. Didn’t call your elders “sir” at school? Then you can win, free of charge, a beating from your teacher. Displayed insolence to one of your peers? Then it’s an all-expenses paid beating for you! Didn’t stand whenever a lady (be a teacher, a nurse, or one of the teachers wives) entered the room? Then allow us to present you with the free gift of a beating.
It continued in ones working and social environment (which, being as many children didn’t even get to school, meant that the same social conditioning to good manners occurred no matter where one grew up). Complaining about poor working conditions and wages? Say goodbye to your job and HELLO to destitution and even more abject poverty. Posterity abounds with tales of the lower classes being treated appallingly by the growing middle classes. And if one goes back further, and we look to times when a Lord literally had the power of life and death over his serfs...well, one is much less likely to be singled out for rough treatment if one is unfailingly polite to the Lord and his representatives.
Even if we look at the societies today that are praised for their excellent manners, they are as well mannered due to fear. Singapore and Malaysia are two nations that are routinely praised by tiresome and reactionary old fucks for having beautifully polite young men and women who don’t spit, don’t chew gum, and don’t listen to loud music in public whilst wearing hoodies. And this is true; they don’t. Mainly because of the Draconian laws that fine, imprison, and generally threaten everyone who deviates from these standards of good manners.
(I should interject on my own behalf here; I’m not trying to say that they people should be free to act and behave like Junior Clockwork Oranges. I feel very strongly that manners have a place in society, and an important place at that. However, when I hear all these reedy-voiced horsefuckers saying that we “need to instil some manners into people!”, I can’t help thinking “what, so you want to make people afraid of you? Wow…how very grown up of you.”)
I guess that a big part of the reason that we don’t feel the sense of fear that gave us our manners is the class system, or lack thereof. We no longer feel that we automatically have to show manners to someone for no reason other than they come from a higher social class than us. The class structure of Britain informed a huge part of British life, and whilst I’m not naïve enough to think that it’s died altogether, its stranglehold has gone and with it have gone the good manners and fear so beloved of wrinkled moaners.
(Another brief interjection; I’m inclined to think that the Internet has also contributed to the death of manners. It would be hypocritical in the extreme of me to lament poor manners without acknowledging that I regularly get involved in the kind of petty, vicious, pointless, and hugely satisfying arguments over the internet that would make polite society shit it’s collective nappy in horror. I’m not sure whether the bitchiness that the anonymity of the net has brought about is also affecting the rest of society, but I know that the Internet is no respecter of status or class, and that this equality tends to mean that everyone is fair game in an argument. Despite the efforts of those few laughable brain donors who try to threaten physical violence to the writer of words on a screen.)
So where does that leave us? Well, I do want to see a better mannered society, but I don’t want it to be done by means of keeping the masses afraid of the few. It strikes me that manners should be about mutual respect. Having enough respect for ones fellow man that one automatically treats them with good manners unless one is given reason not to. What’s more, a society where people respect one another would mean that we’d see less crime, fewer headlines claiming that immigrants are going to ruin the country, and a greater sense of personal happiness and sense of security.
As to how this sense of mutual respect can be created…well, I don’t claim to know exactly how that can be done. All I do know is that as long as we have media headlines encouraging us to fear whichever group in society currently have pariah status, and as long as Governments keep trying to maintain their own personal position at the expense of any genuine advances, and as long as war is waged and then justified using religion, and as long as we all remain totally unwilling to take any responsibility for our own lives and actually try to make a difference, then this society will be either scared or ill-mannered or both.
Tuesday, 6 February 2007
An etiquette guide
For some time now, I have been pressed by a number of my correspondents to put the definitive guide to slinging shit around the dinner table. It was only after the dinner party hosted by Lord Dangleberry last April that I saw the need for such a document. The party ended somewhat shambolically after Miss Rowena Trackmark indulged in rectal digging before the soup course had been finished, and Sir Timothy Lilyjuice continued hurling his (somewhat sloppy) faeces at guests long after the meal was over.
So then, I am faced with the task of trawling through the various regional variations of shit throwing to put together a unified British etiquette to this much loved and ancient practice. I am indebted to my two young researchers, a Miss Louise Ankelspunk and a Miss Hilary Zeitguest for their efforts in tracking down and collating the various references to shit throwing that are left with us from antiquity.
Before I go further, I should point out that I have decided not to make reference to any of the continental variations of shit throwing. Whilst I have the greatest of respect for the customs of our foreign cousins, I can see no value in their inclusion. It would be impossible, for example, to reconcile the Italian tradition of an after dessert free for all with the more staid (and dare I say it, more proper) Russian stance, whereby only the four most senior guests along with the host are permitted to throw shit, and then only after the final course.
So then, onwards we must go. Firstly, I shall address the point of who may sling their shit. The correct approach is to wait for the host to throw a log before indulging. However, should the host not have flung a turd by the end of dessert, it is acceptable for the gentleman to the right of the host to throw a shit at whoever is sitting to the left of the host.
As to the remainder of the guests, one must of course deal with the thorny subject of female throwing. A number of counties do not allow the fairer sex to enjoy throwing shit, whilst others set a part of the meal aside specifically for the women guests. In order to try and achieve some sort of compromise between all viewpoints, I would suggest that women be allowed to start throwing shit only after their escort flings one of his own. Unescorted ladies (should one be the sort of chap to invite such ladies to a party) must wait until all other ladies and gentlemen present have let loose.
So then, the order of play is to be host, followed by gentlemen, followed by their good ladies, and finally unescorted “ladies”. I must stress that children should not be permitted under any circumstances to join in the flinging. I find that the children (especially the younger boys) produce quite the most horrific stench from their shit and this simply will not do.
We must next address the problem of when in the proceedings the first mud can be thrown. If one divides a party into the arrival and imbibing of a light drink, the soup course, the starter, a refilling of ones drink, the first main course, another refill, the second main course, dessert, coffees, and finally brandy and cigars, then we can have an agreed structure in which to work with. Should ones party not follow such a course, then I hope that this guide is flexible enough for one to make the necessary adjustments.
I would say that it is not proper to throw shit at all until at least the end of the soup course. I realise that in saying this I will cause consternation the length and breadth of Cornwall, but picking shit out of ones soup really is a most unpleasant experience. So the first flinging should most properly be done after the soup. Should the host be serving a fruit starter, then the initial throwing should wait until after the course has been finished by all (not, as is the practice in Norfolk, once the host has finished) and before the plates are cleared away. If a non-fruit starter is chosen, shit may be thrown at any time after grace is said. At this early stage however, the throwing should be restrained to a single log per guest, and the throw should be light and playful rather than with ones full force.
I must interject once more at this point in order to clarify the procedure when drinks are being refilled. One must not under any circumstances throw shit at this point. It really is very bad form to do so as it may unnecessarily cover the butler in waste. As it is universally agreed that this is the one person who should remain untouched by shit, one can see why one must not indulge during refills.
We now move on to the main courses. By this time, I would expect a dinner party to be in full swing and ones guests should have relaxed completely. One should be on ones guard at letting matters degenerate at this point! I recently attended a party in Lanarkshire where the first shit was flung before I had taken a mouthful of my (quite delicious) Venison Foristier, with guests throwing their faeces at each other continually until the second course was cleared away. Whilst I make no direct criticism of this (everyone involved had a marvellous time) such wild abandon is not to everyone’s tastes.
I would therefore propose the following; Flinging should recommence after the host has finished his first course and is satisfied that everyone present is aware of this fact. At this point the main body of shit throwing should commence, but must only last until the last guest has finished eating! At this point everyone should be seated until the second course is served whereupon the shit throwing should resume. Upon finishing the second course, guests should once again be seated until the end of dessert.
I must be very firm about the following point; absolutely no shit should be thrown during dessert. This is a tradition that dates back to the time of William of Orange, when the Catholic populace expressed their silent hopes of rebellion by throwing shit during a dessert in which the Orange fruit featured heavily.
After dessert in concluded, I would suggest a short recess during which guests can use the bowls of warm water provided by the host in conjunction with their napkins to remove the thickest of the shit from their hands. Finally we have the brandy and cigars. By this point, all ladies present will have adjourned to the lounge, leaving the gentlemen to scrape their colons clean of the last of their waste product. This should be smeared in the face of the gentleman to the left (in deference to George II) and upon concluding, the evenings shit throwing is complete.
In finishing, I would like to say that I hope that this guide will be of use for all those thinking of hosting a dinner party and thank you all for your gentle encouragement.
So then, I am faced with the task of trawling through the various regional variations of shit throwing to put together a unified British etiquette to this much loved and ancient practice. I am indebted to my two young researchers, a Miss Louise Ankelspunk and a Miss Hilary Zeitguest for their efforts in tracking down and collating the various references to shit throwing that are left with us from antiquity.
Before I go further, I should point out that I have decided not to make reference to any of the continental variations of shit throwing. Whilst I have the greatest of respect for the customs of our foreign cousins, I can see no value in their inclusion. It would be impossible, for example, to reconcile the Italian tradition of an after dessert free for all with the more staid (and dare I say it, more proper) Russian stance, whereby only the four most senior guests along with the host are permitted to throw shit, and then only after the final course.
So then, onwards we must go. Firstly, I shall address the point of who may sling their shit. The correct approach is to wait for the host to throw a log before indulging. However, should the host not have flung a turd by the end of dessert, it is acceptable for the gentleman to the right of the host to throw a shit at whoever is sitting to the left of the host.
As to the remainder of the guests, one must of course deal with the thorny subject of female throwing. A number of counties do not allow the fairer sex to enjoy throwing shit, whilst others set a part of the meal aside specifically for the women guests. In order to try and achieve some sort of compromise between all viewpoints, I would suggest that women be allowed to start throwing shit only after their escort flings one of his own. Unescorted ladies (should one be the sort of chap to invite such ladies to a party) must wait until all other ladies and gentlemen present have let loose.
So then, the order of play is to be host, followed by gentlemen, followed by their good ladies, and finally unescorted “ladies”. I must stress that children should not be permitted under any circumstances to join in the flinging. I find that the children (especially the younger boys) produce quite the most horrific stench from their shit and this simply will not do.
We must next address the problem of when in the proceedings the first mud can be thrown. If one divides a party into the arrival and imbibing of a light drink, the soup course, the starter, a refilling of ones drink, the first main course, another refill, the second main course, dessert, coffees, and finally brandy and cigars, then we can have an agreed structure in which to work with. Should ones party not follow such a course, then I hope that this guide is flexible enough for one to make the necessary adjustments.
I would say that it is not proper to throw shit at all until at least the end of the soup course. I realise that in saying this I will cause consternation the length and breadth of Cornwall, but picking shit out of ones soup really is a most unpleasant experience. So the first flinging should most properly be done after the soup. Should the host be serving a fruit starter, then the initial throwing should wait until after the course has been finished by all (not, as is the practice in Norfolk, once the host has finished) and before the plates are cleared away. If a non-fruit starter is chosen, shit may be thrown at any time after grace is said. At this early stage however, the throwing should be restrained to a single log per guest, and the throw should be light and playful rather than with ones full force.
I must interject once more at this point in order to clarify the procedure when drinks are being refilled. One must not under any circumstances throw shit at this point. It really is very bad form to do so as it may unnecessarily cover the butler in waste. As it is universally agreed that this is the one person who should remain untouched by shit, one can see why one must not indulge during refills.
We now move on to the main courses. By this time, I would expect a dinner party to be in full swing and ones guests should have relaxed completely. One should be on ones guard at letting matters degenerate at this point! I recently attended a party in Lanarkshire where the first shit was flung before I had taken a mouthful of my (quite delicious) Venison Foristier, with guests throwing their faeces at each other continually until the second course was cleared away. Whilst I make no direct criticism of this (everyone involved had a marvellous time) such wild abandon is not to everyone’s tastes.
I would therefore propose the following; Flinging should recommence after the host has finished his first course and is satisfied that everyone present is aware of this fact. At this point the main body of shit throwing should commence, but must only last until the last guest has finished eating! At this point everyone should be seated until the second course is served whereupon the shit throwing should resume. Upon finishing the second course, guests should once again be seated until the end of dessert.
I must be very firm about the following point; absolutely no shit should be thrown during dessert. This is a tradition that dates back to the time of William of Orange, when the Catholic populace expressed their silent hopes of rebellion by throwing shit during a dessert in which the Orange fruit featured heavily.
After dessert in concluded, I would suggest a short recess during which guests can use the bowls of warm water provided by the host in conjunction with their napkins to remove the thickest of the shit from their hands. Finally we have the brandy and cigars. By this point, all ladies present will have adjourned to the lounge, leaving the gentlemen to scrape their colons clean of the last of their waste product. This should be smeared in the face of the gentleman to the left (in deference to George II) and upon concluding, the evenings shit throwing is complete.
In finishing, I would like to say that I hope that this guide will be of use for all those thinking of hosting a dinner party and thank you all for your gentle encouragement.
Wednesday, 29 November 2006
I Love 1984
Does everyone have a favourite book? A book that they read and re-read year in year out? That is spiritually and emotionally nourishing and rewarding, and that provides fresh insights every time into both oneself and the world around? In news that will come as a surprise to precisely no one who knows me and my endlessly paranoid mindset, my favourite book of all time is 1984 by George Orwell. And yesterday, I finished reading it for something like the 13th or 14th time. I've read it once a year since I was a precocious and arrogant teen. It remained my annual treat as I grew into a pretentious and arrogant student. My development into a pompous and arrogant twentysomething was accompanied with readings once every 12 months. And now, as a presumptuous and arrogant thirtysomething, it's still my bible when it comes to informing my thought processes. But is the book, written as a post-war warning about a totalitarian menace long since discredited and dismantled, and set in a future that is now our past, still in any way relevant? Or is my constant referral and re-referral to it just so much pseudo-highbrow headwank?
For those (hopefully few) of you who don't know, 1984 concerns itself with the life and thoughts of Winston Smith. He is a citizen of Oceana, a totalitarian state ruled by The Party. He lives in London, the chief city of what is now referred to as Airstrip One. A lot of language now in everyday use has its roots in 1984. Big Brother, for example, was created by Orwell (along with the phrase "Big Brother is watching you"). The Thought Police receive their debut mention in terminology in 1984. Somewhat more worryingly, the idea of a controlled reality created by a select few and imposed on the majority was discussed in unflinching detail here. Why disturbing? Well, compare the words of O'Brien in 1984;
"O'Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. 'We control reality because we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation -- anything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it."
With the comment that a senior aide to that lovable scamp Dubya made to Ron Suskind, a journalist for the New York Times, in 2004;
"We're an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality - judiciously, as you will - we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors . . . and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do."
To me, those words read as something alarmingly similar to the triumphant insanity that is shat into Winston Smith's brain by O'Brien This alone would seem to serve as proof of the relevance of 1984; that those in power can say, without a hint of irony or self awareness, things that Orwell wrote pretty much for the shock value of having an authoritarian figure say them. Does that mean then that we are living in a similar state to the bleak hell that Winston is eventually destroyed by?
Another major feature of the society that Winston Smith finds himself in is the lack of accountability, and the habitual falsification of figures to prove that those in power are unerringly correct about everything at all times. Indeed, Winston's job is (despite his growing hatred of The Party, and the almost unconscious desire to rebel) to falsify information that has appeared in the media. Now, I will freely admit that we are perhaps not quite at that stage yet; in 1984, there is no one to offer up any opposition to or disbelief of the figures that are continually changed. In our society, whenever the Government produces figures about immigration to say that hardly anyone is entering the country, it can be guaranteed that some faintly right-wing group will produce utterly different figures proving that our nation is overrun with dirty foreigners who want to have sex with our roadsigns. Whenever a New Labour drone tries to triumphantly claim that the NHS is in great shape, we invariably hear from the Unions that the NHS is being stripped and raped by profit-hungry Public-Private partnerships.
So we can see that our leaders don't quite get away with making up bullshit figures and facts to prove that they're perfect. However…am I really the only person who is disturbed at how often they still try? We have become so used to those in government telling us lies, damned lies, and statistics that we are now conditioned to treat whatever pronouncement made in much the same way as one would treat a crippled Jimmy Carr; something to be laughed at and then ignored. Although the methods used to achieve it differ from those in 1984, I would argue that our government has gone out of their way to ensure that they don't have to answer to those who elect them. The continual use of smoke and mirrors to present their figures in such a way to make them seem correct, and our subsequent lack of interest in what we assume to be their lies has already meant that they can do pretty much what they want because we just don't care, and don't feel we can make a difference. You don't agree? Look at what happens on those rare occasions that an issue arises that does excite public interest. The Iraq war was opposed by hundreds of thousands of people, and there were protests all over the country. And what happened? They were given a collective pat on the head, told they didn't understand, and why didn't they all go home and leave the important work to the grownups?
And what has this lack of accountability done to the government? Well…ask yourself this; when was the last time that you can think of something done by the government that wasn't either a knee-jerk reaction pandering to a frightened and ignorant middle England, or something that was an out-and-out attempt to enrich themselves? I genuinely can only think of one piece of legislation in the last 5 years that was for the benefit of the majority rather than something to curtail freedoms and benefit the ruling class (for the record, it's the increase in Statutory Maternity and Adoption Pay periods; new mothers and those who adopt now get an extra 3 paid months off). Any government elected in this country seems to now have the maintenance of their power as their first priority, and they have no fear of answering to an electorate in their efforts to do so.
However, there is more to the continual relevance of 1984 than mere commentary on what power does to the soul of those who wield it. For instance, the book makes reference to the media (such as it is). It talks of tatty tabloids pumping out sport, lottery numbers, and gossip for the benefit of the Proles. The Proles are the lumpen majority of people who are kept docile and satisfied by a conscious effort to keep them ignorant. I would contend that this view of the Proles is exactly the same view that most in the mainstream media have of their audience. How else can one explain the continued existence of Heat magazine? If ever there was a magazine that encouraged its readership to become obsessed with banalities and nonentities then this is it.
My hatred for scandal rags aside, the implicit suggestion in 1984 is that the media are complicit in keeping the Party in power. Whilst the Party falsify the information that really does matter a damn (news of the war, political figures, statistics on everything from immigration to production), the media ensure that this falsification goes pretty much unnoticed anyway, because it bombards it's readership with fluff (at this point I have to make clear that I swear I'm not as humourless as this probably makes me sound. As my vast expenditure on ladmags will prove, I think there is a place in the media for fluff. It's just that…well, does it have to be the dominating and overriding concern?).
As an example of this, I'd return to opposition to the Iraq war for a moment; I've already mentioned the strength of Anti-War feeling, and how completely it has been ignored by the government. Yet we do have anti-war elements in the mainstream media, and they will all go out of their way to report on anything that would bolster their cause, right? Right?
Then how come in Chicago a gentleman named Malachi Ritscher was, on 3rd November, able to douse himself in petrol and turn himself into a patiently-sitting human fireball in protest against the war? You've not heard of him? Not really surprising; you'll have to scour the media for mention of his name (even in supposedly Anti-War media outlets such as the BBC, the Guardian, the Mirror etc). However, if you want to find out who was evicted from I'm a Celebrity last night, or if you're keen to know some of the details behind Pamela Anderson's divorce from Kid Rock…well, it's not exactly difficult to come by that information, is it?
The final point I'd like to make in this increasingly frantic and mildly outlandish attempt to make everyone as paranoid as I am concerns the fate of Winston Smith himself. I've talked of how parallels can be drawn between the corrupting influence of power as described in 1984, along with the role of the media in keeping the Proles in their rightful place as doughfaced, mouthbreathing brain donors who clap with glee at the sight of a Z-list celebrity being humiliated on live TV. But what about the parallels between the actual human beings in 1984 and the likes of you and I today?
At the end of 1984, Winston has been utterly broken by the tortures inflicted on him. However, although the Party are triumphant, the only thing they have achieved is complete dominance over a washed out old drunk, a man who obliterates himself with gin and who sits unthinkingly and unquestioningly at his unimportant desk in an unimportant job doing unimportant things to keep the despair at bay. It's quite difficult not to recognise a lot of ourselves in that if we're completely honest. There is a reason that we in the UK drink more than pretty much any other nation, and take more drugs than almost every other country. It's because we rarely feel in charge of our own destinies, or that we have any effective control over our own lives. Successive governments since the 60s have certainly succeeded in making themselves less accountable, but it's been at the expense of the gradual debasement of the very people they want to have power over. More than any other comparison between 1984 and today’s world, I find that the one between the fate of Winston and our own fates in a world that has done it's best to remove all hope that we can ever make a difference to be the most pertinent and the most frightening.
Anyway, if I've depressed the hell out of you with this rant then please console yourself with a thought; it'll be at least a year before I read 1984 again, which means 12 more months until I inflict something like this one you.
For those (hopefully few) of you who don't know, 1984 concerns itself with the life and thoughts of Winston Smith. He is a citizen of Oceana, a totalitarian state ruled by The Party. He lives in London, the chief city of what is now referred to as Airstrip One. A lot of language now in everyday use has its roots in 1984. Big Brother, for example, was created by Orwell (along with the phrase "Big Brother is watching you"). The Thought Police receive their debut mention in terminology in 1984. Somewhat more worryingly, the idea of a controlled reality created by a select few and imposed on the majority was discussed in unflinching detail here. Why disturbing? Well, compare the words of O'Brien in 1984;
"O'Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. 'We control reality because we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation -- anything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it."
With the comment that a senior aide to that lovable scamp Dubya made to Ron Suskind, a journalist for the New York Times, in 2004;
"We're an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality - judiciously, as you will - we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors . . . and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do."
To me, those words read as something alarmingly similar to the triumphant insanity that is shat into Winston Smith's brain by O'Brien This alone would seem to serve as proof of the relevance of 1984; that those in power can say, without a hint of irony or self awareness, things that Orwell wrote pretty much for the shock value of having an authoritarian figure say them. Does that mean then that we are living in a similar state to the bleak hell that Winston is eventually destroyed by?
Another major feature of the society that Winston Smith finds himself in is the lack of accountability, and the habitual falsification of figures to prove that those in power are unerringly correct about everything at all times. Indeed, Winston's job is (despite his growing hatred of The Party, and the almost unconscious desire to rebel) to falsify information that has appeared in the media. Now, I will freely admit that we are perhaps not quite at that stage yet; in 1984, there is no one to offer up any opposition to or disbelief of the figures that are continually changed. In our society, whenever the Government produces figures about immigration to say that hardly anyone is entering the country, it can be guaranteed that some faintly right-wing group will produce utterly different figures proving that our nation is overrun with dirty foreigners who want to have sex with our roadsigns. Whenever a New Labour drone tries to triumphantly claim that the NHS is in great shape, we invariably hear from the Unions that the NHS is being stripped and raped by profit-hungry Public-Private partnerships.
So we can see that our leaders don't quite get away with making up bullshit figures and facts to prove that they're perfect. However…am I really the only person who is disturbed at how often they still try? We have become so used to those in government telling us lies, damned lies, and statistics that we are now conditioned to treat whatever pronouncement made in much the same way as one would treat a crippled Jimmy Carr; something to be laughed at and then ignored. Although the methods used to achieve it differ from those in 1984, I would argue that our government has gone out of their way to ensure that they don't have to answer to those who elect them. The continual use of smoke and mirrors to present their figures in such a way to make them seem correct, and our subsequent lack of interest in what we assume to be their lies has already meant that they can do pretty much what they want because we just don't care, and don't feel we can make a difference. You don't agree? Look at what happens on those rare occasions that an issue arises that does excite public interest. The Iraq war was opposed by hundreds of thousands of people, and there were protests all over the country. And what happened? They were given a collective pat on the head, told they didn't understand, and why didn't they all go home and leave the important work to the grownups?
And what has this lack of accountability done to the government? Well…ask yourself this; when was the last time that you can think of something done by the government that wasn't either a knee-jerk reaction pandering to a frightened and ignorant middle England, or something that was an out-and-out attempt to enrich themselves? I genuinely can only think of one piece of legislation in the last 5 years that was for the benefit of the majority rather than something to curtail freedoms and benefit the ruling class (for the record, it's the increase in Statutory Maternity and Adoption Pay periods; new mothers and those who adopt now get an extra 3 paid months off). Any government elected in this country seems to now have the maintenance of their power as their first priority, and they have no fear of answering to an electorate in their efforts to do so.
However, there is more to the continual relevance of 1984 than mere commentary on what power does to the soul of those who wield it. For instance, the book makes reference to the media (such as it is). It talks of tatty tabloids pumping out sport, lottery numbers, and gossip for the benefit of the Proles. The Proles are the lumpen majority of people who are kept docile and satisfied by a conscious effort to keep them ignorant. I would contend that this view of the Proles is exactly the same view that most in the mainstream media have of their audience. How else can one explain the continued existence of Heat magazine? If ever there was a magazine that encouraged its readership to become obsessed with banalities and nonentities then this is it.
My hatred for scandal rags aside, the implicit suggestion in 1984 is that the media are complicit in keeping the Party in power. Whilst the Party falsify the information that really does matter a damn (news of the war, political figures, statistics on everything from immigration to production), the media ensure that this falsification goes pretty much unnoticed anyway, because it bombards it's readership with fluff (at this point I have to make clear that I swear I'm not as humourless as this probably makes me sound. As my vast expenditure on ladmags will prove, I think there is a place in the media for fluff. It's just that…well, does it have to be the dominating and overriding concern?).
As an example of this, I'd return to opposition to the Iraq war for a moment; I've already mentioned the strength of Anti-War feeling, and how completely it has been ignored by the government. Yet we do have anti-war elements in the mainstream media, and they will all go out of their way to report on anything that would bolster their cause, right? Right?
Then how come in Chicago a gentleman named Malachi Ritscher was, on 3rd November, able to douse himself in petrol and turn himself into a patiently-sitting human fireball in protest against the war? You've not heard of him? Not really surprising; you'll have to scour the media for mention of his name (even in supposedly Anti-War media outlets such as the BBC, the Guardian, the Mirror etc). However, if you want to find out who was evicted from I'm a Celebrity last night, or if you're keen to know some of the details behind Pamela Anderson's divorce from Kid Rock…well, it's not exactly difficult to come by that information, is it?
The final point I'd like to make in this increasingly frantic and mildly outlandish attempt to make everyone as paranoid as I am concerns the fate of Winston Smith himself. I've talked of how parallels can be drawn between the corrupting influence of power as described in 1984, along with the role of the media in keeping the Proles in their rightful place as doughfaced, mouthbreathing brain donors who clap with glee at the sight of a Z-list celebrity being humiliated on live TV. But what about the parallels between the actual human beings in 1984 and the likes of you and I today?
At the end of 1984, Winston has been utterly broken by the tortures inflicted on him. However, although the Party are triumphant, the only thing they have achieved is complete dominance over a washed out old drunk, a man who obliterates himself with gin and who sits unthinkingly and unquestioningly at his unimportant desk in an unimportant job doing unimportant things to keep the despair at bay. It's quite difficult not to recognise a lot of ourselves in that if we're completely honest. There is a reason that we in the UK drink more than pretty much any other nation, and take more drugs than almost every other country. It's because we rarely feel in charge of our own destinies, or that we have any effective control over our own lives. Successive governments since the 60s have certainly succeeded in making themselves less accountable, but it's been at the expense of the gradual debasement of the very people they want to have power over. More than any other comparison between 1984 and today’s world, I find that the one between the fate of Winston and our own fates in a world that has done it's best to remove all hope that we can ever make a difference to be the most pertinent and the most frightening.
Anyway, if I've depressed the hell out of you with this rant then please console yourself with a thought; it'll be at least a year before I read 1984 again, which means 12 more months until I inflict something like this one you.
Welcome to Lights Out
Hola,
I've been writing rants about whatever my kitten-like attention span has been able to focus on for about 5 years now. For some reason (definitely not sloth...) I've never got round to blogging 'em. This is my first tentative step in remedying that.
I'll be posting up all of the rants I've written over the coming weeks. I'll also add a few notes of commentary; looking back at some of the things I've written, I find myself wondering what the hell I was thinking.
I hope you enjoy what is to come!
Cheers,
Light
I've been writing rants about whatever my kitten-like attention span has been able to focus on for about 5 years now. For some reason (definitely not sloth...) I've never got round to blogging 'em. This is my first tentative step in remedying that.
I'll be posting up all of the rants I've written over the coming weeks. I'll also add a few notes of commentary; looking back at some of the things I've written, I find myself wondering what the hell I was thinking.
I hope you enjoy what is to come!
Cheers,
Light
Monday, 23 October 2006
Ideals and Idealism
I admit it; this whole rant was an overlong and rather bizarre love letter to my wife.
It should come as no surprise to any of you that I’ve always thought of myself as an idealist. Throughout my life, I’ve sought a cause to identify myself with. I’ve wanted, as the song says, something good to die for to make it beautiful to live. I’ve also been of the opinion that such idealism is invariably a good thing. As such, I’ve ranted and argued for my beliefs to a truly ridiculous and more than slightly obsessive degree. But I’ve never found one unifying cause that I could 100% identify with. However, I’ve had cause recently to think about just what my motivation is for such romanticism. Is my idealistic viewpoint due to a genuine desire to do what is right and to make a difference? Or is it (like an awful lot of my motivation) down to having an ego the size of a solar system?
One of the things that set me thinking along this path has been the stunningly inept morass of death and failure that constitutes the occupation of Iraq. When this invasion took place, if one were being charitable to the Neo-Conservative advocates of the war, it did so as a result of boundless idealism. In this case, the ideal was to free the people of Iraq from an indisputable goatrimmer of a dictator and to bring democracy and freedom to an area of the world that is littered with totalitarian regimes.
So much for the idealism. What has actually happened is that a vast army blundered it’s way from one disaster to the next. Misery upon misery has heaped upon the Iraqi people, and the optimistic justification behind the invasion now sounds more and more like a fig leaf trying and failing to hide the big fat cock of failure.
In this instance it would seem that idealism, something we are all taught can only lead to good things, has led to disaster. Rather than making realistic decisions about what needed to be done to ensure stability in Iraq, idealism has blinded those in a position to make those decisions. “The people of Iraq will be so happy to get their freedom that they will welcome us with open arms! We won’t need to keep the Iraqi army, or guard facilities rammed full of explosives; there won’t be many Iraqis who want to do anything other than celebrate their newfound freedom!” This view persisted in the face of a fast growing unease (and faster growing body count) about the stability of the country. It’s only in the last week or two that a sense of pragmatism seems to have been injected into considerations on Iraq.
That said, I’m not going to simply dismiss idealism as blinkered conceit on the basis of an unholy balls-up caused by a man who can’t be relied on to chew and swallow without assistance. When one looks throughout history, it is littered with examples of the idealism of a few changing the world for the better; the abolition of slavery for example, or the creation of the National Health Service. The Emancipation Proclamation, and the Civil Rights Movement, or the advancement of Women’s Rights; all of these things were given momentum against the opposition and indifference of the many thanks to the idealism of a few.
It’s just that I cannot shake the notion that, to many of the idealists responsible for these great things, the motivation of “I want to change the world for the better” is inextricably bound up with “I want everyone to know that it was me who made this change”. What’s more, I’m still undecided as to whether that egotism is a bad thing; does the result, the ideal that one is fighting for, matter so much that the fact that it’s being done for reasons of self-aggrandisement become irrelevant?
Another example springs to mind at this point; The 1916 Dublin Uprising. Patrick Pearse, one of the leaders of the rebellion, was determined to free Ireland from British rule. He wanted freedom for his people, and you may well agree that there is nothing wrong with that. Yet his method of achieving this was to begin a rebellion that, by his own admission, had absolutely no hope whatsoever of success. He told outright lies in order to get the Irish Volunteers to assemble for the uprising, and he got well over a 1000 of them killed. This was idealism splattered with blood and dripping with gore, and there are those who say that he did it entirely because he wanted to be seen as the martyr who won Ireland it’s freedom. If that is why he orchestrated the uprising, then my own view is that he was romantic fool who was happy to sacrifice anyone on the altar of his own ego and who would have been equally as happy had Ireland never been freed. Just so long as people remembered him.
I would contend that this example, as with that of Iraq, is a situation where the idealism that provided the driving force was gradually eclipsed by ego. Whereas in the case of, say, Martin Luther King, the ego was the engine behind the idealism and never obscured the whole point of the ideal.
That’s not to discount the possibility of living humbly for a cause rather than dying nobly in it’s furtherance. There are countless people out there working quietly and effectively in the furtherance of causes both good and bad. That said, one shouldn’t discount ego being a driving factor there. One may only want to lord it over ones friends and colleagues or simply feel smug about ones own innate goodness rather than assure themselves of a place in history, but it is ego that drives them to do this (at least partially).
So what am I driving at? Well, in the main I’m trying to say that ego is almost always a big factor behind ones pursuit of an ideal. And in itself that is not a bad thing. The problem only arises when the ego that drove the idealism in the first place becomes more important than the ideal itself. In other words, as can be seen from the examples of Iraq and the Dublin uprising, idealism can lead to one become blinkered to the actual facts of a situation and, far from improving it, can actually make it a lot worse. Thus, idealism can lead to bigotry (when one is idealistic about ones own country or culture and blind to any of it’s failings), or to ignorance (such as when people who are adamant that multiculturalism will work do their best to ignore the issues that stop it from doing so, such as people’s natural unease about that which is different). In that respect, we should beware idealism and ensure that we don’t ruin our lives to become its slave. After all, it can also lead to one becoming a lonely and friendless person who has driven ones friends away because they’ve failed to live up to the ideal that drives that person on.
That last one is most pertinent to me. If I could be allowed to wallow in sentimentality for a moment, I’ve spent my life searching in vain for something good to die for. And to the annoyance of pretty much all of my friends, I tackled all of those things with equal vehemence. I’ve lost count of the number of people who have patiently sat through whatever I was haranguing them about, and I’m astonished at the number of people who have subsequently remained my friend. It never occurred to me that maybe I could find the cause I was searching for to complete my life in the form of a person. Since getting married, I’ve come to realise that I have someone good to die for and it truly is beautiful to live.
You may all begin vomiting now…
It should come as no surprise to any of you that I’ve always thought of myself as an idealist. Throughout my life, I’ve sought a cause to identify myself with. I’ve wanted, as the song says, something good to die for to make it beautiful to live. I’ve also been of the opinion that such idealism is invariably a good thing. As such, I’ve ranted and argued for my beliefs to a truly ridiculous and more than slightly obsessive degree. But I’ve never found one unifying cause that I could 100% identify with. However, I’ve had cause recently to think about just what my motivation is for such romanticism. Is my idealistic viewpoint due to a genuine desire to do what is right and to make a difference? Or is it (like an awful lot of my motivation) down to having an ego the size of a solar system?
One of the things that set me thinking along this path has been the stunningly inept morass of death and failure that constitutes the occupation of Iraq. When this invasion took place, if one were being charitable to the Neo-Conservative advocates of the war, it did so as a result of boundless idealism. In this case, the ideal was to free the people of Iraq from an indisputable goatrimmer of a dictator and to bring democracy and freedom to an area of the world that is littered with totalitarian regimes.
So much for the idealism. What has actually happened is that a vast army blundered it’s way from one disaster to the next. Misery upon misery has heaped upon the Iraqi people, and the optimistic justification behind the invasion now sounds more and more like a fig leaf trying and failing to hide the big fat cock of failure.
In this instance it would seem that idealism, something we are all taught can only lead to good things, has led to disaster. Rather than making realistic decisions about what needed to be done to ensure stability in Iraq, idealism has blinded those in a position to make those decisions. “The people of Iraq will be so happy to get their freedom that they will welcome us with open arms! We won’t need to keep the Iraqi army, or guard facilities rammed full of explosives; there won’t be many Iraqis who want to do anything other than celebrate their newfound freedom!” This view persisted in the face of a fast growing unease (and faster growing body count) about the stability of the country. It’s only in the last week or two that a sense of pragmatism seems to have been injected into considerations on Iraq.
That said, I’m not going to simply dismiss idealism as blinkered conceit on the basis of an unholy balls-up caused by a man who can’t be relied on to chew and swallow without assistance. When one looks throughout history, it is littered with examples of the idealism of a few changing the world for the better; the abolition of slavery for example, or the creation of the National Health Service. The Emancipation Proclamation, and the Civil Rights Movement, or the advancement of Women’s Rights; all of these things were given momentum against the opposition and indifference of the many thanks to the idealism of a few.
It’s just that I cannot shake the notion that, to many of the idealists responsible for these great things, the motivation of “I want to change the world for the better” is inextricably bound up with “I want everyone to know that it was me who made this change”. What’s more, I’m still undecided as to whether that egotism is a bad thing; does the result, the ideal that one is fighting for, matter so much that the fact that it’s being done for reasons of self-aggrandisement become irrelevant?
Another example springs to mind at this point; The 1916 Dublin Uprising. Patrick Pearse, one of the leaders of the rebellion, was determined to free Ireland from British rule. He wanted freedom for his people, and you may well agree that there is nothing wrong with that. Yet his method of achieving this was to begin a rebellion that, by his own admission, had absolutely no hope whatsoever of success. He told outright lies in order to get the Irish Volunteers to assemble for the uprising, and he got well over a 1000 of them killed. This was idealism splattered with blood and dripping with gore, and there are those who say that he did it entirely because he wanted to be seen as the martyr who won Ireland it’s freedom. If that is why he orchestrated the uprising, then my own view is that he was romantic fool who was happy to sacrifice anyone on the altar of his own ego and who would have been equally as happy had Ireland never been freed. Just so long as people remembered him.
I would contend that this example, as with that of Iraq, is a situation where the idealism that provided the driving force was gradually eclipsed by ego. Whereas in the case of, say, Martin Luther King, the ego was the engine behind the idealism and never obscured the whole point of the ideal.
That’s not to discount the possibility of living humbly for a cause rather than dying nobly in it’s furtherance. There are countless people out there working quietly and effectively in the furtherance of causes both good and bad. That said, one shouldn’t discount ego being a driving factor there. One may only want to lord it over ones friends and colleagues or simply feel smug about ones own innate goodness rather than assure themselves of a place in history, but it is ego that drives them to do this (at least partially).
So what am I driving at? Well, in the main I’m trying to say that ego is almost always a big factor behind ones pursuit of an ideal. And in itself that is not a bad thing. The problem only arises when the ego that drove the idealism in the first place becomes more important than the ideal itself. In other words, as can be seen from the examples of Iraq and the Dublin uprising, idealism can lead to one become blinkered to the actual facts of a situation and, far from improving it, can actually make it a lot worse. Thus, idealism can lead to bigotry (when one is idealistic about ones own country or culture and blind to any of it’s failings), or to ignorance (such as when people who are adamant that multiculturalism will work do their best to ignore the issues that stop it from doing so, such as people’s natural unease about that which is different). In that respect, we should beware idealism and ensure that we don’t ruin our lives to become its slave. After all, it can also lead to one becoming a lonely and friendless person who has driven ones friends away because they’ve failed to live up to the ideal that drives that person on.
That last one is most pertinent to me. If I could be allowed to wallow in sentimentality for a moment, I’ve spent my life searching in vain for something good to die for. And to the annoyance of pretty much all of my friends, I tackled all of those things with equal vehemence. I’ve lost count of the number of people who have patiently sat through whatever I was haranguing them about, and I’m astonished at the number of people who have subsequently remained my friend. It never occurred to me that maybe I could find the cause I was searching for to complete my life in the form of a person. Since getting married, I’ve come to realise that I have someone good to die for and it truly is beautiful to live.
You may all begin vomiting now…
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