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Is Brian Friel's Dancing at Lughnasa a bleak play?

2011-05-05T14:23:00.017+01:00

Despite its moments of energy and humour, Brian Friel’s Dancing at Lughnasa is an extremely bleak play. Discuss.

Introduction: Friel, Discourse, and Ireland

Brian Friel was born a man divided, doubled. He was born in Killyclogher, just outside of Omagh, County Tyron, in 1929; he grew up in Derry in the newly formed six-county state of Northern Ireland, but spent most of his childhood in Glenties, Donegal: a county part of the Republic, connected to it by a narrow partition of land – Donegal was discarded and disregarded by the British Empire due to its infertility and inhospitable nature.

F. C. McGrath, in Brian Friel’s (Post)Colonial Drama: Language, Illusion, and Politics, states that “Births in Ireland are recorded by both church and state, and their records do not always agree” (McGrath, 1999, p. 14). Brian Friel’s name itself is a chimera of sorts: christened Brian Patrick O’Friel, registered on the Belfast register as Bernard Patrick Friel, he chose his Gaelic Christian name and anglicised surname; he also has two birthdays – the 9^th and the 10^th of January:

Friel’s self-identification conforms neither to the parish register nor to the Belfast register but is a hybrid of the two. Friel has always celebrated his birthday on January 9, and he uses the Christian name on the parish register, which inscribes him within a Gaelic heritage, and the surname of the Belfast public register, which inscribes him within a British context.

(McGrath, 1999, p. 15.)

McGrath notes that Richard Pine, in Brian Friel and Ireland’s Drama (1990), noted that Friel, in his letters, said, “Perhaps I’m twins” (Pine, 1990, page 15). Friel’s name articulates neither the Irish Brian O’Friel nor the British Bernard Friel but “a hybrid of the two that is neither one nor the other” – as the Indian theorist Homi Bhaba would put it, Friel is both “split and doubled” (McGrath, 1999, p. 15).

Brian Friel’s literature depicts an Ireland constantly wrestling with its own identity; Friel constantly sends narratives hurtling into each other as they try to dominate each other or live aside one another (so much like the troubles in Northern Ireland) – but usually failing, whether because of the inadequacies of language, the divisions within society, or the hypocrisy of a newly formed Irish state unable to face up to its inadequacies. Tony Coult echoes this position in About Friel (2003):

Most of Friel’s mature plays deal with struggles for freedom. Escaping – to America, from America, from Dublin to the western Isles to Glasgow, from life to death – his characters are forever wrestling with what freedom is and where it might be found. Invariably they fail either to understand or achieve freedom. Sometimes it is because of their own inadequacy, but always their failure is compounded by the condition of Irish culture. It is that social dimension that seems to well up from Friel’s own feelings of anger and frustration with his homeland.

(Coult, 2003, p. 50.)

Nesta Jones comments that Friel’s “preoccupation with language [in Lughnasa] has developed into the possibility of eliciting and conveying meaning beyond words” (Jones, 2000, p. 11). F. C. McGrath, in The Cambridge Companion to Brian Friel, summarises Friel’s writing, his project, if you will, as follows:

What happens when our narratives, individual or collective, are not validated? What happens when the narratives of mutually dependent individuals conflict? What happens when individual narratives conflict with group narratives? What happens when the narratives of two groups sharing the same physical space are mutually antagonistic to each other? These are the central preoccupations of Brian Friel’s writing.

(McGrath, 1999, p. 14.)

In 1980, Friel started the Derry-based Field Day production company with friend and actor, Stephen Rea. It was seen as a heavily nationalistic project – a claim which Friel rejected vehemently – and during the 1980s he produced some of his best and most iconic work: Translations and Making History. However, in 1990 he split from Field Day, complaining that the vein in which he had been writing for the past ten years was severely constraining him; in an interview with John Lahr in 1991, he gave his reasons:

Any life in the arts is delicate... you’ve got to forge rules for yourself, not for the sake of moral improvement but for the sake of survival. Rule number one would be to not be associated with institutions or directors. I don’t want a tandem to develop. Institutions are inclined to enforce characteristics, impose an attitude or a voice or a response. I think you’re better to keep away from all of that. It’s for that reason that I didn’t give Dancing at Lughnasa to Field Day to produce.

(Coult, 2003, p. 104.)

Another reason for his change of heart was possibly purely political: Field Day was heavily male-dominated and was criticised by such people as Edna Longley as one of Ireland’s “Ancient orders of Hibernian Male-Bonding” (Lojek, 2006, p. 87). Spurred on by media stories of the evils of improper mothering, teenage pregnancies, and the abandoning of babies in the 1980s, and political happenings in the 90s, Friel responded to these criticisms and wrote a recourse to the pejorative notion of unwed mothers as being a sign of Catholic lapse and societal decay. Helen Lojek puts the case in a clear context:

Several specific late twentieth-century issues particularly illuminate the text. The 1990s, for example, saw increasing challenges to the assumption that unwed mothers need to be punished. In the 1984 “Kerry babies” case, two (unrelated) murdered babies were found in close proximity in rural Kerry. The same year a Longford teen died under a statue of the Virgin, in labour from a concealed pregnancy. Such cases were widely publicised and imaged in popular film and literature. Dancing at Lughnasa poses an alternative to the culture of cruelty towards unwed mothers and illegitimate children.

(Lojek, 2006, p. 87.)

Referring briefly back to my former point about certain female political happenings in 1990s Ireland, Helen Lojek also outlines the importance of the play in the context of healing old wounds – women were finally participating politically and Lughnasa was a platform for the discussion of women’s roles within society:

Women were suddenly highly visible in Irish politics, especially when Mary Robinson was elected President in 1990 shortly after the play’s premiere. Debate about legal and constitutional restrictions on women, to which Dancing at Lughnasa contributed, was part of the climate for her election.

(Lojek, 2006, p. 87.)

In a deviation that was seen as controversial, he premiered Dancing at Lughnasa (1990) at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin. Tony Coult, in About Friel: the Playwright and His Work (2003), had this to say:

Dancing at Lughnasa is undoubtedly Friel’s ‘greatest hit’ of the 1990s – perhaps even of his whole career. It has a power to move audiences that transcends national barriers, or familiarity with theatre styles, or political preoccupations.

(Coult, 2003, p. 106.)

Friel is an Ulsterman, and as such he must try to square off several discourses: the history of Ulster, the creation of Northern Ireland in 1921, and the creation of the Republic of Ireland in 1937; however, trying to square off two or more discourses is very problematic – which prevails? And can any one be regarded above others? As a man torn between discourses, embedded in a fluid and inconsistent history, Friel had this to say:

I first began to wonder what it was to be an Irish Catholic; in short, this was when for the first time in my life I began to survey and analyse the mixed holding I had inherited – the personal, traditional and acquired knowledge that cocooned me, an Irish Catholic teacher with a nationalist background, living in a schizophrenic community, son of a teacher, grandson of peasants who could neither read nor write. The process was disquieting – is disquieting because it is still going on.

(Friel, 1972, p. 17-22.)

The majority of Friel’s plays are set in Ballybeg, a fictional town in Donegal that’s explored from the late 19^th century to present day. The name comes from the Gaelic ‘baile beag’, which means ‘small town’ – the allusion to its name being anglicised refers to the repression enforced by the English in using language to construct an Ireland that is other from the one conceived by its natives (a theme which is explored in Translations); it could also, as Mel Gussow puts it, refer to a “Ballybeg of the mind” (Gussow, 1999, p. 140-141).

The name of Ballybeg itself suggests the duality of language, in that a small town could be seen in a positive light (as a cohesive community) or in a pejorative light (as a backwards, alienating, alienated place of a rigid mindset).

Nesta Jones, in the Faber Critical Guide (2000), comments that “Ballybeg appears to remain the same, although in each play it is depicted on the verge of change, with its people constantly subjected to differing outside pressures which they either respond to or ignore” (Jones, 2000, p. 7).

And to Ballybeg, those five brave Glenties women, and Lughnasa we now turn....

The play: pain, joy, memory, revolution, expectation and migration

Dancing at Lughnasa depicts the lives of the Mundy family, comprised of five sisters (Kate, Agnes, Maggie, Rose, and Christina), Father Jack Mundy (a disgraced clergyman, it would seem), Gerry Evans (a roguish Welshman), and Michael Mundy, Chris’s son, the boy character of whom appears on stage as a non-entity, occasionally addressed by the sisters, the product of the grown Michael’s reverie as he stands to the side of the stage, shaping the play with his sporadic monologues, voicing the boy Michael’s lines. They live in Ballybeg: a fictional town in rural Donegal.

The play itself, like many of Friel’s other plays (and Chekhov), is played out over two weeks in August during the ‘autumn’ of these characters’ lives, as summer culminates with the festival of Lughnasa - Lugh is the Celtic, pagan god of the Sun and harvest. Even up until 1936, when the play is set, Lughnasa was a common happening throughout the backcountry of Ireland; for hundreds of years, it was celebrated, often more vehemently, with dancing, merriment, and sacrificial offerings of livestock. When Catholic missionaries arrived in the 5^th century, the festival of Lughnasa was so widespread and popular it had to be absorbed into tradition.

Lughnasa is regarded as Friel’s most autobiographical play: he had seven aunts (Gussow, 1999, p. 144), two of whom ended up in destitution in London – according to an interview given by Mel Gussow in 1991, Friel gave each of the Mundy sisters the Christian names of five of his real aunts.

Brian Friel’s mother’s maiden name was McLoone – Loone is related to the Irish word for Monday, hence the Mundy sisters in Lughnasa. Friel’s father taught English, like Kate Mundy; finally, Friel grew up in Donegal – he too would’ve been seven in 1936 – and the play seems to mirror his own experiences. Friel dedicates the play to ‘those five brave Glenties women’.

Lughnasa and the unfinished revolution: the politics of sex and disillusionment

The chief theme of the play is unfulfilled promises – the Mundy sisters are all unmarried; they spend their time reminiscing old suitors and idealising potential ones – Kate has Austin Morgan, who’s courting a “wee young thing from Carrickfad” (Friel, 1990, p. 10), an allusion to the lack of moral rectitude of society (which of course the Catholic church is complicit in by failing to address societal issues such as poverty), and Rose has Danny Bradley and his beckoning to come into the back hills of Ballybeg for a Dionysian Lughnasa romp.

Fintan O’Toole has more to say on marriage in the play. All their romances are in the past, and the arrival of figures heralding the past – Gerry Evans, Father Jack, Bernie O’Donnell – serves “not to re-unite them with the past, but to mark their distance from it” (O’Toole, 1992, p. 209). Rather than concrete, eternal marriage, the play presents us with other forms of marriage – ceremonial and metaphorical rituals; marriages such as Gerry and Father Jack’s exchange of hats, the eventual unorthodox marriage of Chris and Gerry, Gerry’s other adulterous marriage, the African marriage customs Father Jack describes, and, of course, the engagement of the sisters in dancing (O’Toole, 1992, p. 209), which so echoes the ceremonies of the Ryangan people.

The 1916 Declaration and the Provisional Irish Constitution of 1922 promised equality to women and a progressive government, but the 1937 Constitution famously “incorporated not only the tenets of Conservative Catholicism, but also a romantic vision of Irish women, a term that clearly meant “wife and mother”” (Lojek, 2006, p. 78).

Helen Lojek, in The Cambridge Companion to Brian Friel (2006) cements the play within a clear historical context:

This play is firmly situated within the 1930s Irish Republic and focuses on difficulties facing women struggling to realise themselves in a society whose revolution produced not greater opportunities for women but a codification of secular and religious paternalism.

(Lojek, 2006, p. 78.)

The coming political failure is pre-figured by such characters as Maggie when she sings her ditty about De Valera (the coming president, leader of Fianna Fáil (Soldiers of Destiny)); on page four, Maggie sings ‘Will you vote for De Valera, will you vote? If you don’t, we’ll be like Gandhi with his goat.’ Of course, by voting for him they will also put themselves in the same position - the failed Constitution, the abandonment of revolutionary principles, according to Helen Lojek, is widely known as “De Valera’s Constitution” (Lojek, 2006, p. 86) - but the sisters don’t know this. Friel here is also alluding to colonial troubles in India – troubles that are shared by Ireland and troubles that the Field Day project attempted to address, correct, or at least make known.

Tragedy is also prefigured in other ways: cracked mirrors, ghoulish faces painted on kites, single magpies, the release by Maggie of an imaginary dove, the marrying of perfect memory (of Chris and Gerry’s dance) with the interruption of Father Jack’s pagan interruptions, and the killing of the rooster (reminiscent of Ryangan pagan ritual). Maggie is one of the saddest characters in the play; when Agnes raises the idea of going to the dance, Maggie holds up her floured hands and faces the window ‘staring out of the window, seeing nothing’ – she is remembering the fact that she didn’t come first in the county dance, and she is unconsciously berating the state of her condition: enmeshed within a web of convention and paternalism and without a husband. But then the dance comes and it “reveals their deep-seated desire for release from repression from all kinds. [...] The dance has released the life-force and provided a form of expression for their deepest passions which convention has continually denied them” (Jones, 2000, p. 181).

Anna McMullan goes into even more detail about the dance; she highlights its power to release the sisters, though briefly, from the domestic setting of their lives, their corporeality, and their destinies:

The dance of the Mundy sisters in Dancing at Lughnasa... defies the corporeal codes of respectable female behaviour. It performs a moment of interconnection not only between the sisters (though the eldest, Kate, keeps to her own space), but also with an earlier time in Irish pagan history when the festival of Lughnasa was an active community ritual, and with other cultures, such as the leper colony of Ryanga, whose public Father Jack praises....

(McMullan, 2006, p. 145.)

Father Jack is also a sad character. He is reminiscent of the colonised (and a perfect example of what can happen to the coloniser in the colonial project): he is lost between discourses, pining for a new tradition and simultaneously displaced and disenfranchised from what he once knew – and this gives the play a sense of suspended, placeless time (O’Toole, 1992, p. 208). But this isn’t necessarily a bleak state of being. Nesta Jones also comments on the significance of Father Jack’s character regarding the affairs of 1980s Ireland:

Friel has Uncle Jack’s return to Ireland coincide with the Lughnasa Festival, thus suggesting analogies between the Ryangan harvest ceremonies and those of Celtic Ireland. It is significant that the play was written towards the end of... the 1980s, when ‘many priests, nuns, and lay missionaries began to return from the Third World imbued with the radical ideas of liberation theology and with the desire to re-establish intellectual and social connections between Ireland and the decolonised world’ [...] The figure of Uncle Jack, therefore, is particularly important with regard to this debate.

(Jones, 2000, p.159.)

Marconi is at once a freer of libidinous and Dionysian energy and a tool of repression: ideas of a nationalist republic had been fed to the Irish for decades through radio – an incredible gesture and powerful and beautiful political story which of course culminated in the estrangement and repression of half the population of the Republic.

Kate Mundy is the figurehead of the family: stoic Catholic figure in the absence of Father Jack’s tenure, chief breadwinner and teacher. However, women in 1930s Ireland did not receive equal wages – Kate is a disillusioned participant in this paternalism, unable to overcome the repressive force of male-dominated Catholic Irish culture; as Lojek says, “When Kate notes that “control is slipping away; [...] It’s all about to collapse”, she is lamenting the decline of ‘good order’, unable to withstand the paternalism with which she is herself allied” (Lojek, 2006, p. 80).

Kate has a heavily nationalistic attitude – she was involved locally (what this entails one can’t be sure) in the Irish War of Independence; she is wrapped up in the romanticism of revolution, not realising the extreme cruelty which is to be meted out to those she loves – as Agnes and Rose dream of Dublin, New York, London – songs of joy and of wonder – they become disillusioned in their domestic setting, in the toil of labour and obscurity. Helen Lojek, in The Cambridge Companion to Brian Friel (2006), embeds this internal conflict in an even deeper historical and cultural context:

The complicity of the older sister, Kate, in upholding patriarchal precepts emphasises the complexity of gender issues. Kate may uphold those precepts partly out of concern for her job as a teacher, but she assumes authority on the basis of her income and dismisses the value of unpaid household work, just as the 1937 Constitution was to do.

(Lojek, 2006, p. 80).

Helen Lojek provides additional historical context, commenting on the political atmosphere circulating around Ireland during that sunny month of Dionysian release in Ballybeg:

The year is 1936. In 1935 the Public Dance Halls Act gad been passed, largely in response to complaints by the clergy that unregulated dancing was lewd and immoral. In 1937 came the new constitution. The Irish political revolution seemed complete. A conservative social revolution was well under way. The industrial revolution was just beginning. Geographic and cultural isolation from Dublin did not insulate Donegal from policies enacted in the capital, and the alliance between church and state produced legislation and cultural expectations particularly oppressive to women.

(Lojek, 2006, p. 79.)

Agnes is the epitome of what a domestic figurehead should be: the angel in the cottage, if you will – she quietly and diligently goes about her domestic chores. Halfway through Act One, on page 24, Agnes reacts against Kate after Agnes offers to buy a new wireless with her five pounds; Kate doesn’t recognise the huge contribution Agnes makes to the household, scorning her, and Agnes reacts like a stoked flame: “I wash every stitch of clothes you wear. I polish your shoes. I make the bed. We both do – Rose and I. I paint the house. Sweep the chimney. Cut the grass. Save the turf. What you have here, Kate, are two unpaid servants.”

The friction is one of piety and propriety versus pagan desire and impropriety: Marconi, which Kate views so pejoratively, is a dangerous release; it has the potential to change the self, to transfigure – but to Kate it is the wrong kind of transfiguring. It is also rather telling how Agnes issues her reproach in short, sharp statements – almost sounding like commands. It could be an allusion to the repressed or colonised mimicking their masters and inspiring discomfort.

Approaches to the play: what is Lughnasa?

Is Lughnasa really a bleak play? The play is a microcosm of Irish history: from the renaming of place-names and anglicising of surnames in the creation - the colonial conception - of Ireland, the politics of paternalism and patriarchy, to the alienation of becoming a changed entity, a homeless entity – an entity bound for foreign realms of both soul and geography.

Brian Friel himself in an interview with Mel Gussow in 1990 said in response to his being homebound that he thinks “exile can be acquired sitting in the same place for the rest of your life. Physical exile is not necessary” (Gussow, 1999, p. 143). Friel talks of the finding of a modus vivendi (a mode of living): his plays a way of addressing this desire, a way of building discourse (one of the key themes, if not the theme, of his work). In the same interview with Mel Gussow, Friel comments on the state of Northern Ireland:

Politics in Ireland is ‘a muddy issue’, he says. ‘I do think the problem will always be exacerbated as long as England is in the country. But if England were to go tomorrow morning, that wouldn’t solve it. We still have got to find a modus vivendi for ourselves within the country.

And, not to go on a long quote barrage, Csilla Bertha then attempts to capture and conceptualise the modus vivendi of his work:

His plays dramatise moments of this search for a modus vivendi, on both sides of the border, showing a constant cultural awareness that keeps the individual and the community conflated. Reflecting the twentieth-century-long tension in Ireland between tradition and (post)modernity, Friel takes a position between the role of the ancient file (poet) and the postmodern artist; between the “diviner” – his own (early) metaphor for the artist – or faith healer of magic, prophetic, healing power and self-reflective, self-ironic, disillusioned observer.

Friel is realistic about Ireland’s political problems: although the colonial situation and disenfranchisement of the Irish of their culture and identity is a purely English story, the failings of the Irish renaissance and political revolution must be addressed: his Ireland is one that has been failed, but one that has also failed itself, and this is part of the core of Lughnasa.

A key issue in a lot of Friel’s work is home – the finding of home. Nostalgia comes from the Greek ‘nostos’ (home) and ‘algos’ (pain); the atmosphere of Lughnasa certainly stays true to the true definition of the word. Friel does not sentimentalise the historical periods he covers; as Mel Gussow says, he comments “sardonically on what in other hands might be regarded as nostalgia” (Gussow, 1999, p. 141) through his use of exterior monologue and narrative: his work is not self-contained; indeed, it cannot be. Csilla Bertha, in The Cambridge Companion to Brian Friel, comments on the notion of home in Friel’s work:

In most other plays Friel concentrates more on the identities, the internalised colonial losses, confusions, uncertainties and consequences of those losses the Irish have had to come to terms with. Identity, both personal and cultural, is closely related to the idea of home. There is an ontological need for people to feel at home in their own place, country, village....

(Bertha, 2006, p. 156.)

Friel has said that “we [Northern Irish] aspire to a home condition in some way... And what’s constantly being offered to us, particularly in the North, is the English home and we have been pigmented by an English home.” Csilla bertha goes on to frame the difficult home nature of Ballybeg:

Through simultaneously establishing and destabilising its features as home, Friel makes Ballybeg correspond to the postcolonial situation and consciousness that are positioned on the fault lines between cultures, a space which is at one and the same time center and marginality, authenticity and change.

(Bertha, 2006, p. 157.)

Conclusion

So, is Lughnasa a bleak play? Tony Coult, in About Friel, says that Lughnasa “is, for all the pain involved, an optimistic play, ending in an ecstatic moment of inarticulacy” (Coult, 2003, p. 107). He comments on the crude dance midway through Act 1; this idea could be applied to the play as a whole:

These really are bleak moments. Yet the sweetness of the music and the feeling of release we share with the sisters as their unarticulated anger is temporarily purged in this powerful piece of stage action adds strength to what might be a draining moment.

(Coult, 2003, p. 107.)

Fintan O’Toole highlights the importance – or rather irrelevancy - of history in Lughnasa. Grand narratives, such as Ireland’s independence, the invasion of Ethiopia by Italy, the Spanish Civil War, and the Industrial Revolution, happen on the fringes of the play, rather than the play happening on the fringes of history – the characters are resisting it. “It is the things that are set against them [the grand narratives], the things out of which the play works, which are infinitely more important to the world of Dancing at Lughnasa: memory and ritual.” Rose’s comments on De Valera and Mussolini with ditties, reducing these historical events to farce; Gerry fights in Spain only because he can ride a motorcycle, and Kate’s nationalistic beliefs are entirely vacant from her life.

To me, this reading – that history is mainly the minutiae of seemingly small and unimportant lives, that history is made of memory and ritual – is a very positive and wonderful thing: in other words, history is merely a discourse – we empower discourse, so we can decide which stories – which metanarratives – to believe. O’Toole also says that “the lack of congruity between how things are and how things seem [reality and appearance]... can be a source of fun as much as it is the play’s source of tragedy” (O’Toole, 1992, p. 213). The play turns history into memory, language into movement and sound, and reality into appearance, and it is through this process that Lughnasa works.

O’Toole concludes his thoughts by saying that “The play’s most vibrant moments – the wild dance in the first act – are moments of surrender by the sisters to the force of the dance, a force at once joyous and tyrannical, a dance of grief and liberation” (O’Toole, 1992, p. 214). It is through this dichotomy that the play works: in other words, it is very difficult to say that Lughnasa is one thing or the other.

I feel the play is sad only inasmuch as the Mundy sisters are resigned to their fates: Agnes and Rose end up destitute, Jack dies (which causes the emotional collapse of Kate), Chris finishes her days in a textiles factory, hating her every moment of existence, Kate loses her job, Maggie is resigned to her domestic setting, and Michael emigrates to London, eventually finding his aunts – Kate dead and Rose on her deathbed. Even in Donegal, a place so much in tune with the peasantry romanticism of Yeats, both Ireland and England are absent: to find home, they must first abandon it, but in so doing they become lost in the gyres of terrifying new existences.

Ballybeg is a place torn between worlds, with no defining character: Michael even leaves, so much the fate of so many Irish men after WW2. It seems the only contented or peaceful character is Father Jack, and he is only content because he is like Donegal and so much of Ireland: lost in discourses – lost between home and elsewhere, paganism and Catholic tradition; lost in a strange, peaceful, beautiful trance.

The play in itself is not at all bleak, but rather, in my eyes, hugely optimistic – at least if it is bleak, it is a self-defeating bleak because of the illusion of Michael’s reverie. In one sense, Friel’s oeuvre could be seen as an attempt at political reconciliation, but, as Richard Pine says in Brian Friel and Ireland’s Drama, reconciliation cannot happen if a prior conciliation never existed – Ireland is a country whose people stem first from the Gaels, who lived in Ireland from the 4^th century BCE, to later invaders, such as Catholic missionaries, Vikings, and Saxons. Ireland is a construction; a construction made outside of the hands and mouths of those who most needed and deserved it. Friel attempts to highlight the fact that Ireland is a creation, and in so doing he allows for the recognition that Ireland can be whatever it wants to be, but first it must acknowledge its historical mistakes, recognise its common identity and heritage, and move forwards into a promising future, not only discovering a rich past as it does so, but potentially redesigning the very nature of what it means to be Irish.

We are free to look back through the golden haze of memory; ultimately, illusion can create happiness, and it can reveal the irrationality of history. Finally, we all live with illusion. In the breakdown of old certainties, in the whirling of modernity, anything goes.

Word count: 3060

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms - as featured in True Grit.

2011-03-07T12:10:00.002Z

Desert Island Story - a task.

2011-03-04T00:09:00.002Z

To me, the idea of a ‘desert island’ anything is absurd. Mulling over one piece of music, or a whole album’s worth, or a short story, or a single thought, in utter solemnity could be a sign of the onset of psychosis – if not paranoia or obsession. However, I do much admire the work of Raymond Carver. One story I like in particular is Neighbours – it’s from his first collection, Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? (1976).

It is a very sensitive story, showing the nuances existing within a couple’s relationship. In the story, a couple – Bill and Arlene Miller – are left in charge of their neighbour’s apartment – they envy them their frequent travelling. It is not clear from the story how old they are; Raymond Carver wrote most of the stories in the collection in his twenties, but I get the impression the couple are middle-aged – they live in a flat, their neighbours have a cat; moreover, they both have quite dull jobs: Bill is a salesman, and Arlene does secretarial work. They are both lonely and overworked. This condition is set up in the first paragraph:

“Bill and Arlene Miller were a happy couple. But now and then they felt they among their circle had been passed by somehow, leaving Bill to attend to his book-keeping duties and Arlene occupied with secretarial chores. They talked about it sometimes, mostly in comparison with the lives of their Neighbours, Harriet and Jim Stone. It seemed to the Millers that the Stones lived a fuller and brighter life. The Stones were always going out for dinner, or entertaining at home, or travelling about the country somewhere in connection with Jim’s Work.”

They do, however, have a very sexual appetite – they make love perhaps three or four times over the course of the story (‘kinky’ might be a better description of their proclivities).

The day after the Stones leave, Bill goes ‘round their flat to feed kitty. He ends up rifling around, eating random bits of food and stealing a half pack of cigarettes. Arlene disturbs him as he starts to look in their closet, telling him he’s been ‘round their over an hour. Something is at play here: envy at the Stones’ situation, a deep boredom, some sort of dissatisfaction, vicarious sexual appetite. However, it seems the likeliest option is that the story is exploring the minutiae of intrigue and curiosity; what really happens when our dwellings are left at the disposal of trusted friends?

The next day, Bill returns, this time putting kitty in the bathroom so as not to be bothered
by her; he slips into some of Jim’s clothing and pours himself a drink. He is a fantasist. He also finds it difficult to guess when they’re going to be back – he at times can’t even place Jim’s face. He sits in front of the bedroom mirror, then he puts on some of Harriet’s underwear and clothing – but not the shoes (a scene not too dissimilar from Woody Allen’s Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Too Afraid to Ask)).

The story ends with Bill and Arlene embracing each other in fear: Arlene had gone inside to feed kitty and water the plants and left the key inside. Before this culmination, we are privy to the essence of the story: Bill and Arlene are bored, and this temporary escapism has allowed them to indulge in sexual twilight zones – not quite taboo, but blurry and exciting. There seems to be something under the surface, though, and I’m not sure I can place it. Either way, the quiet care and eroticism is both exciting and tender; they are like eager adolescents – fearful and feckless. I was drawn into the story, and felt some deep emotional attachment that I couldn’t place – something tingling, something tugging.

Why do I like Carver?

He can take everyday situations and make them brilliant;

He ends stories with either something heartfelt, unsettling or beautifully ambiguous;

He has an interesting style – the use of third person reportage and frequent non-use of speech marks;

He writes simply and powerfully, with economy – and yet felicity;

His characters are brilliantly full and three-dimensional;

He makes his characters immortal and upright – they are dignified and whole, and independent.

A creative writing exercise on my life thus far.

2010-09-28T11:47:00.003+01:00

I started as a sperm in one of my father's testes; shortly afterwards, I made my way through my mother's cervix (after some predictably dull and lacking foreplay) to an ovum.

After a period of nine months' gestation, I was born unto the world in a bloody, stinking mess on March 22nd, 1989, in the Royal Sussex County Hospital, Brighton. I'm not sure whether I cried or was smacked by the doctor, but I was presented to my pained mother - who had just loosed a nine-pound infant from her nether regions.

I was grumpy as a child: I suffered from severe eczema on my face and bottom; I cried often, and the first thing I learned to say - aside from the stumbled 'mamma' and dadda' - was a snippet from the Home and Away theme song.

I wore a 'duck-a-duck' coat (with the hood of a duck), and I did a 'thing' with my eyes - I used to try to look up into my skull (God knows how that's cute).

I started at pre-school at four, and moved on to primary at five - at which time I met my still-best friend, Adam. I don't remember prinary school much - just the playfights, detentions, and childish to-and-fro bullying (I was a naughty, unsettled child, but I also brimmed over with academic excitement) - but I recall my first teacher, Mrs Lutrario, thought I'd need extra tuition outside of school hours - the bitch!

At age eleven, I moved to high school in Brighton - which is quite funny, seeing how I was a tall child for my age - away from Adam. I made a few oddball friends almost immediately - it makes me sigh to ponder their importance to me and how much I still cherish having known them.

I went to a college; ducked out. I went to another; did blandly. I studied journalism; didn't follow it through. But now I'm here, in parochial, pokey old Chichester, and I'm certain of my ambitions: I want to teach English language.

My future is uncertain, but I hope it's a happy one; and I hope that I'm delerious with drugs or some other form of mental stimulus when I die - hopefully happily, surrounded by my appreciative, mournful, and yet comically ambivalent, family.

On the proposed Qur'an book burning by Pastor Terry Jones.

2010-09-11T18:02:00.018+01:00

Well, first let me begin by stating the obvious: emotions have run way too high with this story (it's also quite sad that people are commemorating the 9th (yes: the 9th) anniversary of 9/11). It was to be expected that most Muslims - even moderate ones - would find this proposed act at least distasteful, if not downright despicable and unpardonable. That Americans, and people in American life, generally, have played to the emotions of the public on this story is more disgusting than the act proposed by Terry Jones itself.

America is one of the few countries on this planet with a written constitution that guarantees its citizens inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Whilst most of these rights were trampled upon or wholly discarded during the Bush years, Americans still have the two most important rights that no Islamic state tolerates or affords: freedom of expression, and freedom of speech.

If this guy wants to burn the Qur'an, I personally don't have a problem with it. I understand that it will have repercussions with devout and small-minded Muslims all over the world, but to vouch to hope to prevent the act from taking place entirely is despicable. If people want to burn flags and other such articles (usually what they believe to be either symbols of idolatry or items of blasphemy), then let them. What no one seems to be saying is that it's unacceptable for Muslims worldwide, generally, to take this course of action. If this isn't a sign that Muslims can't solubly be integrated into western society, then I don't know what is. Whilst that comment might sound fascist, Islam is a clear and present danger to everything western socities hold dear. If you don't believe me, then recall in 1989 when Salman Rushdie was threatened with death by the Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran for writing a book on a contentious part of the Qur'an known as 'the Satanic Verses' in which Mohammed condones polytheism (Muslims generally believe he was being posessed by the Devil in this part of the Qur'an). Tell the same to the Dutch film-maker Theo Van Gogh and his associates: he was murderded in 2oo4 for making a short film about Islam and the abuse of women practised by its adherents; his Norwegian counterpart was shot and left for dead, and his Japanese associate was killed in a scene of bloody religious retribution.

Whilst Pastor Jones might be right about the danger of Islamification, let us not forget the disgusting tree from which Islam sprouted: both Islam and Christianity (not to forget Mormonism) are Abrahamic religions, sourced from the Torah, with all its bloody pages and disgraceful content (both are almost exclusively plagiarised from it - a claim I can back up with verse after verse). So burn your books; burn your flags; put up your effigies: just don't stop me from putting into action the freedoms that my country, with all its flaws and curruptions, guarantees me.

Some home-grown images.

2010-08-05T15:45:00.003+01:00

New jokes.

2010-08-04T11:50:00.003+01:00

A friend of mine works part-time cleaning sewers - he works every Monday and Tuesday. I recently asked him how the job was going. 'You know,' he said, 'different shit, same day'.

I've not got brain damage; I had an extreme form of Christianity inculcated in me as a young boy.

What did the humorous chicken say? You know you love my yolks!

What did the Swedish chicken say? Another yolk? You must be yolking!

I've a friend who's obsessed with collecting fake breasts. His flatmate is very messy. I find, to get back at her, he gives tit for tat.

Recently, I bought a suit. Quite coincidentally, I knew my two friends' suit sizes. 'Shall I buy you each a suit?' I asked them. 'No thanks,' they each replied. 'Suit yourselves, then,' I said.

New jokes.

2010-06-21T21:24:00.002+01:00

I know a psychiatrist whose handwriting is so bad he gets his mental patients to do it for him.

I once knew a successful golfer who grew sick of constantly golfing at two under par. He said that his golfing history was hanging over him like an albatross.

One time, a colleague asked me to make her a cup of tea. ‘Sugar lump?’ I asked her. Not long after that I was disciplined for sexual harassment.

Watching paint dry is like watching golf warm up.

What do you call a band with no ambition? Number 1 in the charts.

I know an ex-bouncer who’s as hard as rusted nails.

I employ a woman to fold leaflets. A new apprentice asked me what to do with a stack of the finished leaflets. ‘Put it in the folder,’ I told him. Shortly after that, I had to sack him.

I know a joke writer who wrote a joke so long that he had to print it on five hundred feet of paper. In trying to read it, he was crushed to death. The last laugh was on him.

A friend of mine who works as a Polish impersonator recently lost his job… to a Polish man.

I went into a bakery today. I said to the baker: 'you're a doughnut-maker, aren't you?' She replied: 'no: I'm a baker'. I said: 'no: you're a doughnut-maker!' 'No!' she replied. 'I'm a baker. Okay?' 'Well,' I said, 'you can sugar-coat it any way you want to!'

I've gotta get outta here (an original song).

2010-06-20T19:05:00.000+01:00

A handful of humour.

2010-06-09T14:43:00.004+01:00

I know a band called 'Elastic' - all the members wobble and stretch whilst playing.

Amex - yuppy business solutions since 1850.

I know a rain dancer who complains that the weather forecasts are never accurate.

I know a man with a quiet wit: he can make us laugh without opening his mouth.

I input data - people say I've great output.

Jesus was happy once he was taken down - he was no longer so cross. (This is a pathetic joke with a poor punchline - please punch me in the face if you see me.)

I went up to a girl and asked her if she found me in any way attractive. 'Yes: when you leave the room,' she said.

I went up to a tattooed girl today and told her I liked her tats.... She slapped me.

On collective nouns.

2010-06-01T17:08:00.002+01:00

Collective nouns: flock, flight, murder; a rape of shrews; a genocide of baboons; a harem of chimpanzee genitalia.

My question: do we need them? They tell us nothing of number. Surely 'seagulls' or 'five seagulls' is better than 'a flight of seagulls'?

They're puffed-up and pointless, and serve to make stupid people look intelligent and/or knowledgeable - depending on how many of these inanities they can spout.

I think they should be got rid of - they're a waste of effort, ink, paper, thought, and time; and they're probably stopping us from dreaming up more useful words - words like 'Sundayflim' (the bad feeling you get on a Sunday morning), or 'Wafflesport' (the art of talking bullshit competitively).

What do you think, dear reader?

New e-mail addresses.

2010-06-01T16:29:00.001+01:00

I've a new e-mail address: CAPITALLETTERS@yahoo.co.uk. If you can't reach me on that, try: SARCASTICBASTARD@fuckyoumail.co.uk.

Thanks.

Uh-oh! Here come more jokes! (Squeeze!)

2010-06-01T16:16:00.002+01:00

Do you ever think it's a conspiracy that there are so many conspiracies...?

I'm thinking of making a film of Good Morning, Vietnam ilk called 'Good Morning, Auschwitz'.

I've forgotten whether I've got amnesia....

I've a yogi who's very hairy. His name is 'Yogi Bear'.

Everything's calmer after karma.

My sister plays with a dodo. It's funny, you know: I thought they went extinct years ago.

Apparently, someone in America is moving House - from NBC to HBO.

My seventy-three year old friend recently got into comedy. He was awarded the 'best oldcomer of the year' award.

The chlamydia department at my hospital is hard to find.

What do you call the top of Coldean? Warmdean.

What do you call a man carrying a plank of wood on his head whilst walking towards the sea? Seawards.

What do you call the same man walking into the sea? Drift wood.

I was once awarded a certificate of attendance but I couldn't be there to claim it.

Osaka's gay netball team is called 'Osaka'.

I offered to buy a shit used car for £10,000. The salesman asked me whether I was short-sighted. 'Yes,' I said. 'They're a prescription.'

There's a Catholic and a protestant school in my town at which the Catholics are protestant-leaning, and the protestants are Catholic-leaning (but both still want to kill the Jews).

There's a chlamydia unit at my hospital which recently lost a ton of paperwork - it's lost because it's undetectable.

I've an artist friend who's overdrawn.

Whenever I walk to work, I read the Metro. Whenever I get the train, I read Walking magazine.

My dad's into hairdye - he likes 'A Touch of Grey'. I find the product a bit ambiguous, though: there's a lot of grey area (especially around the ears).

More bloody jokes....

2010-05-30T18:21:00.018+01:00

Several nuns walk into a bar. 'You've got to be joking,' the barman says. 'This joke's really pissed.'

Why are nuns unhappy? Because they're all married to Christ, and he's really fucking dull - there's only so much 'meek' shit a person can put up with.

Why was Winston Churchill angry when he couldn't get an erection? Because viagra was something up with which he couldn't put.

A barman walks into a bar. 'Right,' he says. 'Send in the Three Stooges.'

A barman walks into a bar. He then opens the bar: open for business (and for shit jokes).

A barman walks into a bar. 'Oh, shit,' he says. 'We've all heard this one before.'

Several lesbians walk into a bar. (I can't finish this one due to political correctness.)

I once tried to survey terminally ill patients. Most of them told me not to put them in boxes. I said: 'don't worry: that's the undertaker's job'.

Every month, I buy a new bicycle.... I've really got into a bit of a cycle.

What do tennis players use to serve up their dinner? Serving spoons.

Why was the tennis player thrown out of the restaurant? He was making a racket.

Why was the tennis player arrested? He was operating a racket.

I've had masturbation traning - it comes in handy.

Why did the man covered in Vaseline get away? He was a slippery character.

People who play Halo Reach are hard to reach.

I've got a friend who hates limescale: he thinks it's scum.

What do cows think of milk? They think it's udderly brilliant.

Hitler walks into a bar. In anger, he tries to shoot the bar - after all, he isn't Charlie Chaplin.

How many Jews does it take to solve a problem? About 6 million - if you gas them all.

Why did the horse cross the road? 'Cause it thought it was a zebra.

A priest walks into a bar: 'I'll have a red wine and a brandy, please. Don't worry: the child's with me.'

I once met two team-players who couldn't perform 'cause they didn't have teams.

I went to Guay recently. I wanted to go to Paraguay but my holiday company offered me the real thing.

How do you solve a problem like Maria? Shoot her in the face.

What do you call ten men trying to get erections? Stiff competition.

New Jokes.

2010-05-29T13:30:00.001+01:00

Why did the auditor cross the road? To improve road-crossing efficiency.

Why did the auditor cross the road? To make sure the chicken was crossing correctly.

Why did the banana cross the road? It was really long.

Why did Lady Gaga die from an epileptic fit at home? Because she couldn't reach her telephone.

I was once branded a racist for asking about knickers in a lingerie store.

What was wrong with the police survey? It came up with mostly cons.

What was wrong with the data on fjords? It contained massive gaps.

Why did the Spaniard fall asleep in the Ford? It was a Ford Siesta.

I once did a silent gig for advanced music students.

What did the pained pirate say? 'Ooooohh! Aaarghhhhhh!'

I know a man whose right leg is shorter than his left. I asked him how he was the other day. He told me he was all right.

What's pink, black, and blue? A gay bloke who's just been beaten up.

Lincoln the racist.

2010-05-09T13:32:00.003+01:00

“I will say then that I am not, nor ever have been in favor of bringing about in anyway the social and political equality of the white and black races – that I am not nor ever have been in favor of making voters or jurors of negroes, nor of qualifying them to hold office, nor to intermarry with white people; and I will say in addition to this that there is a physical difference between the white and black races which I believe will forever forbid the two races living together on terms of social and political equality. And inasmuch as they cannot so live, while they do remain together there must be the position of superior and inferior, and I as much as any other man am in favor of having the superior position assigned to the white race. I say upon this occasion I do not perceive that because the white man is to have the superior position the negro should be denied everything.” - Abraham Lincoln.

Our most pressing concern should be....

2010-05-07T21:13:00.000+01:00

Flugufrelsarinn (a lá Kronos Quartet).

2010-05-06T17:17:00.003+01:00

Take it to another level, baby.

2010-04-19T01:12:00.000+01:00

My love for you goes beyond
the male form:
you liberate me.
The expression of our love: physical.
I felt this way before now;
I still do.

Talk of sex preference
serves to cheapen our love:
it's not what genitalia the
other possesses;
it's love -
pure and simple.

Fumbled embraces,
sensual words with butterfly wings.
You elevate me.
With great levity,
you open me to new horizons.

With fiery tongues, fiery eyes,
we bridge the gap between us.
No carnal pleasures do we indulge in.

I use my hands to use my heart;
use my lips to plumb the depths
of the endless ocean within you.

It's not a case of gay or straight.
Love is not bound by preference
or prejudice.

With every second, quell the hurt,
boost the transcendence.
We dive into each other,
and get lost somewhere inside.

A Review of Jackie Kay's Trumpet.

2010-04-02T18:06:00.001+01:00

Jackie Kay’s ‘Trumpet’ tells the story of Glaswegian jazz musician, Joss Moody: a talented trumpeter who led a curious double life.

The story begins with his death (circa 1997), and recollections made by his wife, Millicent. Immediately, the reader is presented with a worrisome Millie fretting over her being ceaselessly hounded by the local press of Torr. The reader isn’t immediately told why she is being hounded, although the likelihood is that it regards the fact that Joss was a brilliant musician.

As the story progresses, Millie recounts how she first came upon Joss in the early 50s: she was intrigued by his style, his way, his looks, and his manner. After several brief encounters – one of which occurs in a blood donors’ hall - Millie picks up the courage to ask him out. They court for three months, often going to jazz clubs in Glasgow, and Joss always does no more than peck Millie on the cheek before walking home alone.

One date, however, holds something different in store; Millie invites Joss up, and Joss accepts. They kiss, but Joss becomes reticent. In a delicate moment, Joss reveals something very private: he takes off his shirt and two t-shirts and reveals a layer of bandages wrapped around his chest. After delicately removing them, the first of two small, firm breasts is revealed to Millie: Joss is a woman, after all.

Millie, however, is deeply in love with Joss: she loves his music, his looks, his way; they marry in a fit of passion, and keep Joss’s secret secret from everyone they encounter thereafter. Soon into the marriage, though, relationship pains start to show: Millie wants a baby. Joss is deeply conflicted about not being able to give Millie a child, and in one fit of rage hits her. They compromise, however, and adopt a young boy, renaming him ‘Colman’.

Following Millie’s recollections, Colman goes to the mortuary to see Joss’s dead body. The coroner is confused by the Report of Death: where ‘male’ was written, there is now ‘female’. After unwrapping the bandages, his confusion is lifted: Joss is female. When Colman arrives, he’s confronted by the coroner – who stumbles over his words, before saying, finally, that his father is, in fact, a woman. Colman thinks he’s playing a cruel joke and grabs him by his collar, shaking him. After Colman calms down, he’s shown the body. In disbelief, he feels shocked, betrayed; he storms out of the morgue and leaves immediately for his London home.

In the next chapter, Colman goes over his past. The language he uses is quite coarse, with some Scottish colloquialisms. He seems short, and often doesn’t carry thoughts on for very long. His dialogue is full of warm reminisces which are cut short by the venom he now feels for his father; he feels alienated and alien, and he feels his father is equally shapeless and unknowable. In his confusion and hate, he consults a journalist named Sophie Stones. He wants to write a book about the life of his father, and he’s been promised an £8,000 advance.

After the headlines disappear, Millie feels slightly more secure, but, by now, she’s heard about dozens of book proposals and is utterly torn up by them. She wonders who could be in on them – which of her ‘friends’ have betrayed her. She rules out certain people, like ex-band members. She knows Colman is in on one, though, and she feels deeply hurt by it.

At certain points in the book, Millie goes over Colman’s youth. The family was happy, but Colman seemed much closer to Joss. Millie would often lose control with young Colman after one of his many long sulks and hit him. Joss would be the intermediary and help soothe Millie, telling her that it wasn’t Colman’s fault. Millie couldn’t understand why her attitude towards Colman could oscillate so often between strong feelings of love and hate.

As the story progresses, we hear testimonies – some unrelated to the book proposal – from some of Joss’s friends and associates. One very touching testimony comes from ‘Big Red’ – a drummer in the ‘Joss Moody Trio’. He tells how some fans would often question Joss’s general character – unsure of his slightly high-pitched voice and laugh, and his effeminate, ‘pudding’ face. Many times, Big Red would hit anyone who questioned Joss’s character (but he’d always apologise by dusting them off and buying them a glass of scotch).

When Big Red is contacted by Sophie Stones, he divulges some information but he goes cold when he becomes privy to the purpose of the call – he could never betray Joss. ‘It’s all about the music,’ he says. The past is the past; he couldn’t care less if Joss turned out to be a woman – it doesn’t change a thing. His language is much more coarse than Colman’s, with many colloquialisms, but it’s somehow quite endearing and full of character – whereas Colman’s seems devoid of feeling.

One scene following this beautifully contrasts with Millie’s feelings of being betrayed: Sophie contacts an ex-cleaner of the Moody family named Maggie. Maggie invites Sophie in, and decides that she’ll help after contemplating the fact that Colman is involved in the book proposal. She tells Sophie a few things, often coming across in a harsh way – one time she says that their house was often filthy, without knowing why. Towards the end of their conversation Maggie says that she once found a letter of Joss’s signed ‘Josephine’ (Joss’s actual name is ‘Josephine Moore’) but was never suspicious. Sophie leaves, leaving £500 on Maggie’s coffee table. She doesn’t wave to Maggie as she leaves (a trait that she repeats throughout the book). Maggie tries hiding the money in different places; the guilt soon starts to show.

Colman gets in contact with Joss’s mother, Edith Moore (97). He’s never met her, and she has no idea that Joss is dead – or that she became a he (albeit an artificial ‘he’). He can’t pluck up the courage to tell her the truth so he says that he’s a ‘friend’ of Joss. Edith treats Colman to lunch and supper, and presents him with a suitcase full of letters that Joss had sent her throughout his life. Colman soon begins to have doubts about the book.

Meanwhile, Sophie is interviewing a school friend of Joss named May Hart. At the end of their conversation, Sophie tells May that Josephine took up the identity of a man later in life. May can’t believe it, but Sophie hands her a picture of Joss redolent in a blue suit, playing his trumpet. She eyes it for what seems an eternity and begins to cry because of the beauty of it. Sophie, however, puts it down to ‘betrayal’ – which will fit in nicely with her perversion-oriented book; after all her words about the book potentially ‘helping people’ we can see clearly that it’s intended to appeal to the 90s subculture of sleaze.

Colman leaves Sophie asleep at a Glasgow hotel, leaving her a note, and visits Millie – alone. As Millie goes to meet him at the harbour bus station, a bird flies close to her head, ‘scatting in the wind’. What’s the message of the book? It seems to be that love – romantic or platonic – can overcome the harshest of realisations, no matter how shocking or peculiar they might be. Jackie’s novel is tender and delicate, the characters are powerful, the layout is telling (the chapters are named as if part of a book draft), and the language is fierce and uncompromising.

Written by Robert Head.

An alternative review (http://www.richmondreview.co.uk/books/trumpet.html):

The protagonist of Jackie Kay's first novel, Trumpet, is dead before the story begins. He is Joss Moody, a black Scottish jazz trumpeter, who has left a wife in deep mourning, and an adopted son, the defiantly ordinary and untalented Colman, in deep shock. For the posthumous medical report has revealed Joss Moody, his tall and handsome father, revered in the jazz world, to be a woman. Joss's widow, Millie, holes up in a Scottish fishing village in a house she and her husband shared, reeling from the press coverage of her marriage and overwhelmed by grief. Colman meanwhile, raging against what he perceives as his father's duplicity and perversion, colludes with tabloid journalist Sophie Stones in a facile and sensationalist rewriting of Moody's history. Trumpet is, in itself, the other side, or sides, of the story it is told in a multitude of voices. There is Millie, whose faintly sepia-toned reminiscences conjure the romance and charisma of Moody; Colman, whose narrative strains with expletives and inarticulate anger; Big Red McCall, his fiercely loyal drummer; the doctor, registrar and funeral director who all literally and figuratively expose Moody; and a host of neighbours and other minor characters, all struggling to balance their memories and perceptions of Moody with the lurid revelations. The skill of the novel is that these disparate voices are given weight and import, and that the reactions of the various characters, although they encompass disgust and prurient curiosity, are never predictable. Even such a minor character as the confused registrar, who in a lesser novel might just be used as a plot-driving mechanism, responds to Millie's feelings as widow with delicacy and deference.

Millie observes that Joss spoke of his female self in the third person: the female self was his third person, an alternative self. But as Trumpet unravels, it becomes apparent that Moody wasn't alone in exploring and creating alternative selves. Millie is a faithful, conventional and deeply loving wife, who, in colluding with Moody's reconstruction of his sexual identity, led what in some respects was a bizarrely unconventional life. The very milieu that Moody inhabited was mocked by the young Colman as a construct: the jazzmen, with their way-out names and boozy lifestyles, trying to recapture the world of long-dead Dukes and Counts. But Colman himself, the brutal realist, always refers to his father as "he", in his angriest moments never quite angry enough to give up on his "Daddy". Whether Moody has lived a fiction or created an alternative reality in becoming a man is the riddle at the heart of this subtle and humane novel, which Colman must explore to have any hope of resolution.

Review written by Helena Smith.

Buy Trumpet on Amazon: Trumpet: A Novel

Similarities shared between humans and bonobos (pygmy chimpanzees).

2010-03-21T15:47:00.002Z

On the Devil.

2010-03-21T11:33:00.004Z

Do we really still have such a notion in our modern age? Haven't we progressed past nonsense of this sort? Apparently not. I was watching 'Big Questions' on BBC1 this morning, and the second question brought up was 'is the Devil real?' Being a Christian audience, a large number did profress a belief in 'a' Devil - although in differing degrees of madness.

What immediately came to me was the question: why would an omnipotent, all-wise, all-benificent god create a devil? Out of boredom? Out of hate? Out of incompetency? The Devil exists only because of religion - and only in certain cultures (although most have concepts of demons, spirits and djinns).

One man - an exorcist - kept harking on about his experiences. I had an inkling from the first that he was deeply ignorant of psychology and science, and he claimed that certain amazing things happened when he expelled demons from poor subjects (such as a shack blowing down in Nairobi and illnesses being miraculously defeated).

Straight away, I thought: why do all these subjects seem to be Christian? Why are only Christians ever the subjects of demonism and exorcism? Well, naturally because they're Christian - and they've read the mad book that's preached from every pulpit in Africa. Only this book hypothesises the existence of ghosts, unicorns, witches, demons, Satan, and exorcism. Christian dogma inculcates feelings of shame, sin, inferiority and unworthiness in its subjects - and it encourages them to be deeply ignorant of anything that might contradict their beliefs (from science to other cultural beliefs). It wouldn't surprise me if religious belief actually tends to increase mental illness - mental disorders stemming from sexual neuroses, extreme physical abuse, extreme pressure and fear, and extreme belief in things that are literally nonsensical and horrifying (like hell fire).

When one doubts one's beliefs, one begins to think either one is being 'tempted' by the Devil, or one is questioning ultimate religious truths. Inevitably, mental disorders arise. So the root and the 'cure' of these particular disorders is religion: religion inspires madness, and makes people think that priests are best equipped to remove these blights. It is self-feeding and depends on the ignorance of its subjects. The 'cure' is nothing more than instilling more shame; making subjects try not to doubt the madness but have 'faith'. This abuse happens in children and adults - and children in some African countries are routinely labelled witches and are subjected to the most cruel and unthinkable treatments.

The Devil is a notion because of religion, and religions wouldn't have such power without the concept. Religion perpetuates belief in the Devil, and relies on such belief. Religion does evil, but somehow thinks of the Devil as being somehow exterior. It never thinks to look at the inner potential - for both good and evil - of humans. Religion excises blame and puts it in some other dimension from which it can't harm it. Religion is the main force of evil and confusion in this world, and it does nought but obfuscate and destroy minds.

Relevant texts:

The God Delusion
The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark
Why People Believe Weird Things: Pseudoscience, Superstition, and Other Confusions of Our Time

Top ten creationist arguments.

2010-03-20T19:34:00.003Z

Why religion almost certainly is the root of all evil.

2010-03-20T17:15:00.035Z

Religion is unchanging. From the first muddled sources (i.e. the four sources of the Torah), pages were cobbled together (some 800 years after the life of Moses in 700-800 BC) and were expounded to reveal ultimate truths about the universe. Because dogma cannot change, religions cannot progress - and rarely make exceptions. Institutions struggle to keep up with modern findings, and certain individuals hold a monopoly on their supposed 'truths'. These individuals thus hold all the power and their followers are at their mercy - monetarily, educationally, and spiritually.

The truth is 'revealed' to certain empowered individuals; thus, what they say goes unchallenged amongst their followers, and everything they surmise is almost universally uncritically examined.

As I've said before, religion exists because of two human aspects: fear and vanity. We are helpless creatures adrift in a changing and unpredictable world, and so we like to think that there must be some divine purpose for our being here - after all, we are different from all the 'other' animals.

Religious people hold dear to the idea of virtue - that doing certain things is divinely ordained and acceptable. However, some religious practices contravene ideas of contemporary morality. For instance, some Christians are reticent to fund healthcare research, and often go as far as refusing themselves or their immediate family members medical treatment. Some Christians believe that disease and disability is a purification for sin and that, somehow, innocent children deserve to be riddled with cancers, bone disorders, chronic infections and other disorders; that the maimed have been maimed for a reason; that HIV is a punishment for homosexuality. (Christians and Jews believe that we 'inherit' the sins of our forefathers, and thus we remain forever tainted.*)

By allowing themselves to believe that all this suffering is part of a divine 'plan', they allow themselves to tolerate suffering that no conscientious person could. Not only do they tolerate it: sometimes they actively seek to encourage or enhance it. And this isn't confined merely to health: religious people in general tend to have issues with gender, race and sex equality, socialistic policy, the teaching of science, the expounding of certain knowledge, sex education, race mixing, inter-race marriage, gay rights, women's rights, and all manner of other things.

Religion is a force for evil because it retards moral and scientific progress. It hankers after dead traditions, dubious history, ridiculous notions; it panders to the darker side of human nature. It's a force of arrogance and convinces people not only that their god is the 'right' god, but that somehow they are different from other forms of life and thus can trample on anything they consider to be beneath them.

Religious people assume that god is needed for moral purposes. 'Without a god,' they ask, 'where would we get our morality?' Well, not from scripture, I can tell you. The very fact that we pick and choose chapter and verse suggests that we have certain ways of distinguishing moral categories that are apart from religion. We don't acknowledge parts of scripture that tell us to kill our children if they're disobedient, to stone homosexuals to death, or to stone rape victims to death if they don't scream loudly enough. Why not? Because we know it's wrong. We have a sense of what's moral and we pick and choose scripture to justify our moral inclinations. If you still feel that scripture does hold some moral worth even though you're inclined towards atheism or agnosticism, ask yourself why. There are far better moral examples, most of whom declared no belief in a personal god - and most of whom were far more moral and humble than Jesus; such people as Socrates, Plato, Confucius, Lao-Tzu, and the Buddha - all of these examples actually predate Christianity by up to 600 years.

The truth is that morality existed long before religion and is an evolved process. Morality doesn't come from religion; religion comes from morality. Early agriculturalists - living some 10,000 years BC - knew that to be successful, it was best if they didn't kill each other. Most of them were related - probably cousins - and conceded it was pretty wise if they didn't go around killing whoever they pleased: that would tend to undermine the whole agricultural community thing. So, they didn't kill each other; rather than doing this, they tended to be compassionate and discriminate against greed and violence (which aren't good for small communities). Compassionate behaviour aids the development of societies; greed never rules the day, although it does exist in small amounts in all species (although greedy subjects are often shunned after repeatedly exhibiting greedy behaviour).

Religion rejects any contradictory evidence, and most religious institutions tend to come around to the truth much later on. Only in the 1990s did the Vatican finally concede that Galileo was right about the Earth orbiting the Sun - some 300 years after his death and some 20 years after we entered the space-age! In our day, the Vatican still rejects evolution - although certain figures - especially Pope John Paul II - have accepted that it is no longer to be considered a 'theory' in any sense of the word.

What is the solution to all the problems that ail us in the 21st century? Well, firstly, religion (along with all other forms of superstition) needs to go out of the window - not in whole; just in government and the public sphere. We cannot continue living in such ignorance of science and the scientific method when our very lives depend on it. Light bulbs and agriculture don't work on prayer - and neither do generators, televisions, or medicines (not to mention nuclear bombs). We don't need any deity, and we don't need religious institutions. Believers will persist, but literal readings of scripture can't.

Scripture is nonsensical and self-contradictory, but that's only because it's not meant to be taken literally. We all know that Joshua didn't destroy the walls of Jericho just by blowing a horn; we all know that none of the Jesus miracles happened; we all know that the Earth wasn't created in six days - or any of that other guff. These are all, obviously, myths and can only be taken as deep metaphors. Early Jews and Christians underwent deep spiritual changes but didn't have the language capacity to explain them away. Thus, all they could do was somehow aggrandize these experiences to show how magnificent their awakenings were. Also, these early tribespeople were mostly illiterate, and of course knew nothing of science, history, geography, cultures outside the middle-east, Europe and central Asia - and a host of other things. The Bible cannot be taken literally or as historical fact - most of it never happened and never could have happened.

Religion is slowly dying all over the world: it cannot win. The only way religion will prevail is if, somehow, religious war obliterates all human life on this planet. What's the solution? Reason isn't small-mindedness. We should be open-minded, but not open-minded to the point where our brains jellify and come out of our ears. We should be skeptical of everything, and shouldn't concede anything to any institution because we feel that it either pleases people or is relatively benign. Intolerance shouldn't be tolerated, and the truth should always win over human emotion and wishful thinking. Science and ignorance do not combine; if we allow them to, this combustible mixture will surely blow up in our faces. It's time to put religion to bed for good and wake up from our childish reveries - the future is knocking at the door, and bigger, grander things await us than superstition and fear. God is a luxury we can no longer afford - at least not an external god. But if that's not 'god', then what is? Maybe all notions of god have finally died - and for the best. Language change alone cannot keep up with theological interpretation. Our ideas have progressed, and are progressing, sufficiently to let go of god. God is dead, and things have never looked brighter.

*The usual riposte to this is that Jesus overturned Original Sin by dying on the cross. However, certain questions follow. Jesus was born to a virgin - Mary - who was descended from Adam, and thus must've inherited Original Sin. If this is so, then Jesus is also a fallen being. However, Catholics got around this by postulating in 1852 the Immaculate Conception - that, aside from Jesus, Mary is the only person ever to be born without Original Sin. Like most Catholic doctrine, this is made-up; conjured out of thin air to get around dead-ends. Ironically, this creates more confusion and prompts us to ask the question: why would God make such an unnecessary theological pretzel? Why make humans fallen in the first place? The idea of Original Sin reduces human dignity and prompts believers to ponder the benificence and wisdom of their supposedly wonderful deity - deserving of ridicule and gall rather than genuflection and praise.

FSM lives!

2010-03-20T11:22:00.001Z

Dismantling Intelligent Design.

2010-03-19T17:07:00.020Z

Intelligent design. What is this irksome little imposter dressed up in science clothing? Is it, as the propagators of the ‘theory’ suggest, a controversy worth teaching? Or, rather, is it merely a controversy only within their minds? The latter tends to be more true, but the simple truth is that ID advocates want to inflate its status merely by postulating a controversy where none exists.

Intelligent Design rests on two things: ignorance and refusal. By keeping the public – i.e. the American public – in the dark about science, they serve to keep the public distrustful of science. Generally, ID advocates refuse to acknowledge the fact that natural things giving off the apparent illusion of design are not the end products of design, but rather of slow, incremental evolution.

Intelligent Design isn’t a ‘theory’ – the very association of the phrase ‘ID’ with ‘theory’ serves to discredit the word. There are two ways of typically defining a theory:

Something that serves to explain a phenomenon or a set of phenomena through evidence and experiment;
A simple postulation about something couched in nothing but speculation.

Evolution isn’t a theory; it’s a scientific fact – a ‘type 1’ theory. There is so much evidence that it’s almost staggering: fossil records, population distribution data, anthropological and archaeological data, genetic distribution data – and all of this come upon independently, in many locations, all across the planet.

The only tenet of ID is ‘irreducible complexity’. All this means is the refusal to accept that something, like an eye, for example, could come about by chance over millions of years. Certain things, say ID advocates, are too complex to have come about by chance; they must have been divinely worked. Intelligent Design, however, overlooks one thing: when looked at carefully, life seems to be a hotchpotch of mediocrity. The human eye, for example, has two massive flaws: light has to travel through blood vessels dangling above the retina before it’s processed, and the human eye has a massive blind spot. What this means is that the human brain has to artificially ‘fill in’ the blanks – in effect, part of the visual image we see isn’t actually there at all.

It’s rather telling that octopodes have no such problems. What does this mean? Are we to take it that if there is a deity, or several, then it, or they, value octopode eyes over human eyes? We are left with one of four immediate possibilities:

There is no deity or deities;
There is a deity, or several, and it or they prefer octopodes over humans;
There is a deity, or several, and it or they are incompetent;
There is a deity, or several, and it or they don't care about human beings at all.

I haven't yet finished with the science, but I feel it's time to progress to more esoteric matters. This is usually the point at which I become foamy at the mouth because of the self-assertive arrogance of the Christian right. They assume that their god is the one true god, and therefore base their so-called 'theory' on a bronze-age, immoral, self-contradictory, laughable piece of literature called the Bible. This is apparently the book from which they derive their morality and sense of the world. At this point, I have to ask myself: really? Have they read this book? Surely we haven't been reading the same Bible.

Religion is based on two things: fear and vanity - and the one usually comes from the other. After developing self-consciousness some 200,000 years ago, we suddenly became awed by the world - and very frightened. Suddenly, we were plunged into an unsafe world full of rain and lightning and thunder and forest fires and predators scowling away in the night. We needed something to hold onto - something to give us security and meaning; we needed something that wasn't there.

The earliest religions were all forms of animism - in this worldview, everything - from a rock, to a tree, to a cloud - took on a 'spirit'. Nature was revered and worshipped, and everything seemed deeply mystical and holy. The first religions pertaining to deity worship were overwhelmed with female deities. This coincided with the agricultural revolution that occurred some 10,000 years BC. When hunter-gatherers first started settling into agricultural communities, they depended on harvests for their livelihoods. Some knew to measure the seasons by the stars, and others didn’t. All, however, saw the Earth (insofar as they could meekly perceive it) as being female: rain entered the soil (like sperm) and after a period of gestation, the seeds sprouted and grew into crops.

Religions were dominated by female worship until communities really started to develop. Often, they would expunge their resources or take note that their resources were quite scarce, so they would rove into foreign lands in search of wood, minerals, water and food. Of course, sometimes they came upon foreign peoples who had entirely different gods. Naturally, conflict often ensued because of the tribal nature of these early settlers. After a few millennia, all religions tended to be pre-occupied with the worship of male deities that more represented the warrior nature of their societies or civilisations – although some still retained some female deities.

These polytheisms naturally progressed into monotheisms – the first of which was Judaism. From Judaism, Christianity and - later - Islam emerged. These religions retained their tribal motifs, and their subjects learned to look at people of other faith backgrounds as being somehow 'other' and not a part of their god's people.

What strikes me about religion is the short-sightedness and self-centredness of its subjects. They all assume that there is a deity and that this deity takes the form of a human. This is so, naturally, because humans are self-conscious beings seeking meaning in a world that cares not for the needs of any individual species. It's quite conceivable that if, for example, rabbits were to suddenly develop self-consciousness they would design gods in rabbit form, and each other species would do the same with respect to their physiognomies.

By postulating the existence of a god or gods, people only serve to compound the issue. The First Cause argument shoots itself in the foot: something capable of designing complex things must be complex in itself - probably more complex than its creations. Such a being couldn't have just come about by chance, surely. Therefore, such a being - i.e. God - would've had to be created. But who created the creator? And who created the creator of the creator? A usual riposte is to speculate that God has always existed. But if God has always existed, then the universe has surely always existed. And if the universe has always existed, one doesn't need to bring a deity into the equation.

By bringing in an intermediary - i.e. a god - one serves to complicate the matter - whereas evolution solves the problem in a simple and elegant way. Something cannot have existed anterior to the big bang. Also, a deity can't reside within the limitations of the universe because then such a deity would be part of the creation (and thus cannot be creator). So, Intelligent Design has no basis in reality and is as dead as the First Cause argument and the god of the Old Testament. Evolution solves all of these problems; a deity merely serves to create confusion where none exists.

Some of my new songs.

2010-03-17T23:42:00.000Z

Interesting Facebook status updates (some simple formulas).

2010-03-13T12:24:00.003Z

Stupid concept 1 + stupid concept 2 = not much more than the sum total of both.

-Gay + -gay = heterosexual.

BNP member + psychoanalyis = good joke.

Beef + bread = where the fuck is the mustard?

-Gay x +gay = C grade in mathematics.

If several Holocaust deniers die in a forest, does anyone bother counting the dead?

Jesus + crazy = funny crazy.

Mohammed + crazy = *whistles*.

Scientologist + crazy = the square root of crazy.

A joke.

2010-03-12T23:48:00.000Z

Recently, my friend died of a stroke whilst his wife was giving him a handjob. I phoned her up to offer my condolences and enquire into the circumstances of his death, asking her: 'how did he die? Stroke?' 'No,' she replied, 'several'.

Christopher Hitchens - On the State of Human Intelligence.

2010-02-27T18:09:00.001Z

An excerpt from the film 'Religulous'.

2010-02-27T17:44:00.003Z

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NtnLmnqsaJE&feature=fvsr

(Sorry - embedding not permitted.)

An article on 'prosopagnosia' (face-blindness).

2010-02-24T19:51:00.002Z

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/nov/22/exp-erience-prosopagnosia-face-blindness-neurology

The science and wonder of the unseen.

2010-02-24T17:31:00.005Z

What are you? What is the world? How does it appear? Does its appearance represent its true nature? These are all confounding questions, but they have surprisingly simple - and remarkable - answers.

The world as we see it isn't really the 'world'; we've evolved to see certain things in certain ways - what we see isn't 'true'; it's merely 'useful'. We are middle-sized creatures that have evolved to perceive middle sized-objects moving at middle speeds across middle-sized distances. We find perceiving the very, very small and the very, very large difficult because we haven't evolved to be concerned with them - it just so happens that the scientific method has revealed a lot about the world and the universe that our everyday senses are incapable of perceiving.

If we were atoms or subatomic particles (like neutrinos), we would notice that physical matter is composed almost entirely of empty space. However, humans are vast conglomerations of hundreds of millions of cells, composed of trillions of atoms. We can't travel through walls (or other solid objects) because all the atoms - and their constituent subatomic particles - in our bodies exert electrical, repulisive forces - the same as every other thing composed of large numbers of atoms.

We haven't evolved to see the world as being mostly 'empty' because that's not useful to us - our brains tell us that we simply can't travel through physical objects because of certain physical laws (so we perceive them as being entirely solid).

Bats don't see in light - they 'see', and create an image of, the world via sound (through echolocation). Bees don't see red light - they can see in parts of the ultraviolet area of the spectrum that we can't perceive. Water skippers aren't very large and so don't really feel the effects of gravity - they're more 'bothered' by the phenomenon of water surface tension.

We humans like to see ourselves as being special. But, compared to every other species, we aren't. In truth, every species is 'special' and no species has any qualities that are intrinsically 'better' than the qualities of any other. We just so happen to think ourselves special because we appreciate, and find useful, language, sight and scents, rather than, say, echolocation, animal pheromones, extra-ultraviolet light (outside the visible spectrum), or the minute electrial signals given off by organisms (which sharks can perceive).

However, we humans wield an impressive amount of potential and power - power to do both the extremely stupid and dangerous and the impressively beautiful and wise. What we do is up to us.

If we wish to see the end of the 21st century, we're gonna have to make some big changes. We're going to have to stop seeing in such short-sighted ways; we're gonna have to embrace science and reason and shake off the last superstitious beliefs that plague the world; we're going to have to change our ways and be less greedy. Most importantly, we need to appreciate the world and see all the variety and beauty of it for what it is. We could potentially lose it all, and commit suicide as a species.

What say you? Shall we do something 'special'? It's down to us. If we go, the Earth will be here for a long time after we're gone - and it shall purify itself. Imagine if the evolution of our species - from the first primordial bacteria that lived 3.9 billion years ago to the evolution of our species from our nearest common ancestor that lived on the African plains some 3 million years ago - turns out to be all for nothing. We simply can't afford to destroy all we've worked for. It's time to embrace the more noble elements that animate us and allow them to live, and overtake us. It's time for us to become fully 'human'. Thank you for reading.

A documentary on North Korea.

2010-02-08T23:43:00.003Z

North Korea.

2010-02-08T23:24:00.005Z

Smile,
or else they
might see you.

Subterfuge and
mind-control
and propaganda
and minds in vices.

The disabled are
torn from the wombs.
Where do they go?
It seems they see death.

Death camps,
and work camps,
and a 'Glorious Leader'.

You will be arrested
if you show dissent.

Big brother is watching you;
he's auditing your mind:
thought benevolent in this case
because of lies upon lies.

A demi-god
(a demagogue),
his father saved your country
from US repression.
(Or so you've been told.)

Malnourished,
and frightened -
for no sensible reason
that your minds
can fathom.

Smile,
or else they
might see you.

Death - a poem by Harold Pinter.

2010-02-08T16:09:00.001Z

Where was the dead body found?

Who found the dead body?

Was the dead body dead when found?

How was the dead body found?

Who was the dead body?

Who was the father or daughter or brother

or uncle or sister or mother or son

of the dead and abandoned body?

Was the body dead when abandoned?

Was the body abandoned?

By whom had it been abandoned?

Was the dead body naked or dressed for a journey?

What made you declare the dead body dead?

Did you declare the dead body dead?

How well did you know the dead body?

How did you know the dead body was dead?

Did you wash the dead body?

Did you close both its eyes?

Did you bury the body?

Did you leave it abandoned?

Did you kiss the dead body?

TED talks.

2010-02-06T17:17:00.010Z

The God Delusion (part 1).

2010-02-05T14:17:00.004Z

I know, I know: the book's some three years old. Today, I picked up my copy of The God Delusion and started on a new chapter. I've had my copy for around two years but I've never really given it a fair shot - after all, I thought that I'd read the ultimate in anti-theism polemics: Why I am Not a Christian (by Bertrand Russell).

I started reading it a few weeks back and then left it, focusing on something else which I can't quite remember. Today, by chance, I started reading chapter 4: Why There Almost Certainly is no God. What can I say? I'm finishing the chapter as I write this and I'm full of excitement and my mind is brimming with the ideas I've been consuming.

It starts as a rebuttal of Fred Hoyle's posit that the origin of life is as unlikely as a Boeing 747 being assembled out of scrapyard junk randomly during a hurricane. Dawkins repeatedly rebuts this idea by showing that if something is reduced to being irreducibly complex, then that means that the likelihood of its being made by any deity is even more unlikely - thus we get into an infinite regress of the 'what made God' sort. By stating that something is too complex to have arisen via natural selection, one immediately undermines one's argument - how could something as complex as a deity have arisen by chance? Surely, it was also designed. But then what designed the designer of the designer? Ergo, we have an infinite regress that isn't helpful but rather creates infinite confusion.

The main point given early in the chapter is that evolution isn't determined by chance - it is guided by natural selection. The only chancey thing that's ever occured is the origin of life. Dawkins states that we are here not because of God (or a god, or gods, or a flying spaghetti monster) but because of the 'anthropic principle'. What is it? Well, simply stated it is the fact that out of all the billions and billions of planets that exist in our universe, many (billions, in fact) are likely to be well-suited to life. If one per cent in a billion billion planets bears life, that still means that there exist a billion life-bearing planets in our universe.

The anthropic principle has two qualities: the human side and the cosmological side. The human side has been stated in the previous paragraph. The cosmological side of the anthropic principle coin is very much similar. I'm sure you've heard of it - multiverse theory. This theory posits that there could be an infinite number of parallel universes (an alternative theory is that they could be linked in series). In this theory, each universe has a different set of conditions - some combinations of which lend themselves to life; others of which are hostile to life or, in fact, can never bear life - or even certain mixtures of atoms.

It could be that all universes bear the same six 'univeral constants' that support life (the ones present in our universe); it could be that there are many possible combinations. Either way, we know that we live in one of said universes because we are here.

One theorist - Lee Smolin - presents an altogether more tangible idea 0f the multiverse (although it still is quite peculiar to our everyday senses). In his mind, the multiverse isn't a 'foamy' structure like that of Martin Rees's - universes exist inside black holes (so the multiverse is a honeycomb structure that, in theory, 'evolves'). In this theory, successful universes are universes which bear black holes. Universes that bear clouds of dust form stars, stars form black holes, and black holes create new 'universes inside the universes in which they're present'. Each new 'daughter' universe born of a black hole contains 'mutations' which alters slightly its properties. It's a fascinating idea.

http://www.2think.org/lifeofthecosmos.shtml

Movie review: The Fisher King.

2010-02-03T23:55:00.017Z

The Fisher King (1991) is a film by Terry Gilliam, starring Robin Williams, Jeff Bridges and several other actors of note.

When Jack - a radio host for a subversive morning show - gives an ambiguous message to a disgruntled and disturbed listener, a terrible series of events unfolds: the listener goes to a 'yuppie' bar and kills several people, before turning the gun on himself.

This controversy spells the end for Jack's career. He spirals into a life of bitter self-loathing - although he still has a wonderful girlfriend and a job (at her video store).

One night, guilt takes hold and Jack takes a drunken walk. In his stupor, he finds himself lost in either Brooklyn or Manhattan and is set upon by two young men who mistake him for a homeless man. Out of nowhere, a knight in dulled armour appears: a homeless man named Perry. Perry sees off the attackers and takes in Jack for the night.

When Jack is rested, Perry tells him that he needs him to fulfill a particular purpose: Perry is working for God and needs Jack to steal the Holy Grail from a wealthy entrepreneur's house. (Perry also occasionally thinks fairies are present and perpetually sees a so-called 'Red Knight' who roams Central Park trying to get at him.)

Jack leaves, but soon sees Perry again - and decides to get to know him. After seeing brilliance behind his madness - and often delusional behaviour - he decides to help him in whatever way he can. And there's another reason: it turns out that Perry's wife was one of the victims killed in the shooting three years earlier.

Wrecked with guilt and overcome by the power of his new-found friendship, Jack goes on to help Perry find love. Whilst helping Perry, though, Jack is losing his way. The film is about redemption and recognition - and finding love and wonder where one can.

The title is derived from a story Perry tells Jack one night when they're both lying on a green in Central Park at night - Perry is nude in this scene. Whilst sleeping in a forest, a young boy destined to be king awakes to be greeted with a vision of a fire containing the Holy Grail - a symbol of "God's divine grace".

With wonder, the boy tries to retrieve the grail but is terribly badly burned. With time, his wounds grow deeper. One morning, a simple fool enters the king's chambers and sees him sitting alone, looking pained.

The fool doesn't see a king - merely a man in pain. He asks him if he can help soothe him. The king tells the fool that he's thirsty. The fool finds a cup and gives him some water. Through this simple act, the king's wounds miraculously disappear and he is healed.

When the King looks into his hand, he sees not a cup, but the grail for which he's been hunting his life entire. 'How could you have found that which my brightest and best have failed to find all these years?' enquires the King. 'I don't know,' replies the fool, 'I only knew that you were thirsty.' The story is an interpretation of an Arthurian story - of King Arthur. My interpretation of it is that grandeur is often found in the simplest of things - but that's just me.

The movie is streaked with themes of love and pain. When Perry enters a state of catatonia after re-living the nightmare that unfolded three years previous, Jack finally endeavours to get the grail in hope that it might bring Perry out of said state. I won't spoil the ending - although I've probably already given it away. It ends on a high note; it left me feeling enchanted. Watching it again wouldn't be as much of a pleasureable experience, but it's a real gem.

Sufjan Stevens - Sister (live).

2010-02-03T13:48:00.001Z

Cosmos - Vangelis.

2010-02-02T15:32:00.000Z

Arvo Part - Spiegel im Spiegel.

2010-02-02T15:31:00.001Z

Venezuela.

2010-01-23T16:04:00.004Z

From favelas in the hills

we will descend upon you

like a swash -

angry, and yet peaceful in motive.

We will wound your tyranny

and your reign shall bleed to death.

we want our Hugo back;

we want our Chavez.

And so in the night

the light of a distant helicopter

signals the light of democracy;

hope is restored once again.

We move back into our barrios

and return to our communities,

sure in the knowledge

that our constitution shall once again breathe.

But the future will always be uncertain:

it seems the giant above us

never sleeps.

Bertrand Russell on his beliefs (short video).

2010-01-22T13:29:00.000Z

The notorious PAB....

2010-01-22T13:02:00.002Z

Mumbai.

2010-01-21T21:31:00.008Z

Walking the streets

are haggard children:

far too torn and ragged

a picture of youth;

feet hard with miles

of incessant walking -

like somnambulants endlessly

walking through infinite deserts.

Their eyes are broken,

but somehow still full of

the colour of youth.

Their faces are beautiful,

and yet tell of a struggle

that's been wreaked

since time's conception.

They sell anything they can find;

steal anything they can find -

just to buy lentils and rice
and keep clothed and dry.

Sewerage lines overflow

into the streets,

and children

bathe in the water.

All's not well in Mumbai,

or Detroit, or Flint,

or Wigan, or Bristol,

or Beijing, or Ulan Bator;

all is not well.

Your whitener,

and your methamphetamine,

and your presciption pills,

and Valium and Zantac and Vicodin;

all is not well.

It's part of a culture

that we're creating,

but which we'll never know;

it carries on like some shoddily written tragedy

shown in a broken theatre;

God bless the world.

Keith Olbermann on the Haitian disaster and the comments of Rush Limbaugh and Pat 'anti-Christ' Robertson.

2010-01-21T17:27:00.001Z

Rifle scopes with engrained Bible verses on them.

2010-01-21T17:18:00.003Z

Luckily, this company has now been stopped/prosecuted.

Baby teeth (haiku).

2010-01-21T17:01:00.005Z

Baby teeth, you grind

softly; you dribble: eyes wide

at the thought of food.

Baby, you grasp with

chubby arms; arms like the fat

of the early world.

You smile, but frown

as you teeth; I soothe you with

smiles, rum and milk.

You clasp my finger

and play with my hair; amazed

at textures unknown.

One day, you'll have

your own babies with their own

baby-toothed smiles.

And one day, you'll

again feel the walls of the

world, in awe of them.

But you won't be trapped;

the world is your oyster; make

sure you flesh it out.

Walls cannot hold you;

neither can I; but baby,

please remember me.

Baby, I love you

like a loved-up artist loves

his unfinished work.

I love you like I

loved the bottle; I've now

traded vice for love.

Nature poems.

2010-01-21T14:15:00.003Z

Part 1: the seeing.

Penned nature poems
In the darkness of twilight
For your child's pleasure.

Purple sky streaked with
Milk, and a Moon of pale death
Throwing light on trees.

The outlines are framed
In front of mountains and creeks;
Carried down river.

Part 2: the calling.

Coyotes beg the
Moon to come down and play; far
From its starry friends.

The trees seperate
As if channeling nature's
Will; wind scowls: deep tones.

And the night is writ
Like it's for my eyes only,
And I write the night.

Part 3: the being.

Nature poems: my
Play thing, in the dead of night;
When all has made winks.

Submerged in deep sleep,
But hearts thud in baritone;
In my mind, I hear.

Water is the life;
For the life of me, never
Might we become merged.

Part 4: the becoming.

When all is quiet,
I see your eye above the
Trees; you call to me.

You whisper in my
Ears and caress my senses
With autumnal words.

When my eyes open
I can smell your life and waste,
And I see clearly.

The flood....

2010-01-21T12:08:00.001Z

Illegal alien.

2010-01-20T16:25:00.002Z

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place
anywhere;

they say I am wrong;
they say I don't belong,
but all paths must meet
in the end.

I've been on the road
for most of my life;
looking for any place
that'll take me;
any place that'll take me -
any place I can lay down my strife.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold and on my own.
most of my family's dead;
the rest have mostly flown.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold
and all alone.
All alone.

All is not well
where I'm from;
It doesn't seem that much better
elsewhere.

But you could change my story;
there must be good people
out there.

I don't have much clothing,
but I'm willing to work.
Don't turn me away
because you feel you've been hurt.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place
anywhere.

I can't speak all that well,
but I am strong.
My dignity is not
for sale.

Just because you've lived here
longer than I
doesn't mean you can commit me,
commit me to die.

I am a being.
I have a heart.
You have no right
to tear it apart.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

City of Immigrants.

2010-01-20T15:49:00.003Z

An ode to reckless teenage bravado.

2010-01-20T15:05:00.000Z

You're the victim of
Fear in vanity's clothing.
But I still
Want you,
And need you,
And adore you;

Even though you might
One day
Become
A supernova;

But, I'm secure
In the knowledge that
You'll never
Collapse
Into a
Black hole.

Kick up the leaves,
And curse the heavens
For being too perplexing;
But one day
You'll know them
Like your palms,
And psalms,
And everything else in your dreams.

Funeral.

2010-01-20T13:17:00.008Z

Crying at a funeral
For no particular reason,
Other than the heavy sense of
Grief and
Similar watered eyes.

We all cry the same;
Though in different moments
And shades;
Some tears are kept inside
And lubricate us,
Tempting us to fall apart
Like frantic machines.

Crying at a funeral,
For no other reason
Than respect:
A poor and facile reason
That any cheap conjuror
Can tease
From water-ready eyes.

Crying at a funeral
Because I would like
To have known you
And loved you
Like your dearest;

But I never did.
And I never will.
So I sigh,
But my eyes don't become moist
With tears
That have no place,
Or bearing
Within my soul.

I'm sorry,
But sometimes the dead
Die quietly,
And the living
Have quiet thoughts,
That cannot be placed
And so live
In suspended animation;

But somewhere,
Real tears are shed for you;
Tears that began on the day of
Creation;
Tears that will run for ever,
Weeping at the beauty,
And banality,
And wonder,
And futility of it all;

Tears that run through us all,
And prompt us to remember
That one day,
We will die so pointlessly -
Like you -
After living under the
Hammers of others,
And a boundless night sky.

No matter.

2010-01-20T12:50:00.010Z

No matter how obscene you think it -

no matter how crazy they say it might be -

a crazy thought is not the preserve

of a crazy mind

or a violent sea.

A thought is all yours:

an expression of you;

and it matters not that others tell you

that you're a fruit

or cuckoo.

Don't worry on keeping quiet

or keeping your thoughts within;

your thoughts are for you -

they're not for others' whims.

They say that it's 'random',

but that's such a facile word.

The only thing that's random

is that their aims are so absurd

as to try to shut you up;

as to try to dumb you down;

and put you in a suit,

and cavort you about town -

like a monkey on a string,

or a child with a noose;

or some colourless thing,

like a dead and lame goose.

No matter what they say;

no matter what they do;

your tomorrow is today,

and you

are you,

are you.

Hate.

2010-01-20T02:35:00.003Z

Can you feel the hate
Swirling within you?
You mask it as 'humour'.

One day,
It will turn you inside out
And swallow you whole.

And where you once were
There shall remain a heavy presence
That quickly goes unnoticed.

The teeth within you
Will develop an appetite
Whose calling can't be sated.

And so you will crease,
And fall in on yourself,
Like a neutron star in its death throes
In some uncared-for
Pocket of the universe.

Art.

2010-01-20T02:19:00.002Z

Art is hidden
In the deepest cracks
And recesses
Of human experience.

Even after they're dead,
You'll still not look there.

Even after we're all dead,
There'll still be art there

You refuse to look there,
Because what you see
Might pull you in
And keep you there for ever.

How would it feel to be
Trapped with your
Reflection for ever?

All your guilt and sin and
Squirming pitifulness?
So you don't look there,
And it doesn't peer back into you.

But in your quietest moments,
Your mind skips over the ocean,
Suddenly descending into
Great holes in the Earth.

The truth.

2010-01-20T01:15:00.020Z

Your patriotic attempts
at jingoism -
in all their couched and pathetic venom -
will not stir the
ignorance
within
my heart.

I will crush you
like you don't expect;
flags will wave,
but they will be covered in blood:
the blood of you,
and your children,
and your enemies,
and your children's enemies,
and those of conquered lands;

and the dead who've tried in vain to cease
the incessant marches of unreason,
and disdain for moral character.

I will put you under my foot
and crush you within your
Reichstags and temples,
and churches -
long before you even wish to burn them down yourselves,
and blame their destruction on foreign entities
with nefarious motivations.

I will not get rheumy-eyed
at the thought of
my country
and all of its honours -
mostly terrors in fancy clothing.

I will not tremble;
nor will I remain impassive.
I will shoot from my mouth
flames of truth
that can vaporise mountains
and put the fear of all desolation
into the eyes of tyrants,
and dragons,
and despots,
and monarchs -
and even God.

For the truth is my weapon,
and I wield it with pride;
indiscriminately.

Who knows? -
I might even be its next target.
But it will cut me down with glory -
and I will let it.
And it will be taken up by other
ne'er-shaking hands,
that will strike you dead
without spilling any of the bile that animates you.

Your flesh is for the whims of time -
the hourglass -
and the seagulls,
and your rabid friends,
who will weep at your demise,
after tearing you apart like the feeble dog you are.

And new life will blossom,
and be bruised,
and sour,
and steer from tranquility;
but maybe we can deter the next generation
from devouring your lies;
instead, digesting them fully,
and offering them to the earth,
in a thankful and even promise,
that flowers might grow in the most acid peat.

Like growth,
maggots thrive in the midst of decay.
But maggots die,
whilst change is present
in the nuances of each new burst of life.

A Poem is a City - a poem by Charles Bukowski (featured in 'The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills).

2010-01-20T01:04:00.003Z

A poem is a city
a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter...
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows...

a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world...

and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor's scrutiny,
the night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.

Listen.

2010-01-20T01:03:00.001Z

Listen to me;
I'll listen to you.
I can see
Beauty in you.

Don't be afraid.
Don't run into the shade.
Come out and face the Sun.
The future is waiting
For you.

Don't say, my dear,
That there's nothing for you here;
Life shouldn't be some
Unrelenting menagerie.

They put thoughts in your head;
Words in your mouth.
They advise you on how to think,
And in time it all goes south

And tumbles into the sea.
This is what might be.
They say: 'This is what will be
If your eyes fail to see.'

Don't say, my dear,
That there's nothing for you here;
Life shouldn't be some
Unrelenting menagerie.

I miss you.

2010-01-20T00:58:00.002Z

I miss you.
Since you've been gone
I barely sleep;
Not even a wink.

Are you up there?
Oh, my childish imagination.
I long for cessation
Now.

I miss you.
The things you said
Made me.
Please don't unmake me.

I'm feeble.
I'll have to carry on this upheaval.

It's peaceful -
Since you've been gone.
I just gaze at dew and hear bird song.

And your voice
Echoes still in the hall.
I miss you.
Will you help me carry on?

Will you help me to carry on?
Will you help me to carry on?
Will you help me to carry on?
I miss you.

The fire.

2010-01-20T00:01:00.000Z

The fire never died;
The ember's still burning,
Deep inside.

The late 60s were real,
But they felt like a dream;
Peace is never as placid as it seems.

The fire never died;
It burns on still.
To get my trip I need music;
I don't need no pill.

I don't need no weed -
Although I find it helps.

The fire never died.
The pearl's still resting amongst the kelp.

Lord's prayer.

2010-01-19T23:24:00.001Z

Dear God,
Lord and protector of all that is imaginary;
Lord of my dreams -
Of my imagination,
In the sky,
Eating the pie;
Wielding a huge glistening ball of unreason;
With the beard;
Please protect me from my sister,
And her relentless attempts to commandeer my laptop.

Dear God -
The sky God -
With the zombie son
(Who is also God, apparently;
Something about a godhead -
I dunno),
Please protect me from
Giant custard monsters
And other pretend creatures
Advocating bigotry, infanticide,
Genocide, slavery, rape, incest and
Prostitution -
Creatures like you.

Amen.

P.S. Please don't send the Holy Ghost to kill my children - I've done nothing to you, so stay out of my life, you egomaniacal, genocidal, megalomaniacal prick!

Snow.

2010-01-19T17:16:00.005Z

How we treat you
like an unwanted guest;
shaking off our shoes
in jest of maintaining the sanctity
of our precious hallway carpets.

O, but once when
we bore smaller,
keener smiles
we danced with you;
and you danced in return,
like a jester plying for to receive our folly
In recognition.

So now,
the roads are thick
with grief
that has no place
in the heart.

The cars become stuck,
the people feel unstuck;
the people just sit in armchairs -
on sofas -
and wait for a time when
they can more happily wait,
and idle their days in warmer climes.

But the old,
though cold,
observe with both
joy and apprehension
the white blanket,
falling like old, crushed bones from Heaven.

One day,
I might dance with you.
I will fall and rise with you,
and maybe you will coat
what humus I make
with your winter will.

Kaleidoscopic mind breaking down into fractured colours (a portrait of a man in his final stages of dementia).

2010-01-19T15:58:00.004Z

The Lengf,
And breadf,
And hight
Of my mind
Is braking down

Into some sort of
Tapestry
Of pretty patterns
Wich I cant read;
Cant understand.

I tri to cry,
But feelings are nummed.
Where has my mind gon?

The lengf,
And breadf,
And hight
Of my mind,
Is becuming a singularity.

Everyfing I wunce new,
Wich was wunce blue,
Is now red,
And ritten
In a language I cant understand.

Im trapped
In a prison
Of my own constructshun.

Its not my falt.
Everyfing is ugly,
And becuming unreadable.
But the sky's still so beautyful.

Faith.

2010-01-19T14:08:00.005Z

The only thing one need know about Christianity is that Christ probably never existed. The Story of Judas was plagiarised from the Old Testament story of Joseph being sold for twenty pieces of silver; the journey to Bethlehem was conjured up out of necessity in order to fulfill the Messianic prophecy; Genesis was a plagiarisation of a Sumerian creation story; the Flood was plagiarised from the Babylonian story of the Epic of Gilgamesh; the story of Exodus is a misinterpretation resting on a mistranslation of a Hebrew word which means 'reeds' and not 'red' - Moses never went out of his way to lead his people - all 600,000 of them - for 40 years (yeah, right) through the desert to cross the Red Sea (they crossed the Reed Sea - a small, shallow bog - in the north of Egypt; the story of Jesus is a plagiarisation of such stories as Horus and Mythra; Jesus wasn't born on December 25th, and no historical accounts of the Biblical Jesus exist. Where's your 'faith' now? Still got it? Thought you would.

Adendum (made at 9.43 - several hours after post):

I concluded with 'Thought you would' because no matter what the contradictory evidence, people of faith will always go on believing certain things through ignorance. Caesar Augustus never issued a decree for people in the Holy land to register for tax purposes in an empire-wide census. There is no record in Roman record-keeping of it; and Roman record-keeping was very thorough. However, a decree was issued by Quirinius dating from 6AD onwards - if a mix-up is the case, then Luke's gospel is to be treated as meaningless. If Jesus was born, he was born in Nazareth - and certainly not on December 25th (as I've said, countless times, that's a date made purposefully - it's the date of the winter solstice (although it would have been December 21st before the Gregorian Calender was made standard in the Christian world)).

Hearts.

2010-01-19T00:20:00.001Z

Hearts are soft,
But can be made frozen,
And used to smash you to pieces with all the ferocity
Of a mind hell-bent on a type of revenge
That only the creulty and majesty of life can stir.

An unknown face.

2010-01-18T23:44:00.003Z

An unknown face.
I appear in all your stories.

I walk in;
I walk out:
The unacknowledged.

I leave the scene
And ask for no raised heads,
Or polite smiles,
Or fiestas in my name.

I partake in everything
But you scarcely know I'm present.

I arrive,
And I'm gone;
Before you even know the present's present,
Or reflection has cast its hands upon you.

An unknown face,
With no requests,
Will burn on inside you until your stories
Are buried with your crumbling vessel.

An unknown face
Will be cast to the wind
In an offering to some memory
That passes through you
As a brief shudder,
Which you soon discard.

An unknown face
Makes unknown bones
But permits a quiet dignity,
Existing on the fringe of all you might ever see,
That those of fame will never know.

I ask only that you be,
And smash mould against mould;
And from the dust make new moulds;
And never live by example,
Because example begets lame children
That know not the fullness of reason or purpose.

An unknown face
Will never haunt your dreams
Or infect your nightmares;
It will only pass you by,
Quiet in all its triumphs and horrors.

An unknown face is yours,
And mine,
And theirs;
As we stumble in the dark,
Searching the features.

One day, I will pass you by,
And you will not know me;
But you will feel my actions
In the ripples I make in the world;
And I make few ripples:
My ripples are absorbed by the features of the Earth.

Evening.

2010-01-18T20:02:00.003Z

I wait for the evening to bleed away.
I wait for the evening to die,
In hope of being greeted with a more fruitful morning.

I wait for the fog to clear,
For colours to appear -
Streaking the sky like they mean to impress.

I wait for night to envelop me
And steal me away to a land of dreams,
Where maybe I'll be gracefully interred;
Just for a little while.

I wait for you
Like a lame child
Waiting for medical care;
Waiting for his parents' interventionist God to commit him to death

I wait for the evening to clear;
The air to settle,
And the morning to kick up the cobwebs,
Which will soon re-form.

I'm waiting for the evening to inculcate in me some deep yearning
For a time when night-time means more than just shambling ghosts
And a longing to be refreshed.

I wait for the evening to leave,
Not knowing that it lives within the dark of my soul;
Morning, too.
I guess I'm waiting for a more pleasant happening to arrive,
And bring with it a routine with no items:
Just a blank space,
Like night.

I wait for the evening to give peace to the wind-blown,
Although it will only heighten their coldness,
And leave me feeling like being warmed up might kill me,
Or turn me into some creature wandering, lost, under the Sun.

A few songs by John Lennon.

2009-12-13T17:43:00.004Z

Winter - a poem.

2009-12-11T22:22:00.000Z

A few of my songs.

2009-12-09T22:03:00.001Z

Voices (haiku).

2009-12-02T12:37:00.002Z

Washed out in a sea
Of echoes, we fire off
In loud unison.

Winter.

2009-11-30T16:05:00.003Z

I stand beside nude trees,
Under a bare sky.
It’s cobalt-coloured – like stripped-bare dreams;
It’s leaden, and naked of life.

The Pavilion is risen tall;
Its grandeur all too clear.
If you’d like to take a winter stroll,
Why don’t you meet me here?

My skin is chilled
And my dreams hang low –
Like a frosty, morning fog.

And I pine for you,
In grumbled tones –
After my keeper,
Like a dog.

If you should see me upon the pavement
With desolate-looking eyes,
Know there’s a sparkle present
And, because of you, my tears have dried.

And I feel I’m not kidding myself
With the undulations of my mind;
No matter what my temperament,
I know you’ll soothe me in tones kind.

The sky is cobalt-blue
And the leaves are in dank piles.
But I’ll walk these paths with you –
And I’ll walk them for miles.

A lighter shade of me....

2009-11-26T02:34:00.003Z

I know most of the stuff I write is over-serious and leaden, so here are a few uplifting videos courtesy of Nalts:

Judeo-Christian religion and women.

2009-11-25T17:27:00.010Z

To be a Born-Again Christian means to be as a child - just as Jesus advised. To be born again isn't to see the world through the eyes of a thinking adult who's had his or her views changed; it's to be re-born as a child. We don't need more children on this planet; we need thinking adults.

Throughout the histories of Judaism and Christianity, women have been subjugated and subjected to the most extreme oppression. This sort of thing only stopped occurring towards the end of the nineteenth century. For hundreds of years, women could not vote nor own property; nor could they escape their domestic settings. The first American woman to ever strive to become a lawyer was blocked by the Supreme Court (with an 8-1 majority) some 100 years ago.

The 10th commandment alludes to the fact that women were seen as property to the early Jews. Many Christians will fail to recognise this or wholly deny it. Many don't know that early Jewish men were polygamists who had many wives - King Soloman had 1000 (or so we're told in the Bible).

The 10th commandment states: "Thou shalt not covet your neighbour's house, or his wife, or his plough, or his ox, or his ass." Houses and oxen and ploughs were property - and so were women. Women were 'chattel' (they were personal possessions who could be moved around). Another striking thing about the Old Testament is that it was perfectly acceptable for Jewish - and early Christian - men to sell their daughters into the sex trade. People also kept slaves (provided that these slaves were taken from foreign lands - just as the Egyptians did with the early tribes of Judea; it seems some people never learn).

Before you go to bed tonight, just think about some of the tortures your great-grandmothers had to endure. Think about how women have been treated throughout the centuries. Think about how in some Muslim states (as well as in Israel and some Christian states in Africa and the Far East) women are oppressed and controlled (all because the early Moslems aped the Old and New Testaments). I'm an atheist, but if you wish to pray tonight please pray for all those around the world whom are in dire need of their human rights. Pray for your loved ones and your enemies. Pray for everybody. And if you're not no spineless and idiotic as to think to pray, make real change and help others in your communities.

God in the 21st century.

2009-11-24T18:41:00.001Z

A few words on prayer by John Shelby Spong.

2009-11-24T17:31:00.002Z

A talk by John Shelby Spong.

2009-11-24T16:54:00.000Z

Plan Colombia.

2009-11-23T23:18:00.007Z

Since 1998, America has been destroying the Colombian countryside under the guise of a collection of anti-drugs policies called 'Plan Colombia'.

This involves spraying large amounts of defoliant (herbicide) over coca fields in order to halt the production of cocaine. There's one thing Americans aren't aware of, though - something entirely more sinister and nefarious: American agribusiness companies are moving into these affected areas and farming crops. These companies employ jobless, displaced peasants and make them work in the agribusiness industry for low pay, under dire working conditions.

Also, vast areas of Colombia are handed over to mining companies and oil companies. Vast swathes of land are strip-mined and destroyed. These acts are the product of American policy and they're supported by western countries such as the UK.

The following videos will provide you with some information:

A joke.

2009-10-27T23:09:00.002Z

I got into a fight with a dyslexic man today. He told me he was gonna shit the kick out of me.

A review of Changeling.

2009-10-26T20:13:00.018Z

Changeling tells the story of Christine Collins - a mother who fights tooth and nail against police corruption and unthinkable odds in order to find her missing son, Walter. The film is written by J. Michael Straczynski and directed, produced and scored by Clint Eastwood. The film's message: never start a fight, but always finish it.

The film is set in the bustling, yet seedy, world of LA in the 1920s. Christine oversees a team of switchboard operators and is the single parent of her nine-year-old son, Walter. One day, she leaves work but misses her usual tram, arriving home slightly later than normal. When she returns, her son is nowhere to be found; the gentle piece of music playing begins to turn ominous in tone - a testament to Clint Eastwood's musical prowess. In desperation, she calls the police - who tell her nothing can be done until morning.

Walter goes missing on March 20th, 1928. In August of that same year, she receives an impromptu visit from the LAPD. They tell her that Walter has been found and he's in the process of being returned to her from Ohio (where he was supposedly found in the company of a vagrant man). When she greets him, though, she's struck with awe - he's not her son. In shock, she tells Captain Jones that she doesn't know who he is. He manages to get her to co-operate, though, and the LA press snap pictures of mother and 'son' together.

All seems to be working well until Christine tends to the boy after he slips in the bath - she sees the boy is circumcised. She drags him out into the hallway and measures him - he's three inches shorter than when last measured (five months previous). She calls Captain Jones and he gives her lip-service about what stress can do to a child. She refuses to co-operate so he sends in a counsellor (who proceeds to drag 'Walter' around the neighbourhood in order to have neighbours judge him 'objectively').

Soon, we are greeted with the presence of Reverend Briegleb (played by John Malkovich) - a local pastor who proselytises about the evils of the LAPD on his community radio programme. He asks to meet Christine at the church one morning. When she arrives, he shows her an article printed earlier in the morning insinuating that Christine might not be looking after Walter properly from shock (and so she might be the reason for his extreme physical changes).

Reverend Briegleb says: "Many children have been sacrificed to expediency; your boy is not the first, but, depending on what you choose to do, he might be the last...". He also informs Christine of various corruptions in the LAPD - one such corrpution is that police officers are able to kill criminals if they refuse to co-operate.

With the Reverend's help, Christine succours the confidence to take on the establishment. She receives testimonies from Walter's dentist (who notes extreme differences in the two children's teeth), and his teacher - who also notices differences in behaviour. (Both are prepared to give evidence in a court of law.)

The following morning, Christine gives a statement to the local press outside the town hall, stating that she has testimonies and will soon be speaking out against the corruption and incompetence of the LAPD. An officer present calls Captain Jones and notifies him. He issues an order to have Christine brought back to LAPD headquarters and brought in "through the back door".

Christine is told by the Captain that she's either lying about Walter or she's not aware of the fact that she's lying - either she's a liar or she's crazy. On that basis, he has Christine thrown into an asylum for being a "danger to the public and the peace". He does this illegally without issuing a warrant and also doing so before the warrant is issued - both of which are extremely illegal actions. Meanwhile, an investigator at the LAPD receives a call about a youth holed up illegally in a ranch in Wineville and tends to the case.

When Christine enters the asylum, she pleads with the head nurse to let her go and states that she's being blackmailed by police. She's hosed down and given a brisk, degrading, brusk cavity search. Upon seeing this scene, I couldn't help but juxtapose it with how Angelina Jolie is presented in 'Girl, Interrupted'.

Christine meets a woman called Carol Dexter. She notices that Christine's not eating, so she tells her: "Eat; eating's normal. You gotta do everything you can in here to appear normal." Christine tells her that she's sane, to which Carol replies: "No matter what you do, you'll appear insane - if you smile too much, you're delusional (you're stifling hysteria); if you don't smile, you're depressed; if you remain neutral, you're emotionally withdrawn." Carol states that she was admitted after one of her clients (she was a prostitute) beat her up (the client of which turned out to be a cop). When she lodged a formal complaint to the LAPD, she was thrown into the nuthouse - along with dozens of other innocent girls - under Code 12 of a relevant police act.

When the investigating officer arrives at Wineville, he comes upon a man whose car has broken down at the side of the road. He asks the man where the Northcott Ranch is. The man proceeds to reach into the back of his truck in order to put away his gasoline and he almost reaches for a 12-gauge shortgun he has in back. However, he refrains and gives the policeman directions. The cop arrives at the ranch and looks around the scene (finding an empty chicken coop, and axes and knives strewn about the ground) when he's startled by a boy who sees him and tries to flee into the house. He takes the boy into custody.

Meanwhile, at the asylum, Christine is being studied by the head psychiatrist. Christine tries to remain neutral and unaffected throughout his questioning. When he asks her if she minds how she's been treated, she says that she doesn't - the nurses are just trying to "cover all their bases" (by doing such things as testing for syphilis). When she's asked if Walter is her son, she says no (in stark contrast to the picture of her with 'Walter' at the train station taken in August). When she's asked if the police are just doing their job she says: "Yes; they're here to help," to which the man replies: "Really? That's not what you said to the head nurse - you told her that the police were 'conspiring against you'. Right, Ms Collins?" She begins to crumble.

Reverend Briegleb arrives at the LAPD headquarters shortly afterwards with hundreds of protestors in tow, demanding that Captain Jones tell him where Christine is. He tells her she's in a "safe place" that she needed to go to in order to maintain public peace. When the Reverend leaves, he calls the cop who was previously investigating the Northcott ranch and asks him to return. However, after he interviews the boy - who turns out to be named Sanford Clark - he finds out that the boy and his older cousin (Gordon Northcott) could potentially be at the heart of one of the state's biggest ever murder investigations. Sanford tells the officer that he and his cousin are responsible for the deaths of up to 20 children at the Ranch. When Sanford looks through the pictures of missing children, he picks out several photographs of children he remembers being held at the ranch - one of whom turns out to be Walter Collins.

Upon going back to the ranch with Sanford, the officer (accompanied by several others) asks the boy to dig where he believes the boys' bodies lie. After several minutes he unearths several skeletons. The investigator requests the aid of every officer within a 20-mile radius and phones back to the LAPD. Shortly afterwards, an article is published (which soon comes into the hands of Reverend Briegleb). The reverend storms the asylum along with California's leading civil-case lawyer and orders the release of Christine Collins. (Shortly afterwards - after she tells the men of the mistreatment and illegal holding of innocent, sane women - all of the women being held under Code 12 are released). When Carol and the others leave, we see the dainty frame of Christine (who's wearing her trademark, floral bonnet) standing at the foot of the entrance of the asylum. Carol throws Christine a look of deep gratitude and pride.

'Walter' is interviewed by the investigative officer who found the bodies of the missing boys and he cracks when he's told he could be prosecuted for impeding a police investigation. The boy says that his real name is Arthur Hutchins and that he wanted to come to LA to meet 'Telmex' - a character in a series of films - and ride his horse. Meanwhile, when Gordon returns home to Vancouver to see his sister she has her husband call the police. Soon afterwards he is arrested and taken into custody.

Christine pays for Arthur to be returned home. The Chief of Police oversees his returning. When he greets his mother, the Chief is giving a statement to the LA press. As Arthur is getting on the train, he tells his mother that it wasn't his fault - "It wasn't even my idea; the police told me to do it". The press members hear this comment and note it with curiousness.

At the civil trial, Captain Jones and the Chief of Police are both fired for malpractice, never again entitled to stand in the LAPD. Meanwhile, Gordon Northcott is being tried in a smaller, criminal trial. After the jury deliberates, they reach their verdict: they find him guilty of 20 counts of murder in the first degree. Gordon is sentenced to be hanged after being held for two months.

The final scene we see takes place a few years after Gordon's death. Christine is called by a 'Mrs Clay'. She tells Christine that a boy has been found. He turns out to be David Clay. David tells of how one night he and Walter and another boy escaped through a hole in the coop. Walter and the other boy were out when David became stuck. His noisy attempt at escape roused the attention of Gordon Northcott. Walter went back to help free David and all three escaped. David spent several years moving in and out of orphanages through fear of being faced with a reprisal kidnapping. Christine Collins kept looking for Walter but never found him.

I found the film riveting. The score was simple and elegant and the set pieces made one feel one was immersed in LA as it actually was in 1928. Angelina Jolie played the part of Christine simply and elegantly, bringing the character alive with the gentleness of her eyes alone - each exchange was like softest velvet; some were as knives. It's certainly up there alongside such greats as the Shawshank Redemption, LA Confidential and Stand by Me. It's certainly one of Clint's finest efforts - perhaps even exceeding Million Dollar Baby and Gran Torino - and it offers lots of commentary on contemporary society - if one wants to read it in that way.

Rating: 9/10. If I had a handle on more films I'd give it a 10. It's a little wearisome at over two hours in length but it's a worthy and worthwhile investment.

Town.

2009-10-26T20:08:00.000Z

The town in which I live is dying;
Sometimes I go out to cry.
But the rain masks my tears
And the night cloaks my fears.

The sky is crushing and cold
And this town's bones are getting old.
The sea's storming the pier
And the squall's all I hear.

Sorrow's a drag and regret's pointless.
We're here; we'll be gone, so why feel the blues?
But the jobs have all gone
And I'm left without Sun.

The TV screen flickers in the evening.
I'm sitting here with cans of beer and spite.
Some girl's on TV
But she's not singing for me tonight.

The lads 'round my way all want blood.
To them life is worth less than mud.
They all hide their eyes
And shout slurs in the night.

The town in which I live is dying;
Sometimes I go out to cry.
The sky's grey and looms
Like it's pregnant with gloom.

With hearts on our sleeves,
We die and we bleed.
With hearts on our sleeves,
We die and we bleed.

How do religious people manage to get out of bed in the mornings?

2009-10-24T15:36:00.015+01:00

If I were a Christian (or any devotee of one of the Abrahamic religions), I don't think I'd be able to get out of bed in the mornings. For 1200 years, the Catholic church ruled Europe with snipe and subversion and torture and repression until the first awakenings of the Renaissance in the 1500s.

In that time, people believed they knew everything there was to know. They thought the Earth was at the centre of the solar system - and possibly the universe - until the Copernican revolution; they thought the Sun and planets and stars orbited the Earth in 'spheres' and perfect circles (hence the expression: 'music of the spheres'); they thought the stars had a bearing on destiny; they thought mental illness was caused by demonic possession (the usual 'cure' was to drill a hole in the afflicted's head through which the demon would pass); they thought that comets were portents highlighting God's wrath at the sinful multitudes (or possibly highlighting the imminent downfall of certain kings - as happened in 1066); they believed they were made in God's image out of dust; they believed women were inferior and infidels should be held as slaves and chattel.

I don't think I could get up in the mornings with the knowledge that some deity might hold a definite plan for my life. I don't think I could get up if I thought that everything was known and that there were no more triumphs to be had. I don't see how Christians can get up in the mornings with their short-sighted, stunted views on reality.

I don't see how Christians can assume to have definite knowledge on the cosmos and its origin, and the origin of man. I don't think I could get up assuming the world is 6,013 years old and that the Renaissance was a bad thing. I don't think I could get up if I were to believe that women are subordinate and that certain peoples can rightly and justifiably be held as slaves. I don't think I could get up if I were a Christian. My current awe at the beauty of nature would be expunged and replaced with a numbing, dogmatic nothingness. The beauty of evolution and its tangible and delicate dancings through time would be gone. If I were a Christian, there would be nothing more to live for. If I were a Christian, I would follow the teachings of Christ.

A short polemic against school uniforms.

2009-10-24T14:13:00.008+01:00

You might think it an odd topic - and possibly a marginal one - but I have several things to say on the subject of secondary education. Every year, hundreds of thousands of primary school children are shipped off to their new state indoctrination centres to learn single, national accounts of history - in other words, they're taught to be able to justify things Britain has done in its past.

In primary school, the uniforms are usually incredibly twee and cute - crisp cotton shirts with large collars, woollen or cotton jumpers with the school emblem emblazonded on the breast, and, invariably, neat black trousers and clunky leather shoes (my trousers invariably had holes in them around where my knees would sit).

In secondary school, the uniforms are often more casual - I never wore a school jumper or a blazer; I'd usually trade it for a jumper, a plain hoody or a rain coat. Also, black trainers (or white ones for the next generation of thugs) are usually the choice footwear of today's children.

I haven't got to my point yet and I don't intend to labour it, but my point is this: why should school children have to wear uniforms? In my view, they shouldn't. School uniforms encourage children to look and act the same - they're already encouraged to think the same.

Certain subjects are essential: English grammar should be taught in English classes, maths should be taught proficiently, and so should science. English literature is also important - as is History - but I think it's second to the former subjects. The most important faculty any child should possess, though, is the ability to think critically; it's not enough to be able to read words on a page and understand, roughly, a given point or argument - children should be able to scrutinise rigorously what they read.

So, should children wear uniforms? No. Uniforms encourage uniformity - go figure! - and homogenisation. Individuality should be the only message inculcated into children. We need a next generation of adolescents capable of critical thinking who can detect and scrutinise the mistakes of their elders. It seems our educational system is failing. Perhaps it's time parents took the initiative. Is this or is this not a democracy?

Female circumcision.

2009-10-23T17:55:00.003+01:00

Over 80 million Christian women in the Third World have had their clitorises forcibly removed in order to reduce sexual stimulation (and thus 'prevent' them from commiting adultery). Women who suffer this custom often succumb to chronic infection problems (as well as social disorders (and lameness in general)). Here's a video detailing this most horrific custom:

On last night's Question Time.

2009-10-23T13:14:00.005+01:00

Last night, over eight million people tuned in to watch Question Time - four times its usual audience. The media storm surrounding Nick Griffin's appearance had whipped up much interest.

Many of the audience and panel's questions were directed at Mr Griffin, and, in answering them, his responses were flummoxed and came across as being desperate. (He also often failed to answer questions relating to stances he'd taken up in his past.)

Quotes about his party's evocations of Churchill and Hitler were put to him - many of which he denied saying - and he was also asked to justify comments he made at an American political rally at which the former head of the Ku Klux Klan was present.

He is believed to have said that his party would conceal their true nature until election time and dupe in members of the British public by using 'saleable' words such as 'freedom', 'democracy' and 'identity' (identity being a euphemism for race to him). He also said that he hoped to achieve control of the BBC if elected. Mr Griffin denied saying these things (despite the fact that one can hear him say them in a short Youtube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=04QolIvfQEw).

On the show, he disparaged Muslims and said that 'if Churchill were alive, he would be a member of the BNP.' He also disparaged Jack Straw's father (a conscientious objector during WW2 who was imprisoned), saying that his own father flew in the Royal Airforce.

At one point, he insinuated that 'indigenous' British people have been on this isle for 17,500 years - despite definite knowledge that the first Britons were Picts (a Celtic tribe who were present here some 4,000 years ago and were driven westwards by the Romans) and the Angles and Saxons didn't arrive until around 500 AD.

He also insinuated that his party stands for 'traditional, British, Christian values'. I wonder whether the admonition 'Do not judge, lest ye be judged' means much to Mr Griffin?

Although it's fair to say an unfair amount of time was spent probing Mr Griffin's beliefs and politics, I think such probing was a justified and necessary evil. He's a sickening character and I think he showed his willingness to deceive the public fully last night.

As of midday today, he has stated that he is due to lodge a formal complaint to the BBC for his 'unfair' treatment, and he has also challenged Jack Straw and David Cameron to formal debates.

I sincerely hope that no more platforms will be granted to him. I agree with Peter Hain that it might now appear to BNP enthusiasts that his party is as legitimate as any other major party purely because he's been allowed to take part in formal, televised debate.

His politics are disgraceful, deceitful and fascistic (and technically illegal because of his party's refusal to allow ethic minorities membership), and he deserves no recognition. I think we've all seen him for the callow, hollow, callous man he is. I hope sensible people will not identify with his claims about being treated unfairly. Sympathising with him would be playing right into his hands.

Creation.

2009-10-08T17:44:00.008+01:00

This afternoon, out of sheer chance, I remembered that Creation is still being shown in cinemas. (For those of you who don't know - or might be fooled by the title - it's a biopic of Charles Darwin and his grand theory of evolution - the theory of which changed for ever the image of man within the cosmos.)

Upon looking around, though, I've found no cinemas in Brighton that are showing it - not even The Duke of York's Picturehouse. I'm thoroughly disgusted that fear and monetary sensibilities go before educational value in this country. Even if the picture were to have some inadequacies or bad character acting I'd still see it.

My faith in the secular nature of my country has been slightly shaken and I'm left feeling perturbed and dispeptic, with the odd taste of bile hanging around in the back of my throat.

Chicken.

2009-10-07T19:11:00.003+01:00

Why did the chicken cross the road? Because it was paid twenty pounds to fulfil the punch line of a very poor joke.

Patton Oswalt - Sky Cake.

2009-10-07T17:37:00.001+01:00

A link to Charlie Brooker's Gameswipe.

2009-10-06T15:21:00.003+01:00

After browsing through last night's late-night programming, I came across Charlie Brooker's newest series: Gameswipe (which I wasn't even aware of until last night). Here's the link: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00n1j8q/Charlie_Brookers_Gameswipe/

Lenny Bruce: All Alone.

2009-10-05T16:01:00.002+01:00

Wormwood.

2009-10-05T13:00:00.003+01:00

My heart is the wormwood
To your worms.
The soft fibres make
A tasty treat for your termites.

I left my heart unconcealed
In the rain,
Like the fallen trunk
Of a once-great oak.

I'm so easily consumed;
The first fallen leaf of autumn -
Always the litter;
Never the growth.

I don't know what I am anymore.
I don't know what I am.
I'm a pliable putty
Hoping love will deform me.

I woke up this morning,
Borne in a whirlpool of understanding,
And saw you naked -
Even though you were fully clothed.

Five jokes.

2009-10-05T00:33:00.012+01:00

My girlfriend's into anal sex... she's very frigid and very rarely does anything other than missionary.

My dog's a detective. The other day, a local pet shop was broken into and some dog merchandise was stolen. Upon investigating the scene, my dog was asked by the shopkeeper: 'So, are you any the wiser yet?' To which my dog replied: 'No: we've no leads yet; we've yet to collar anyone.'

Why did the nigger cross the road? To get away from you, you fucking bigot. You disgust me.

My father often tells me I'm a terrible bastard. Apparently, my elder brother - who was also conceived outside of wedlock - is a much better one.

There's an indoor swimming pool in my town one can go to that re-creates the conditions of night swimming during the day-time.

A story about a young boy.

2009-10-04T14:23:00.007+01:00

The afternoon of the event is as hazy in my mind as the memory itself. It was a sunny afternoon. It might have been May. I think I was nine or ten years old.

On the afternoon in question, several of my friends - kids I hung around with who also picked their noses and scabs - beat up a boy in the year below me. When they were found out, they said that I'd been involved, too.

We were lead to the headmaster's office. His name was Mr Marshall. He was of Welsh stock. He had white-haired knuckles; thick, black hair, and a booming, baritone voice. He was a traditional disciplinarian. I sat outside his office terrified. I felt abandoned, and ashamed of myself for being such a helpless child.

I faced the wall outside his office and started to cry. He was motioned out by our school's kindly secretary, Mrs Smith - I think she was fucking the lollipop man with the screwy eye.

He started to scold each of us. 'Don't cry! Don't you all feel sorry?' He loomed over us. He approached me: 'What are these crocodile tears, boy?' I can't remember what happened next but I was suspended for several days. I was collected - I can't remember by whom - and I remained silent.

This must've happened on a Friday, as the first time I said that I'd not been involved was at my nan's house - I always used to stay with her on weekends. When I told her - on Saturday - she called me daft and, although she had a cold presence, she cared deeply for me. She was, more or less, a surrogate mother who'd take me every weekend 'til I was ten or eleven years old.

My nan made some calls. On Monday morning, I sat in Mr Marshall's office and told him I'd had no part in it (in the shyest, mousiest kiddie voice I could muster). He looked at me, puzzled, and couldn't wipe the quizzical look from his face. The boy who'd been beaten up was called in and sat down next to Mr Marshall. 'Was he involved in the fight?' he asked the boy. After several seconds - an infinity to a child - he said: 'No, sir.'

'Okay,' Mr Marshall replied. 'You're free to go.' As I left the room I was silent and had an odd smirk splashed across my face. In retrospect, I wonder what Mr Marshall felt as I left the room. A girl, Amy Austyn, asked me why I took the bullet. I didn't know then; I don't know now - through fear of social reproach or fear of Mr Marshall? Maybe. They weren't even my friends: they were just kids who came to my birthday parties and whose birthday parties I attended. Amy's got a kid now. God knows what happened to Mr Marshall - he left for retirement in 2000.

It's been a long time....

2009-10-04T00:08:00.013+01:00

It's now October, and autumn is upon us. Halloween is due shortly, and the Brighton Comedy Festival is soon to be under way. To usher in this new month, I've decided to write a post which encompasses several things. I'll begin....

First, I have a few words to say on the popular and persistent confusing of the words fewer and less. Less applies to uncountable nouns; fewer to countable nouns. You're probably feeling slightly nonplussed right now, so I'll clarify the point. If a noun can be counted, use fewer: I have fewer inhibitions than him; five items or fewer. For uncountable nouns, use less: I have less hope now; I take a bit less sugar in my tea, thanks.

Second, I have a few words to say on gerunds and participles. They're both altered forms of verbs. Gerunds are verbs that have been inflected and function as nouns, whereas participles are verbs that have been inflected and function as adjectives. For example:

Gerunds: skiing, baking, sewing, knitting, running, jogging - the suffix -ing has been added to change these verbs into nouns.

Participles come in two forms: present and past and usually come at the end of clauses or sentences. For instance:

Past: Jim was sleeping; he was robbed a few days ago; Jim has just arrived;
Present: Jim will be arriving any minute; he's a dying man; I'm leaving now.

As a rule, past participles end in the suffix -ed and present participles end in the suffix -ing. Sometimes, a participle can cause ambiguity if left in the wrong place and becomes what's known as a dangling participle. For instance, in the sentence whilst walking back home, a car knocked me over it seems as though the car is walking back home - which is impossible, of course. In cases such as this, the sentence should be re-written - the former sentence should read: a car knocked me over as I walked back home or whilst I walked back home, a car knocked me over.

Third, I have a few words to say on the word thanks (or the phrase thank you). Thank you should be used for occassions in which gratitude is to be expressed sincerely. If a mailman hands you your post, you might thank him. But why? He's just doing his job; he hasn't gone out of his way to help you - if he were to give you twenty pounds and some German pornography you might thank him. And if you ever receive marketing calls, the person on the other end will blather on indefinitely about inane products and interject several times with the odd thanks or thank you for waiting (or - God forbid - good-good). Such usage is spineless and insincere, and it sickens me. In the same vein, the word sorry is used excessively these days. I no longer find myself saying excuse me any more, but rather sorry - as if I'm a perpetual inconvenience (alongside every other person on this planet).

Fourth, I'd like to address another lexical confusion: the difference between artist and artiste. An artist is one who expresses something in a way that transcends normal experience (through language or physical expression or painting); an artiste is a cheap entertainer.

Finally, I want to touch on the subject of death - specifically death in the military and police. When one conscripts into the army or police force one understands the dangers one might face, and yet every time a person in, for instance, Afghanistan dies we're told it's a tragedy. It isn't. Civilian deaths are tragedies - as they're unprecedented and can't be accounted for. It might be tragic if a serviceman were shot in a post office by a disenfranchised postal worker, though. If you're in the army, carrying a gun around in some other schmuck's country, you'd better expect some shit. And if you die, don't expect any tears from me; if you don't want to get shot or blown up by an IED, stay the fuck out of Afghanistan.

A musing on the programme 'The View'.

2009-09-10T18:19:00.004+01:00

The View should be renamed A View, because that's all it is - a view (or a series of views presented by women). If it were an actual view, I doubt it would be very clear - it'd be cloudy out and all the scenic beauty would be obscured by dense fog.

Also, the English version of the programme - Loose Women - is so called because each of the presenters has had too many children for their own good.