News in Brief

Everyone made a great fuss over Paul Newman, but did you know that the supposed 'nice guy' of Hollywood actually committed a series of bank robberies with an outlaw by the name of the 'Sundance Kid'?

From the journals of Dorothy Wordsworth

July 25th: Failed to get out of bed this morning. Finally emerged at 4.30 p. m. o'clock. Wm. busy transcribing a conversation with a cowherd that had taken place the previous afternoon.

July 26th: Incident with a hard-boiled egg, Wm. was unaccountably angry. Baked a pie. Ate said pie. Sate quitely for a while. Wm. drank heavily and raved. Turned in a little after ten.

July 27th: Found a pustule on the underside of my foot. I forget what became of it. Wm. wrote another ghastly exemplum for young siblings.

July 28th: Walked in the afternoon near a stone wall. Found a jackdaw, lately mauled by a badger. Wm. much amused.

July 29th: A drowned cow washed up by the onion patch. Ignored a tramp, cuffed a stray infant. Must go into town and throw up in the apothecary's window-box.

Untitled, apparently

I recently had a free weekend, and decided to take a trip up to visit an elderly maiden Aunt of mine, who lives a life of genteel poverty in the wilds of Northumbria. I got on the train and opened a small cask of amontillado and an attache case full of periodicals. As we headed north the scenery grew progressively more rugged and dreadful, and train itself suffered a sad and progressive change, from the shining modern conveyance I had first boarded to a clanking diesel monstrosity that grew more shabby and stained as time went by, electric light fading to gas, until it disappeared altogether and left me standing on the tracks with my attache case in my hand and the firkin of sherry empty on the ground, as night closed in fast around me. I had little choice but to shoulder my burden and proceed along the line northward. Eventually I came to a small and ramshackle hamlet. My arrival was greeted with the barking of dog, and a man clad in clerical collar and tricorn hat poked his head out of a doorway.
'Yeel be warnting a roum for tha nicht' he stated, in a grotesque dialect unfamiliar to my ears. I answered with ready enthusiasm.
'Please, if you would be so good.'
'Yeel be needin ta goo oop ta tha Abby for tha' he cackled, pointing a horny finger toward the dark Gothic spire which loomed on a crag over the village.
I hied my way toward the landmark with trepidation, and smote thrice on its heavy oaken door. Judge of my surprise when the door swung open, without the hint of groan, to reveal none other then Lord Mandelson, dressed in a v-neck jumper and ermine robes. I explained my predicament, and in no time at all he had ushered me in and sat my in front of the fire in a fluffy dressing gown with a beaker of sprightly young burgundy by my side. The Baron, I noticed, preferred a rather darker and frothier vintage, which ran in sticky rivulets down his chin as he greedily supped. His furniture was simple and tasteful, of a modern style, made almost exclusively of brushed aluminium. I asked expressed my admiration.
'Oh yes' he said, 'they were the gift of a friend. I had to pay the import duty of course, but the tariffs were surprisingly reasonable.'
He stood up and walked over to a large and bubbling cauldron. I followed, eager to see what could be afoot. As he cast his taloned hand over the liquid, the surface became at once lucid, and I was able to see, within the depths, a remarkable vision of the Tory Headquarters. David Cameron and Boris Johnson were stripped to the waist, though with their white ties still round their necks, and they had large cigars in their mouths. They were holding Gideon Osborne by his ankles and banging his head on the floor.
'What do you have to say for yourself?' cried Mr Cameron.
'I neither requested nor received money!' ejaculated the unfortunate Osborne, only to receive a renewed drubbing against the floorboards.
'Stamp on his face! Pull his ears!' squealed an excited Michael Gove from corner, where he was standing with Johnson and Cameron's respective coats in his hands.
'I, I, I'm very sorry for an error in judgment!' stammered out Osborne. The Tory twosome dropped him to the floor.
'Now get out' growled Johnson, his usually warm feature contorted with malice and port, and Osborne fled the room under a hail of champagne bottles.
Back in Northumblerland, Lord Mandelson again ran his hand across the surface of the liquid, and the scene faded into opacity.
'It looks like 2009 will be a good year' opined the Baron quietly.'

Long live the Krugerrand

In these times of heightened financial uncertainty which is justly dethroning the dom Engels from their ivory tower of Capitalism. Perhaps the world will use recent events to reflect on its dangerous addiction to fiat currency.

With the contingent threat of inflation and forgery, I advocate the return to a more stable form of tender. The humble gold coin- more specifically the Krugerrand. Weighing in at approximately 1oz, just one of these coins at today's prices would purchase exactly 380 pork pies from Tesco. It is both portable and beautiful, bearing the image of our great leader, Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger (Paul Kruger).

Widespread use of the krugerrand would usher in an era of stability and peace not seen since Calvin Coolidge

Morbidity

It was the first Monday of the week, there being several dotted around just to trip one up. With some trepidation I made my way to the Harley Street "Wellness" Clinic. It caused me no end of panic on my way there; that they had slowly shifted the term from "Medical" to "Wellness"- not simply the absence of illness but a positive state of good health. It seems unfair that they should raise the bar so, but unfortunately I do not make the rules (rest assured, doctors will be first against the wall when the revolution comes).

I was slightly disappointed to find my check-up was to be supervised by a nurse as opposed to a doctor. Somebody had paid good money for this and I felt short-changed. She took me through a series of grueling tests, extracting blood and urine. I was then informed that my body's ability to react to cardiovascular stress would be tested. The nurse claimed this would involve me lying down with a heart rate monitor attached to my navel, followed by zestful stimulation at some random moment. I feared she would pull a Smith & Wesson on me while I was forced to sprint on a treadmill. No firearms were brandished but I did have to jump off the bed in the most alarming fashion.

Simultaneously great swathes of data were being collected by an angry IBM in the corner of the room. This personal information will, no doubt, be passed on to the highest bidder in some dingy underground cock-fighting ring to Nigerians so they can manufacture my biometric details.

When the battery of terrifying and emasculating tests had reached their conclusion I was ushered towards the computer which began spitting out red warning signs. My anti-oxidants were decent enough but I was "high risk" for pretty much everything else.

The nurse told me I would be stumbling into my thirties with diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure and possibly cancer. This is surely the moment where they would cross-sell me a weekend at their all-inclusive spa. No spa offers came. Instead some vague exercise routine was scrawled on the back of a "Wellness" pack and I was given a bottle of water, a granola bar and a banana. I was then shoved out into the street, index finger still bleeding from the blood test.

I thoroughly recommend that all Post-Newt readers remain blissfully ignorant and stay away from medicine.

On a cheery note, I hear Dogtooth is roaming around the Pembrokeshire coast with a sack full of billiard balls looking for theists. Good luck, they're fast.

I rather enjoyed this

I stumbled upon this link and decided that it is best of fight fire with fire.

So, here, I will attempt to explain how to create a synthetic asset. Let's say we wish to make a copy of a share in Exxon Mobil- that is a security that mirrors the risk and return of Exxon Mobil shares.

Call the current market price of Exxon stock p.

Create a derivatives contract which includes:
1. The "right to buy" several Exxon shares in three months time at price p
2. The "obligation to buy" several Exxon shares in three months time at price p
The money we will make from selling at step 2 pays for our activities in step 1, the net cost is zero

What we are left with is a security that has cost us nothing but must correlate to the price movements Exxon shares because in three months time it will unavoidably be exchanged for Exxon Stock. In the meantime it is an asset with a market value which can be traded

I am sure this is the most boring entry yet to be published on Post-Newt. However when one considers the Socialist Youth of Scotland, it seems just right.

The Rocky Road to Hotspur Gardens

We had gathered for an evening in the Gunsmith's Arms, Dogtooth, Porter, Silver Dollar Jim, The London Prodigal and myself: the whole grim crew. Beer was drunk and perennial fag stump in Silver Dollar Jim's mouth wrapped us all, along with the other inhabitants of the garden, in a smoke fug so thick that I could hardly make out my hand in front of my face. Inevitably I missed the last train home.
It was long after midnight and I was well south of the river, both literally and metaphorically. Judge of my delight therefore, when I saw a taxi cab making its way down the street toward me, with its light on. I stuck out my hand and flagged down what was almost certainly the last operating cab between Brixton and Hammersmith. I stepped inside, but as I pulled the door shut after me I felt a fleeting presence, and a slight coolness, as though a shadow had run briefly over me on a hot day. Ignoring it, I turned to the taxi driver and said "Hotspur Gardens please. Number 17" - this being my address. The cabbie nodded in assent, and we moved off. I looked out of the window idly, but i was pulled from reverie by a smug, disagreeable voice. "My suggested stategy for this cab is that it should go to Westminster." I looked up and was shocked to see prepubescent machiavellian David Miliband sitting opposite me.
"Piss off, you ankle-biter" I cried out in the ringing tones of the righteously angry "this is my cab." Miliband smiled blandly, and slung his jacket over his shoulder (a difficult maneuver for one seated in a cab). "If this cab were to go toward Westminster it would collect a larger fare for the journey, as well as leaving itself in a more advantageous position to pick up a new fare from there onwards, not to mention being liable to receive a large tip from a certain politcian seated in its passenger area."
"Yes, but it's my cab" I cried in frustration. The smile did not falter on Miliband's lips, though I noticed that he was not quite making eye contact with me, and did not appear to have registered my words. "I'm merely stating a possible direction for this cab to go in" he remarked, directing his words toward the driver rather than me. At this point I lost all patience, and threw him bodily out of the cab.

A wise man once said...

“Cash is King”. At the time of this timeless utterance I was hunched over my desk, gracefully sweating into an old Boden’s catalogue, a piece of Snus tight against my gums and a pipe jutting out of my mouth. I looked up. I drawled in reply,“Yes, you are quite right, cash is king. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee is for closers”, he retorted obviously offended by my altruism. He then proceeded to beat an underperforming salesman with a sock full of pennies. Between the thuds and screams for help and cups of tea I managed to finish my morning reading, halting to occasionally re-pack my pipe.

Lunch was usually delivered by a catamite with a filthy smirk, but news soon arrived that he had failed to return from a board meeting. Alas today I would have to venture out of the office. I entered the automatic lift and impatiently pushed “G”. Two floors down I was accosted by a broker who had just entered. He was muttering the prices of call options into his open bottle of shine. Once he reached the price of a Bear Stearns call with a strike of twenty he looked up, eyes ajar, lips moist with drink and promptly flew into a maniacal rage about moral hazard and the “evil” spectre of Chinese accounting standards. “Cheap money, cheap money” he screamed. Frustrated with his line of reasoning I grabbed him by his collar and slapped him about the face with my now crumpled Boden’s catalogue. My action had the desired effect as he slumped to the floor and began talking to himself again in a slow comforting misery.

Relieved to be out of the lift I re-packed my pipe and made my way to Patriot’s, the best soup kitchen in The City. Upon my arrival I looked with exasperation at the usual forty man pinstripe queue. Three Nigerian hard bodies were ladling out slops of onion gruel into expecting tin bowls. I took a great swell from my pipe and headed towards the back.

In front of me was a beautifully tanned, gaunt Arabian wearing a Muttoner & Plum silk shirt and a Versace tie. He tilted his head as I approached. On seeing my face his eyes lit up with suicidal depression. “Jim! Silver Dollar Jim”, he cried. His curled lips exposing doglike teeth. Realising escape from this corporate warzone was now impossible, I hastily pronounced, “Good Morning Faisel, how does the day greet you?”

He paused for a while, making a point of leering at passing tourists. Then began a ten minute diatribe, “Never better. I’ve spoken to my trainer we feel it is time to change to a fully cardio workout. You see I have been steadily losing weight… I can’t deny the shortages haven’t helped… but you see when the margin call bastards came knocking… Last week I killed a beggar for reading the Wall Street Journal. If I had known he was head of equities at Lehman I would have offered him a lick of my salt cube, but alas, fate has brought his career to a quizzical end. You know he was slated for the board? Did I tell you that Hamilton Capital has moved into paper profit as most of the back office staff have either perished or taken flight?” He bowed his head for a moment. I took the opportunity and sprinted all the way back to the office.

My entrance was, it seemed, well timed. The wise man was breaking in his new five wood at the expense of one of the interns. Unshaken I returned to my desk, re-packed my pipe and opened Boden’s to the accessories section.

A bit of a misunderstanding

The Gunsmith’s Arms was closed this weekend. A brisk, executive notice stapled to the lintel above the door attested to this fact, informing arriving hopefuls that the sudden closure was owing to the shabby, putrid state of some of the more bibulous locals, whom the pub management had taken it upon themselves to refurbish. Strange, odourless smoke seeped out from the unmended cracks in the windows; so Hamilton and I made our way to the Muted Slughorn for an iced grapefruit and warm Scotch. We had been settled for some time when I mentioned I’d spent the afternoon browsing the website of a firm of London actuaries. Hamilton looked exasperated by the confession and I quickly explained that my attention had been held by the ‘site’s life expect-ometer, an engrossing facility that generated an average life expectancy for every UK postcode. I had discovered that at my present address, I could reasonably aspire to 2.3 years longer than the national average, but less than half a kilometre down the road, that expectation dropped by more than 18 months. Naturally, I continued, I had resolved never to leave the house again for fear of becoming suddenly and statistically vulnerable. Hamilton seemed to be on the point of proffering some tiresome counter-argument when I raised my hand and hissed at him to be silent: in the far corner of the bar we could just make out the bare-bottomed, leatherclad form of F1 supremo Max Mosley, weeping into a tumbler of Rannoch Farm malt. 'You sir,' exploded Hamilton from across the room, 'have borne witness, and enjoyed for your own part, one of the finest, most seminal legal resolutions of the decade. Pull yourself together!' On closer and more sympathetic enquiry, it transpired that the saucy litigant, being poorly versed in the language of the bench, had been frenziedly excited by the prospect of 'punitive damages', and sorely disappointed by the reality. By way of compensation I offered to buy him another whisky and knock out several of his front teeth. He accepted gladly and, afterwards, ran off giggling into the dusky evening.

A weak pun

I made that old error, decried in the work of every philosopher in the Western and Eastern cannons: I got myself a job. Today has been my first day. I dressed in my best, and only, suit, polished my shoes and was into the office no less than 20 British minutes early. As I began my to perform the many small and harmless tasks I had been given I felt glowing with health. My mind began to dwell upon the money I was accumulating. What would I do with it? Would I buy a sandwich with lunch, or a pint after the working day was done? Perhaps I should book a holiday, or put in an order for a new BMW 3 series. I began to be concerned. I was only employed for six days, how would I keep up with the payments? I worked harder, eager to earn a long term contract so as I could continue with the spending that I imagined I would become used to. By 11am I was sweating and shaking with stress, as the weight of my responsibilities and financial burdens began to press down on me. I worked harder, but I became even more worried. I felt a tightness in my chest, and a jagging pain in my arm and side. An ambulance was called, and by 12.30 I was lying in a hospital bed.
'Doctor' I moaned pitifully 'am I going to die? I wish I had spent less time at the office!'
'Don't be silly', he reassured me 'you just seem to have come down with a mild case of Affluenza. You are clearly more susceptible than most. I'm putting you on a course of broad spectrum Monbiotics. Take two daily, with a copy of the Guardian and a cup of herbal tea.'
I think perhaps I will take next week off...

Voila

Wikipidlings

Did you know that there is a religion Vietnam which venerates Victor Hugo. There is. Also, did you know that Celtic Punk is going through a second golden age in Serbia. You are in for a treat.

Max Mosley Update:
The London Prodigal and myself were tucking into gin backed stouts with ribena tops and sambuca chasers in the Gunsmith's arms, when he leaned in conspiratorially: "In a couple of hours I'm going to meet my dealer". I expressed surprise, as I have never known TLP to take any form of narcotic other than his beloved liquor. "No you fool" he scoffed "I mean my cigar dealer". It transpired that my drinking companion had been paying a fortune to have Cuban cigars shipped to him by a shadowy cabal of tobacco dealers. It was only tentatively that I ventured the information that Cuban cigars were not illegal in Britain. As might be imagined this cast a pall over the evening, and we sunk into a gloomy silence. I would have been grateful for any distraction, so I was nothing less than delighted when disgraced F1 boss Max Mosley walked into the pub. Pausing only to artfully catch the tip of his finger in the door he strode up to the bar and ordered a small sherry. He drained it straight down, and ground the glass into his face. I sidled up to him, and expressed my sympathy for his recent troubles. He thanked me: "as you say, what I do in private is nobody's business". As he spoke he idly lit cigarettes and stubbed them out on his arm. "I don't force my activities in anybody's face" he said as pushed a toothpick into his left nostril. "And these accusations of Nazism are ridiculous. We masochists are a tolerant people, doesn't the name Oberhessischer Verein für Volksbildung mean anything anymore." Unfortunately at this moment the landlord re-entered the bar, and hearing the brief snatch of German clearly leaped to an unfortunate conclusion. He pulled out a heavy iron tent peg from under his apron and advanced threateningly toward the beleaguered whore botherer. "Get out of my pub, you filthy Nazi pervert" he shouted at Mr Mosley, who beat a sadly undignified retreat, crying out with alternate alarm and delight as the tent peg impacted around his buttocks and thighs.

Siempre es 26

J.K Rowling's boy wizard wasn't the sum total of our conversation in the Gunsmith Arms; in fact much more time was spent discussing Dogtooth's attire. After being kept waiting, Hamilton and I had expected him to eventually turn up in his familiar donnish guise, instead we were confronted by quite a spectacle: in strode Dogtooth with a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his midriff, with a prominent medallion nestling amongst his chest carpet. Upon being questioned about his appearance; he retorted rather stiffly that his medallion was in fact a family heirloom handed down to him by his Cuban grandfather and that tradition necessitated him to wear it. Unconvinced by his reasoning, our train of thought was nevertheless disrupted by the revelation regarding his eclectic heritage, which we had been hitherto unaware of. Hamilton took the lead, aggressively testing him on his 'Cuban' background, Dogtooth clearly irritated by this turn of events, stood up in the midst of Hamilton's latest verbal offensive, walked to the bar and demanded a Cuba Libre. Giving no explanation he returned to our table with his cocktail and proceeded to drink the entire concoction in one gulp. Once downed he eyed us with a rather manic grin, as if urging us to continue our cross-examination. Figuring that the act he had just performed was some sort of primitive method of affirming his Cuban roots and that provoking him any further might seriously imperil our well-being, I quickly changed the subject of the conversation to something less contentious; never to mention Cuba or medallions again.

Dennis Potter and the Singing Detective

Dogtooth and I were drinking with The London Prodigal in his cosy local The Gunsmiths Arms when I mentioned that I had yet the read the works of J.K. Rowling. Surprise was expressed, and I was quick to state that although I would rather like to read these books that everyone speaks so highly of, I was buggered if I was going to pay good money for them. Dogtooth, an avid fan, offered me the loan of his own Potter library. I have read the first three works, and have these preliminary observations.

1 - Harry Potter faints a lot. I haven't actually counted, but I imagine that he averages about 3.2 faintings per book. He and his chums also seem to spend a lot of their time in the sick bay.
2 - Although steeped in magic, the world of the Potter mythos seems to be largely nonreligious. If I found myself in the position of Harry, I think that I would have asked a lot more questions about the philosophical inferences which can be drawn from a complete explosion of modern scientific assumptions.
3 - The Castle of Hogwarts has a giant squid in its lake.
4 - These books seem to play on a desire present in most children to be an orphan with a lot of money.

Henry James: a retrospective

In 1896, Henry James began work on a new novel, The Transatlantic Political Marriage. The work was abandoned by James the following year, but the MS survived and, along with other of his extant notes and correspondences, was published in a volume of collected miscellany a few years after his death. The Post-Newt has been able to gain access to the unfinished MS, via a complicated network of cellars and subterranean passages, and is proud to give its readers an exclusive glimpse of the period at which, Leavis argues, James was ‘sweeping the cobwebs from the dustiest corners of his craft, hoovering up the discarded chocolate wrappers from the filthiest recesses of his mind.’ The passage below is also an eminent example of James’s famous gradually-closing manhole conceit.

The evening sun crept elegantly over the cobbled promenade. Emerald Castor had, by an artfulness of prevision not entirely unbecoming – were one to venture the least little bit activating the closely knitted brow of received feminine charm – in a lady of her aspect, though not altogether sensible of consequences as yet unremittingly hidden from her perfect scrutiny in all such matters, chosen, as she thought most felicitous at the present time, to screen her polished waxen calves from the albeit gentlemanly assault of the eventide rays by means of an antique printed Japanese parasol which had been left, sometime idle, to languish in an old armoire of her London apartments.
As she sortied the jeweller and stepped out onto the pavement, Jasper Stein, his plain boot-heels negotiating the cobbles underfoot, danced, beaming, into her path. For a dull moment as the evening drifted into silence, each stood motionless; his spats creased mischievously, delighting in a not unwholesome impartiality towards his interlocutress; her feline ankles wrinkled not indelicately as in subtle but rapturous reception of the intensity of her beholder’s gaze.
‘I could not think, Miss Castor,’ came a voice from somewhere locally but somehow loftily displaced, addressing, as it is to be presumed, the small velvet brooch-box displayed not inconspicuously in her left palm, ‘that such ephemera could command your attention long.’
‘Oh would you call it ephemera?’ our heroine wonderfully laughed, her white soles flinching penitently. ‘I had better thought it might outlive both you and I, dear Mr Stein.’
Darkness descended, though voices could still be discerned to ring out above and around; and it was a darkness at once so dreadful and exquisite that one could but know, in the full knowledge such darkness invites, that sight and sound and all appreciable experience would, finally, at last, here at the end of things, be incommunicable in the vast heart of that crushing dark.

Cartones

Inbox update

As the rolling prairie, wild woods and rugged mountains of untamed cyberspace (which stretch out beneath the vast azure complexity of the blogosphere) give way to the safe patchwork fields of social networking sites, you may see a column of smoke rising from the sleepy Hamlet of my email address (far away from the bustling metropolises of Yahoo and Google). It's a quiet place, but recently enlivened by a new missive - a selection of 'books' which Amazon thinks I may want, based on my last purchases. Do I want Top Gear Top Drives? I do not. What about Robbie Coltrane's B road Britain? Or 3 Para, Time Bomb, Cherie Blair's Autobiography, a children's book by Geri Halliwell, or Provided You Don't Kiss Me: 20 Years with Brian Clough? I do not want these things. It's all particularly perplexing, since all I have ever bought off Amazon has been a few volumes of poetry and an old copy of The Golden Bough.

I recently misinterpreted an email. 'What do the spammers of Lagos mean by sending me an e-mail of ornithological subject matter' I wondered to myself. Ignoring the warnings, I opened the message. I turns out that I had greatly misapprehended the word 'swallows'.

This was not in my inbox-

Not by E. E. Cummings

if) Springsomewhat,also-just; come before Fall
(con-joining the addversely-seezonal), So
then the hill,yesithink,it were white (as a) ball
&the tree they,Him,nailed to; encrusted by (snow

Whale Watch

Pilot Whales. They're rats of the sea you know. Not content with taking fish from the mouths of Japanese schoolchildren, these blubbery rascals have been copying their larger cousins and going after innocent squid. For too long we have tried to peacefully co-exist with whale kind. We have no more options. The hunt must begin. I'll be down at the wharves with Starbuck, Stubb and Fedellah.

In other squid news, scientists are defrosting the best specimen of Colossal Squid found so far.

The Newt has been following the Max Mosley scandal with a keen interest, and lately the plot has thickened. MI5, sexual perversion, Nazis, motorsport - can this story get any better?

Dogtooth is very fond of Rossetti. I can't imagine why.

Forecast: hand-cut, oven-roasted, lightly-salted, seal-packaged

Yesterday afternoon I received an angry phone call from the London Prodigal, telling me to book flights to Japan immediately. When I questioned the nature of the trip, he made some very rude remarks ('strumpetous, groin-dwelling bible salesman' was, I think, the Parthian shot) and hung up. At the time I was sitting in a bay windowseat of the Cary Grant, a pub that, ordinarily, only exists on a Thursday, but, in this case, had decided to make an exception. Shortly after this incident, a man touring with the Floridian Children's Disney Show sat down near me, and I spent the remainder of the afternoon telling him never to go to Spain.

Squif

not by Paul Muldoon

After a party which raised the rafters
And under a deluge of last weeks telly
I watched her drink down two pills of blue
Handrolled narcotic jelly.

We talked like two sturdy Tyrolean peasants, digging
Dogwood and Bog Rosmary, and cutting planks of ash
Into the exact shape and size of water-maybe
Which I shared with the dog, along
With a little food from the fridge
And slept like a baby.

Thing's have been rather slow for the last week or so...

Here are some cocktails for you to try:

Hangman's Blood - (Created by Anthony Burgess, this cocktail is much more trouble than it is worth.)
"Into a pint glass, doubles of the following are poured: gin, whisky, rum, port and brandy. A small bottle of stout is added and the whole topped up with Champagne... It tastes very smooth, induces a somewhat metaphysical elation, and rarely leaves a hangover."
Papa Doble - Ernest Hemingway's drink of choice. A Daiquiri with double the rum in it.
Hamilton's Encumbered Finesse - This drink was only mixed once, by me. I turned my back for a moment and it was seized and drunk by a passing spot welder.
1/4 gill antebellum rye whiskey
1/4 gill pastis
1 gill heavy water
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda.
The drink is served in a brandy snifter, with an anchovy over the rim and a chaser of carot juice

The prancing phantoms and ghosts of my rude forefathers

Up my, my family tree,
No blue blood, no nobility;
No trace of aristocracy -
Except for Uncle Sebastian
Who once raped a duchess.
My Family Tree - Jake Thackray

Unlike the stalwart Mr Thackray I cannot claim an ancestry untouched by privilege. In fact, I recently discovered that my distant predecessor the Honourable Charles Hamilton was no less a personage than the inventor of the ornamental hermit. Horace Walpole was dismissive of the idea, saying it was foolish to put aside a quarter of one's garden to be melancholy in. Pooh to the workaday doubters of this world! I shall be melancholy in as large a portion of my garden as I see fit.
The whole issue of ornamental hermits has been done to death, but I could not deny you the story of one charming personage, to be found in the pages of Edith Sitwell's English Eccentrics -
an unnamed amateur hermit possessed of twenty hats and twelve suits of clothes, each emblazoned with an allegorical device. Two of the best are the 'patent teapot: to draw out the flavour of the tea best - Union and Goodwill' and the 'Wash-Basin of Reform'. One hat even had four mottoes embroidered around it - 'Bless Feed', 'Good Allowance', 'Well Clothed', and 'All Working Men'. As Ms Sitwell remarks - 'you may imagine the sensation aroused by these aspirations expressed in millinery'. This individual lived in a large allegorical garden, in the middle of which hung an elaborate effigy of the Pope, and cultivated a long white beard. We shall not see his like again.

Another of my ancestors, the famous Anchovey Hamiltonne, preempted the Hermit craze of a later century by living for several months in the grounds of a nearby stately home, accosting visiting noblemen for money and neglecting to shave. He was beaten soundly by a local blacksmith, and ejected from the county. It is a terrible thing to be ahead of one's time.

Obama has accused Pennsylvanians of being bitter, and clinging to guns, god and racism. I hope that we see a lot more of this sort of no-punches-pulled campaigning back on British shores. Perhaps Brown could berate the lazy Mancunians, while Cameron makes a speech attacking duplicitous, gobby Cockneys and Clegg launches into a long overdue condemnation of of whiney, theiving Scousers. Anything to jumpstart real political debate, and get a few politicians egged.

The Newt holds hetrogenous views on guns and God, but is in full support of bitterness.

Robot Soldiers

According to this article in Al-Beeb, the US will introduce "robot" soldiers into combat within eight years.

Forgive me for dreaming, but I hope to eventually see a massive robot surge led by a heavily mechanised Gen. Petraeus.

'Scree at Cowthorpe' by Tod Pughes

After the frost-heaving,
Land is still.

Water waits,
Earth bides its time,
Sky chewing its fingernails.

Until the rock bleeds again its green sludge.

The scree is assembled by small goblins.
Maudlin pixies run to and fro.

The sun weeps like a bereaved Viking,
And all around
Chronic animals vomit over the bodies of dead herdsmen.

LTCM

Long Term Capital Management the hedge fund that famously 'blew up' in 2000 is more topical now than ever.

The below video shows the terrifying power of leverage(borrowing) in financial transactions. Once the mainstay of shamans and narcotic users, predicting the future is massive business in finance.
The latter half of the 20th century saw an exodus from academia to wall street where third rate physicists were tasked with building complicated models to predict the market. From the Black-Scholes options model to rational pricing, it seemed that man's power through mathematics was almost limitless.

Of course not every physicist/mathematician/'quant' was successful, but many on wall street believed large profits could be reliably realised through mathematical methods. As the video implies, ultimately markets reflect human behaviour- and this behaviour, often simplified as greed and fear, is ultimately unpredictable. These people never learn and as history gloriously repeats itself. Try to enjoy the ride and be glad your income is high enough(hopefully) not to be affected by the massive rise in food prices.

Parosetrie

The Spark Plug
(not by Seamus Heaney)

From a long time ago I remember
an ostensibly mundane object or event
let's make it a spark plug this time

(I looked up its name in Irish
in a big leathery book -
speouighbhellchoiughsh)

the curve and cylinder of it
filigreed with detail
and hard as a kitten's eye under a gas-lamp.

anyway, now it's a long time in the future
perhaps the very present
and that brassed intrusion

previously described
serves to in some way elucidate
my current situation.

You probably didn't know about this:

Jimmy Carter is filmed attacking a rabbit with an oar, yet somehow he's still thought of as a paragon of benevolence. Conspiracy theorists to work!

Charlton Heston
Was in at least one Western*
As well as playing Moses leading the Jews to the promised lands.
Anyway, the undertaker has taken the liberty of prising that gun out of Mr Heston's cold dead hands.


*the Western I am thinking of is The Big Country. He co-starred with Gregory Peck, and I once saw Peck asked about the film's significant homo-erotic undertones. The wooden-headed McCarthy-baiter smiled and softly replied 'please God nobody tell Charlton'.

If you aren't interested in Lamarckian evoloution you probably shouldn't bother reading this post

Dogtooth and I were in the taproom of the Cid and Aleph (a soulless chain pub we had been forced into by contingency) and the conversation was flagging. Suddenly Dogtooth seized one of my stray tentacles and tugged urgently upon it.
'Look' he hissed, 'isn't that disgraced Lamarckian biologist Paul Kammerer?'
'I don't see how it can be' I muttered, but he was already up and walking over. I followed a little way behind.
'You're Kammerer aren't you?' he said.
'I don't know this Kammerer you are talking about' said the accused party in a thick Viennese accent. I was ready to retreat at the sturdy rebuff, but Dogtooth pressed on, revealing a previously unsuspected streak of steel in his character.
'Yes you are, you fraudulent rascal. What happened, I thought you killed yourself?' The man sagged visibly in his seat.
'It's true. I am he. When my fraud was discovered I felt I had no choice but to shoot myself in the head with a pistol. There, according to scientific orthodoxy, it should have ended. However, a few days later I woke up with a cracking headache in a small wooden box. As I lay there in my coffin my mind worked furiously, and I remembered that my father had once been shot in the head in a hunting accident, but had survived thanks to receiving excellent medical attention. Clearly he had acquired an ability to survive shots to the head, and passes it on to me. I cried out loudly, and the strength of lung which my mother had acquired while shouting at passing traffic stood me in good stead. A wandering onion seller heard my cries, and dug me up. I escaped from an Austria in turmoil, and settled in South London. I have lived in secret until this moment.'
'You say you acquired a resistance to being shot in the head?' I asked. 'By what mechanism?'
He didn't seem to have any answer to this, and we were in the verge of walking away in disgust, when who should walk in but Karl Jung.
'What a coincidence' Dogtooth remarked.

'Has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty'...?

Ben Macintyre is fed up with ugly science running its warty pustulent fingers all over nice friendly ancient mysteries. 'The myth of Stonehenge,' he explains, 'may be more powerful even than science.' It is possible that the true nature of Stonehenge may elude excavations, but that does not excuse a lot of Romantic gibberish about the death of the imagination. It is a feeble imagination in the first place that cannot accommodate scientific enquiry.

Hamilton busts centuries-old racist myth

You no doubt think that the sandwich was invented by a white Christian English aristocrat. It's all lies. Kids, don't trust whitey.

Bookends

Thank Moses and his sometime-contentious little apostrophe for Private Eye! What a blissful publication - providing, that is, that exposure to it is limited to once or twice a year, beyond which it strangely becomes very tedious very quickly. But were it not for a recent edition of Pseuds Corner (more potential apostrophe trouble for the incorrigible grammarian), only those sincere fools who actually read Pete Paphides's music review column in the Times would have been treated to this:

'Thom Yorke threw rave shapes into the light. Beaming its way forward like a speeding snowplough, a sublimely heavy 'Bodysnatcher' saw guitarist Jonny Greenwood oscillating between filigree fretwork and finger-shredding ectoplasmic scree.'

Proof, if ever it was needed, that any wanker with a thesaurus can be a rock critic. The unspeakable horror of music journalism cannot be overstated.

In related news, Morrissey is sueing NME for libel. For me, it's a win-win.

"The islands with all their minimum and lampblack"

"The islands with the vertebra of some Zeus."
Odysseas Elytis

I was reading Isaac D'Israelli's Curiosities Of Literature and I uncovered the charming detail that the expression 'bringing coal to Newcastle' has a Hebrew equivalent - 'to take olive oil to a city with many olive trees growing nearby'. Not as snappy as ours I feel, but it might make more sense in the original language. Other pleasing kickshaws from the same groaning table include the Chinese 'In a field of melons do not pull up your shoes; under a plum tree do not adjust your hat' and the Arabian saying 'the barber learns his art on the orphan's face'. Lest you get too carried away, there's a piece of stern, if somewhat oxymoronic wisdom to contend with in the dour Scots proverb 'wise men make proverbs but fools repeat them'.

In other non-news, I've been enjoying Madoc by Paul Muldoon. It's such a bloody wonderful mess I want to repeat the whole thing verbatim, but I'll exercise restraint, and just give you a couple of nice moments to tide you over as you rush headlong to the bookshop-

"[Archimedes]
Coleridge leaps out the tub. Imagine that."

" -Might the specter of Hamilton
playing a schottische

on his melodeon

of blood and guts and shit and piss
have been just enough to give Wilkinson a pause."

"All I have in the house is some left over
Squid cooked in its own ink
And this unfortunate cup of tea. Take it. Drink."

Post scriptoid

A footnote for the Mosley affair. Pious, self-appointed arbitrators of social acceptability (a.k.a. Guardian commentators) face an interesting decision this week. Do they side with the Jews or the perverts? These two erstwhile-discrete pursuits after moral equity are about to meet in the middle: either they defend, indiscriminately, the right to practise any form of sexual irregularity, provided it is legal and consensual (a Newtbook firm favourite at 5-4) or they defer to pressure from bolshy head-in-arse religious groups and censure an innocent man for enjoying a bit of imaginative, victimless sex in what he thought was the privacy of his own home. The Toynbees and the Buntings of this world could swing either way...

Odds and sods

Robert Maudsley looks like he might croak at any moment. In the meantime, I have been having my doubts about the capital's culture of gun-crime fear - do rising levels of gun ownership necessarily equate to rising levels of murder or assault? - but I have neither the inclination nor the wherewithal to emulate Hamilton's recent flair with facts and stats, so I'll let that one drop.

[Doesn't the foreshortening in this look a little strange - tiny legs...? No? Maybe not...]

I do, however, think we should try to resurrect the weregild, a measured system of criminal retribution that flourished in pre-mediaeval Scandinavia, if only to counteract this country's often hysterical attitude towards 'justice'. In other news, I've discovered a healthy crop of white-supremacist amateur poetry which I commend to you, dear reader, from the heart of my bottom. And if all else fails, you can always live as Sawney Bean did. All that is required is a restless libido and woman who shares your limited scope for employment and morality.

Nazi Sex!

Some people might find this new obsession with Max Mosley strange, but I'm tickled pink by the confident assertion that "fantasising about one of the greatest tragedies of the 20th century is obviously completely inappropriate.”

Many thanks to the Times for this list of historical reprobates. I'm particularly fascinated by the third Marquess of Waterford, who may have been the alter ego of Spring Heeled Jack, the Post Newt's cryptid of choice. If anyone finds this sort of thing interesting then I would advise them to look into Edith Sitwell's The English Eccentrics. It's a corker. I don't think enough people read Sitwell. Or Norman Douglas for that matter, or Thomas Lovell Beddoes, or Angus Wilson. But I digress.

Paris Hilton's 'music' is put out by Heiress Records. I liked the honesty of that so much that I've decided to start a publishing house called Unreadable Vanity Published Arsewipe.

I really dropped the ball on this one

Good heaven's, look at muggins here blathering on about Balaclavabollocks while Mosley's son engages in Nazi themed orgies. I feel like a prize lemon. Still, it seems a bit cruel of everyone to yell at the poor chap for what sounds like a fairly embarrassing and expensive (£2,500 apparently) sexual predilection. Do we think that that this might have anything to do with the events of his early childhood, what with being separated from his parents and told that they were reviled fascists who he should be ashamed of? No, of course not, he is a horrible racist and should be punished for performing a consensual and private sex act, but not in any way the pervert might enjoy. What I'm personally interested in is how the video got out. If you are a prostitute specialising in Nazi themed S&M it seems that without discretion you don't have much of a business model.

Ephemera

I don't know how my fellow Newtists feel, but I doubt there is much love for Tennyson among us. I like his 'nature red in tooth and claw' but I always find his metre a bit shoddy for such an infamous tinkerer. However, although I'm not a particular partisan of 'The Charge of the Light Brigade, I couldn't resist giving you the fruits of some idle wikipidelling: a number of less famous works of art to emerge from Battle of Balaclava:
The Charge of the Heavy Brigade
The Trooper
The Charge of the Light Brigade (Richard Caton Woodville)Alfred reading TCOTLB in 'eminent Victorian' mode.
The Balaclava Hat
The Last of the Light Brigade
The Thin Red Line (Robert Gibb)
(It's actually not a bad painting I think. For the Woodville I can only apologise.)

Aboard the robust Post-Newt there has long been a broad base consensus that Dylanolatory is pretty unhealthy and deluded. Here is former a 'Yippie', the supremely unhealthy and deluded A.J. Weberman, with some revelations about the man himself. The Yippies seem to have been pretty loathsome as a group, so more on them later.

If anyone can find a video of Michael Power I will be forever in their debt.

Here's some Fuseli to get the taste of Woodville out of your mouth.

Monjoie! Marchons! Dieu le veut! Walloons!

I am returned from abroad. The continental sun has scalded by milky complexion and French food continues to disappoint. Every third car on the road was either Renault, Peugeot or Citroen: protectionism or blinding national pride? Who can say. I almost visited Laon cathedral, and then almost visited Clairvaux abbey, before stopping for lunch and almost finishing a motorway-cafe quiche Lorraine. The Belgians are still the most dangerous drivers on the Eurasian plate, the European currency is strong on the pound and the kilometre is down by .3 against the mile, making journeys across central Europe expensive but mercifully brief.

But what is it?

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/mpd/permalink/m1JG0D3G3XMYT8:m2TJVF2M6HKLIS

I've been working on a theory that there is a correlation between high suicide rates, popularity of chess and alcoholism, and the number of speakers of Uralic languages that a country has, and I had a look at the relevant data. Some interesting facts:

China is the only country where more women commit suicide than men, usually the ratio goes hugely the other way.

Commonwealth Caribbean countries have very low suicide rates, but Guyana, which shares with them a similar culture, ethic mix, background, history and climate, has one of the highest in the world.

Puerto Rico has almost half the suicide rate of the United States: perhaps potential immigrants should be warned about this.

The suicide rate in Lithuania is nearly forty times that in Azerbaijan.
Nobody seems to know how many Africans kill themselves. A lot? Very few? It's just too early to say.

I'm off to read Thomas Lovell Beddoes and drink Amaro Erbes.

Why I Miss The Fifteenth Century

Websites like this make me feel like a Venusian. I was barely even aware of the existence of a font called 'comic sans'.

Meanwhile, in Don DeLillo's sitting room:

Look forward to herring from you

When a passing reference to unusual or even perfectly ordinary food in a discursive historical essay tickles me to the extent that the details before and after dissolve in hopeless mirth, it's a sure sign that I am really too trivial to be reading history books in the first place. One such instance owes itself to the 'Norwich herring pie render', a duty thought to predate the Norman Conquest which the king would have collected annually as recently as 1816 when, presumably, the prince regent got drunk and tried to abolish Norwich - or so I like to think. The render is a fantastic concept in itself and an example of the sort of creative taxation which the Post-Newt would back to the hilt. Nevertheless, one wonders what was really vexing Charles I when his house-servants sat down to pen this series of irritable complaints:

A Young Person's Guide to Anglo-Saxon Poetry

My translations of Wendish seafaring discourses from the Anglo-Saxon are awaiting publication. The companies I have approached have been, alas, steadfast in refusal, and many have been quick to point out that both my style and subject are antique and irrelevant. One saucy fellow described my work as 'irredeemably at odds with the preferences of today's reading public.'

'Problem is, it's crap,' he added charmlessly. I think they are all quite wrong; in the meantime, it occurred to me that young people these days might take a dear pleasure in writing their own alliterative poetry, yet are inclined to hold this particular verse-form at a little distance. The narrator's CV in any Anglo-Saxon poem can seem a little daunting: most have fought/lost/been maimed in at least two full-scale epic battles; many have wandered the earth for an unaccountable period of time, meditating on their own terrible grief and physical discomfort; few have not buried most or all of their friends, lovers, liege-lords and family members; one or two even begin to show signs of critical mental illness.

Apart from the alliterative technique which is easily mastered, there is a fairly steady formula for Anglo-Saxon verse:

1) Choose your setting. There are only really three options open to you, which makes this a pretty painless choice. You can choose either a) the aftermath of a horrific battle or b) a small boat hopelessly lost miles out at sea or c) a dream in which the narrator converses with a valuable holy relic. All settings will compel the narrator to dwell diseasedly on dead companions and personal misery, so your choice will only have implications for your poem's scenery and decorative imagery.

2) Marshal your cliches. Here is a list of stock words and phrases that constitute the bulk of any Anglo-Saxon poem. Repetition of any or all of them should give your poem that sense of tedious, self-indulgent lamentation that is the trademark of all Old English verse: 'noble/brave/beloved kinsman', 'freezing waves', 'bitter sorrows', 'breast-cares', breast-companions', 'breast-chamber', 'miserable', 'grieving', 'far from home', 'generous lord', 'covered over with earth/snow/frost (or all three)'.

3) Leave room for considerable ambiguity in the text. This is not strictly a criterion of Anglo-Saxon poetry, or even of poetry in general, and prosecution of this advice will In No Way improve the quality of your (in most cases) decidedly amateurish poetry. However, years from now when the accidental series of events that constituted your life are scrutinised by the fickle vulture of posterity, your poems will receive greater attention and critical acclaim if they prove 'difficult'. See the poetry of William Empson for conclusive evidence that this is the case.

From the Diary of Anchovey Hamiltonne

I dide preapare mieselfe fore a fancie dresse partie, inne the mannere of a Bannannae, an afrik fruitte of some renowne. Itte was a pore partie, ande one manne was verie rude to mee. I rite this in a foulle moode.

Two can play at this game.

Ezra goes to the publishers

Harold Pinter: A visit to the Publishers

Isaac Hamilton's Curiosities of Literature

Extracts from the diary of Anchovey Hammiltonne
(Hammiltonne, an ancestor of mine, is undoubtedly the most minor of all the minor Elizabethans. His plays are well preserved, in good quarto and folio versions, but have been assiduously avoided by every literature department in the western world. The only exception is in France where he is considered the finest playwright of his day for reasons that French academics are unwilling or unable to divulge.)

March 02 1594
Wente too see Kyd, who is verey ille from a poxe whiche he caught offe a spanish whore. I declared itte to be a Spanishe Tragidee. Hea muste have been verrie ille, for he smilled not at the jeste. I wente home in ille tempre, but when I repeatted the jeste to mie courtesan she laughed verrie merrielie. I entered upon her with great haste. Afterwards I beat the eidle wontonne with my shoe, at felle asleape atte once.

March 03
Johnsonne has killed anothere mann, and no tavernne will give mee creditte. I wille go to visit Will Shaekespere.

March 04
Hadde a poore meal with Will. Only fisshe was served. I coulde notte understande why, and he woulde not telle me. Afterwards we went to the taverne. I drank greatly of sack, while Will tooke but littel. He seemed moste friendly withe a certaine Ethiopeianne servinge girle, and they exchanged much affecsionne at the tabel. We were home and in bedde earlie, but a greate hungere woake me fromme sleap. I creppte like a mowse to the kitchenne, and was shoakked to sea Mr Marlowe, who I hadde thoughte deade, eatinge heartily of breadde and wrighting atte the taebel. Itte seemes that a certainne madde Jesuitte seeks to kille Mr Marlowe as a spie. Shagespeare, who was the onlie manne to warne Mr Marlowe, offered his house as a refugge, untille the daunger should passe. Mr Marlowe has beene passing his workes to Sheeksbeare to bee performede. He askede mee with greatte eagernesse if I hadde seene hisse comeddie Titusse Andronicusse. I saidde no, but a plaiy of the same name bie Sheakspere had been moste popular. He looked most greene. We dranke much ale at the kitchenne, ande I retirede so drunkenne thate I trippelly befouled Master Will's seconde beste bedde.


Fig 1: The Frontispiece for Hammiltonne's final work - A Prettie Pottle Pot of Ha'Pennie Witte or I Hate Mye Bloodie Publisshere

Misery memoir fraud gets egg on face, mothers speak out, small children weep uncontrollably

Caveat emptor! The line between fiction and biography (auto- or otherwise) is one we should not fear to cross - at any time, without warning or respect for ordinary decency. Crappy hard-childhood memoirs are (to plagiarise Tom Lehrer - I don't think he'd mind) 'the particularly fashionable form of idiocy' among the young middle-class. Most people don't actually give money to charities, but they feel they're doing their bit to counter abuse, poverty and deprivation by reading about them in books and producing, on occasion, an earnest, charitable tear.

The only losers in the 'fraudobiography' debacle are those 'who associate authenticity with artistic merit'. If I thought it would boost sales, I would not hesitate personally to lay claim to all of the positive accomplishments of the characters in my books. Alas, when the best part of the subject matter comprises 8th-century Wendish seafaring exploits, the title Dogtooth: The Autobiography might arouse more than a little suspicion.

Chairman Mao: Hero of Harriet Harman

Chairman Mao, that gregarious Asian

Was skilled in the art of persuasion.

He said "wayward Tibet,

You will be my death yet.

The best form of persuasion's invasion."

In other news, a group of Jewish schoolgirls have completely missed the point.

Harriet Harmen: Hero of the Left

The people's flag is deepest red,
It shrouded oft our martyr'd dead
And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold,
Their hearts' blood dyed its ev'ry fold.
Then raise the scarlet standard high,
Within its shade we'll live and die,
Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,
We'll keep the red flag flying here.
Look round, the Frenchman loves its blaze,
The sturdy German chants its praise,
In Moscow's vaults its hymns are sung,
Chicago swells the surging throng.
It waved above our infant might
When all ahead seemed dark as night;
It witnessed many a deed and vow,
We must not change its colour now.
It well recalls the triumphs past;
It gives the hope of peace at last:
The banner bright, the symbol plain,
Of human right and human gain.
It suits today the meek and base,
Whose minds are fixed on pelf and place,
To cringe before the rich man's frown
And haul the sacred emblem down.
With heads uncovered swear we all
To bear it onward till we fall.
Come dungeon dark or gallows grim,
This song shall be our parting hymn.

Rimnasium 7

There is no way of laughing at his with your own cock

This is Bat Country

An evening spent in the company of my university's union representatives is an evening I shan't get back. My misfortune at wandering into the post-election-results-party meant that I hobnobbed with the great and the good; ranging from the bizarrely amalgamated 'Medical & Postgraduate Students' Officer' to the curiously titled 'Pre-Clinical President' not to mention the ubiquitous 'Anti Racism Officer'.

The evening was of some benefit (I've given sufficient reason for my train of thought) - upon returning home I happened upon this article concerning some really rather groovy sounding psychedelic drugs. I have a particular interest in getting my hands on 70mg of 'dipthong'. Ultra-sensitive canine hearing? Yes please.

Remember to chase the rainbow!

I was in the reception area of a local hotel yesterday, waiting to meet an elderly couple of my aquaintence, and I saw a discreet door marked library. I stepped inside to find that the room had one bookshelf, taking up rather less than half a wall, and even this was very far from full. These were its contents:
A complete edition of the Waverly novels
About 35 percent of an editions of Dickens
A number of leather bound works by Burgess and Maclean (dissapointingly I'm talking about Alan Burgess and Alastair Maclean)
Two copies of Home Doctor
A work designed to help those seeking to defend themselves in court
An illustrated atlas of the British Empire
A handfull of travel guides

Clearly nobody will ever read any of these books, apart from possbly the travel guides, although I do like the idea of taking a holiday in order to spend long hours by the fire identifying symptoms in the Home Doctor or planning subtle legal defences to get you off your latests public decency charges. I think it is clear that the patrons of this hotel, like so many students of my aquaintence, find an area called 'Library' a congenial place to shout loudly down their mobile phones and drink carbonated beverages.

Afterwards we took a turn round a nearby cathedral, and I read a number of charming epitaphs and inscriptions, including the grave of a young chap killed by greek brigands and a monument to the coal miners of the area. This cheered me up considerably. Remember, there is always someone worse off than yourself, and that person is very often a miner.

Pro patria mori

I do not favour the fence; but I think in the case of Kosovan secession from Serbia, it is dangerous, at least at this early stage, to relocate. While the Albanian cause may be worthy, their majority unquestionable and their solution practical (and certainly, with regard to their mud-slinging, violence and in-some-cases combative supremacism, they give no worse than they get), two things bother me about Kosovan independence: 1) The use of international muscle to facilitate Kosovo's secession in spite of the wishes of democratic Serbia, a country that is still trying to find its feet after several decades of absolutist rule, bloodshed and unpredictable political geography, seems only to have consolidated the USA's already damning reputation for flouting UN consensus - one cannot help feeling that Russia's legally-grounded objections are more than reasonable; 2) What of the not-inconsiderable Serbian population of the new Kosovo? 10%, at a glance, which is actually more than I originally thought. It seems only fair that as most of this number is concentrated in the northern part of the country, they should be allowed, if they wish, to secede and/or be reunited with Serbia. After all, why sympathise with one manifestation of nationalist idiocy and not another?

I am, as I say, on the fence, waiting for rain. On a lighter note, I enjoyed this stock limerick:

There once was a [person] from [place]
Whose [body part] was [special case].
When [event] would occur,
It would cause [him or her]
To violate [law of time/space].

Isaac Hamilton's Curiosities of Literature

- An Almanace fore the Unwarie

On this day in 1994 V.S. Naipul loaded a leatherette bound collector's edition of A Dance to the Music of Time into the great Western Cannon, and aimed it at Paul Theroux. Fortunately a quick-witted Derek Walcott distracted him with a well timed display of avarice and sloth, giving just enough time for Chinua Achebe to aproach the great novelist in a canoe, and throw a spear at him. A fine day for postcolonialism!

Word of the week - Ernsugir: (n) eagle-sucking; the noise made by an eagle's wings in flight. Derived from, and confined to, Old Iclandic.

Internal Memo of the Week: The Visum et Repartum, an early eighteenth century governmental report on the exhumation and disection of a graveyard of Serbian Vampires.

Place Your Bets.

Apparently comparisons can be made between the rogue trader, Jerome Kerviel and Kurtz from Heart of Darkness, according to an interesting article at marketpsych.com.

It also demonstrates the similarities between "rogue" traders and trading geniuses. If the only difference between the crazies and the geniuses is success, then our view of success at least in the professions of chance is flawed. Using the often fallacious proof by abduction we interpret success that could have been random as the result of skill.

My point is, Jerome Kerviel may make a fantastic story and skapegoat, the root problem is how we view and reward success(and therefore incentivise behaivour) in environments such as the markets.

This post borrows heavily from Taleb's Fooled by Randomness- a very good book.

Ubuntu: An African Tale

On the advice of my attorney, The London Prodigal, my long, largely cryptic and possibly defamatory post on Google vs. Gates has been shelved in favour of some coverage of the unsung heroes of the software world. The Africans.

Together, they collaborate to create Ubuntu. An operating system whispered from the reeds of the Okavango. A “software ecosystem” if you will, in fact just by using it another child lives.

Unfortunately Africans have neither demonstrated the skills nor possess the infrastructure to actually do this. So the concept of African software innovation can be used solely for marketing copy by Mark Shuttleworth. The great African patriot.

Rowan Williams in Sharia Law Outrage!

Buggers for the Bottle: Part VII, in which Aristotle is shown to possess little capacity for reason

Yesterday afternoon I laboured until close of day to translate the final instalment of my Wendish seafaring discourses from the Anglo-Saxon. I donned my best gloves and made for the Muted Slughorn. Seeing, as I crossed the heath, that January 26 was not long for this world and that night was surely in the offing, I resolved to make it a brief visit. When I arrived the front room was deserted, but from the furthest recesses of the building I could hear distant shrill voices, the tinkling of martini glasses and animated conversation. Not wishing to disturb the barman, snatches of whose velvet baritone rose, unmistakable, above the fervent offerings of the live Jazz band, I went behind the bar and poured myself a few gentle measures of spiced rum and ginger wine. I shuffled over to a table, and had barely raised mug to lip when the door flew open and Hamilton tore in, making a beeline for the bar. Clearing the counter in a single leap, he proceeded to mix and drink all manner of frantic concoctions, not stopping to consider whether the bottles he was grasping – albeit with commendable suction – were spirits, culinary lubricants, bathing unguents or domestic cleaners. Knowing from experience that intervention was futile, I returned to my drink without a word. After a short time he relented and joined me at the table with a small wooden breadboard of single malts. Knowing that it would very soon fall to me to make some sort of enquiry in respect of his behaviour, and though he was still livid and flushed from the ordeal, he pre-empted the overwhelming interrogative and, fixing me with a look of combined alacrity and rage which only the most hardened insomniac could have mustered, articulated with superlative cogency, given his weakened state, that for all the damned good it did, one might very well dismiss the entire corpus of literary critical theory! Not wishing to seem timid in the teeth of such an astonishing claim, I laughed a careless, ‘might-one-indeed?’ sort of laugh; but really I was paralysed with terror. I straight returned and reeled into bed. I slept badly and woke with a headache. Two Anadins later I was feeling better, though still quite weak. I took up a book of Aristotelian political conjectures and read:

“Those who live in a cold climate and in Europe are full of spirit, but wanting in intelligence and skill; and therefore they retain comparative freedom, but have no political organisation, and are incapable of ruling others. Whereas the natives of Asia are intelligent and inventive, but they are wanting in spirit, and therefore they are always in a state of subjection and slavery. But the Hellenic race, which is situated between them, is likewise intermediate in character, being high-spirited and also intelligent.”

The simplicity of the author’s argument, and the gleeful, contrafactual abandon with which he presented it, soothed my troubled mental state and fortified me sufficiently that I was able to take a little breakfast.

A phenomenon which I have often observed

An Encounter With Ferpection

I was awakened early this morning by the ringing of the doorbell. Pausing only to drape my form in a Russian infantry officer's topcoat which I keep near to the bed for that purpose, I stumbled to the door. Outside was a man of Arabic appearance, holding a large bag in one hand and a trowel in the other. 'I've come to do your tiles' he said. Remembrance hit me like a well-aimed potato. Last night, in a drunken and self-important mood, I had made wild and extraordinary claims about the quality of my bathroom tiles to some of the Muted Slughorn's most august patrons, including a well known airline pilot and the wife of a local Tory councillor. Later, in a panic at the thought of my lies being discovered, I had begged the barman for the number of his own decorator, who enriched the lavatories of the Slughorn with fantastical and intriguing tessellations. The barman had smiled in a manner which I am coming to recognise, and told me that it would be arranged.
I showed the artisan to my bathroom, and helped him spread some old sheets over the floor. In no time at all he had my old avocado tiles pulled of the wall, and began to apply his own. As I watched him build up complex and wonderful patterns out of tiny tiles which he pulled casually from his open holdall, skilfully wielding his trowel with the confidence of a true master, I began to suspect his true identity. 'Are you, by any chance, a master tiler from medieval Morocco?' I asked him. He mutely nodded that this was true. Shaking my head at the vagrancies of fortune, I left the room, retiring to my study with a sheaf of periodicals and bottle of sherry.
I was still engrossed in the study of these papers a few hours later when I heard a cry of horror. Rushing to my bathroom, my topcoat flapping around my naked knees, I saw my decorator crouched outside the door in fear. I pushed to door open to see, to my surprise, the bathroom was decorated from floor to ceiling in tile work of the most extraordinary complexity and grace. 'Bravo!' I cried. 'You've done it! My bathroom will be famous from Swansea to Crewe.' He glared at me in anger. 'Foolish boaster' he hissed, 'do you not see? This bathroom is tiled so perfectly, so flawlessly, that it is an affront to God himself. Only he may create perfection.' As he spoke he pulled a tiny brass hammer from his overalls, and approached the polychromatic mosaic work around the base of my bath. He deftly tapped upon a tiny blue tile, as perfect as a jewel, and by bending over and peering at it I could see that he had mazed it with hairline cracks, invisible to all but the closest observer. This action calmed him somewhat, and we knelt to pray together on the dusty sheets. He left very soon after, and would take no money for his work.

Lux be lux

Help! If you make any attempt to reduce your energy consumption you will end up stubbing your toe in the dark, before succumbing to poisoning. Who will save us from energy efficient lighting? I hope this isn't the 'scaremongering' that spiked professes to despise so.

Confused young man: 'But it's useful...'

Tom Hodgkinson's critique of Facebook was replete with all the accoutrements of the worst kind of Guardian journalism: paranoia, misguided poetry, neanderthal anti-capitalism and total ignorance of subject matter. Calling it an 'ideologically motivated virtual totalitarian regime' as well as a 'takeover bid for the world', Hodgkinson champions in its stead 'real-world concepts such as art, beauty, love, pleasure and truth'.

'If I want to connect with the people around me, I will revert to an old piece of technology,' crows the Idler sarcastically. 'It's free, it's easy and it delivers a uniquely individual experience in sharing information: it's called talking.'

Further to that: The Idler, the blog of the magazine, edited by Hodgkinson, looks like a reasonably worthwhile state of affairs. Wallpapered with snails and containing some humorous anecdotes about pigs, it's definitely worth a visit. Unfortunately, the bolshy, stuffy PCness-gone-mad rubbish sours the sanguine charm of his writing. See, for example, the long complaint about not being allowed to slaughter his own pigs. It desperately wants to be a glorious panegyric to personal liberty, but it wanders into confusion after only a few sentences. A level attack against abattoirs would have been palatable. Not, however, feigned incredulity that the law chooses to intervene in the slaughtering of animals, which is clearly consistent with the existing laws against animal cruelty. Many people, perhaps not Hodgkinson, would botch the execution and cause the pig needless suffering.

Evidently, the man is an able raconteur and possesses a pointy wit. But in light of his total unwillingness to engage with his environment, choosing instead to scoff, Boris Johnson-style, at the unfamiliar and the innovative, I can only assume he comes from the 17th century, and has got lost.

Interregnum interschmegnum

John Fitzpatrick thinks democracy came to life between 1648 and 1660. No doubt that explains all the elections held during the period, and Cromwell's respect for elected MPs. Cromwell may have been more charismatic than Charles I, but it is still hard for me to feel much love for a group of xenophobic aristocrats waging war against such outmoded traditions as taxing the rich.

Hanumania

The Indian cricket team have protested against allegations of racist sledging after Australian Andrew Symonds complained that he had received 'monkey' taunts from Indian bowler Harbhajan Singh. The President of the Sydney-based United Indian Association had this to say: "Considering that the Monkey God is one of the revered idols of Hindu mythology and worshipped by millions, it's surprising it was considered a racist term."

Take a minute to allow the stupidity of that statement to sink in. I might as well claim that a devout Christian would shrink from using 'ass' pejoratively.

But no-one could be that stupid. It was more likely feigned naivety - the choking rhetoric of a society spokesman doing his best to defend the indefensible. Whatever it was, it wasn't convincing.