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.

Grobert Raves

I was bedridden over the festive period, thanks to an injury I picked up in the opening of a new Primark last September, and I elected to soothe my fevered brow at least partially with Robert Graves' endearingly insane non-essay The White Goddess. Apparently Graves had read The Golden Bough, he just managed to miss the point. I think an illustrated edition of this work is long overdue. Just think what a talented woodcutter or engraver to do with these sample excerpts -
"Since there were always twelve stones in the gilgal, or stone circle, used for sacrificial purposes, the next jaunt is to chase the white roebuck speculatively round the twelve houses of the Zodiac."
"Her nests, when one comes across them in dreams, lodged in rock-clefts or the branches of enormous hollow yews, are built of carefully chosen twigs, lined with horsehair and the plumage of prophetic birds, and littered with the jaw bones and entrails of poets."
"An English or American woman in a nervous breakdown of sexual origin will often instinctively reproduce in faithful and disgusting detail much of the ancient Dionysiac ritual. I have witnessed it myself in helpless terror."

There's no other way!

Ah, me! Damon Albarn's latent hardline-Socialism has finally taken flight! His was never a difficult portfolio of politics to fathom: fierce condemnation of American interventionism coupled with an apparent contempt for people 'educated the expensive way', seasoned, perhaps, with a few mm3 of art student self-loathing... All in all, the sum total of his worldly wisdom looks to have been informed by beards, berets and coffee - though probably not TV, which, he tells the world and anyone else who's listening, should certainly be 'dismantled', followed by a necessary sea-change in 'our value system', and the almost total obliteration of the media. "There's just so many things I would alter," foaming, maniacal Albarn tells press. If that isn't the language of a Marxist revolutionary, I'll eat a whole bay of pigs.

Bad Sex Awards 2007

I first became aware of this illustrious title while thumbing through Schott's Almanac 2005 however the award dates back to 1993- people say nothing good came from the nineties!

Apparently there is a correlation between good fiction and bad sex with some authors having won both the Bad Sex award and the Booker prize- nobody has won both for the same book.

Below is my favourite:

Why am I embarrassed about taking off my clothes in front of a robot? I pull the dress over my head like a schoolgirl, untie my hair, and sit down. She is smiling, just a little bit, as though she knows her effect.

To calm myself down and appear in control I reverse the problem. ‘Spike, you’re a robot, but why are you such a drop-dead gorgeous robot? I mean, is it necessary to be the most sophisticated machine ever built and to look like a movie star?’

She answers simply: ‘They thought I would be good for the boys on the mission.’

…

‘So you had sex with spacemen for three years?’

‘Yes. I used up three silicon-lined vaginas.’

How can a lesbian sex scene between man and machine be artless?

Update, 01:24: I tracked down my copy of Schotts and found some more quotes

A flock of crows, six or eight, raucously rasping at one another, thrashed into the top of an oak on the edge of the square of sky

The context is not important here.

Slither slither slither slither went the tongue, but the hand that was what she tried to concentrate on, the hand, since it has the entire terrain of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns - oh God, it was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest - no, the hand was cupping her entire right - Now! She must say 'No, Hoyt' and talk to him like a dog...

Beautiful alliteration

She reached the staircase and climbed the first step but the cold was numbing her mind. She fainted, upright and motionless with seawater up to her belly. Lobster swam to her purple feet. Cut off the bloodless hand with his pincers, and climbed up the inside of the leg as far as the clenched knees. He was amazed at the pleasure he felt from being held in this way. His pincers slipped between the thighs, prising them gently apart.

Lobster by Guillaume Lecasble

Stop All The Clocks

NFU website poll: "Do you think the clocks should stay forward during the winter, and move an hour forward in summer, to bring us into line with the rest of Europe?" 65% think yes.

Well it would be great except that if you only moved forward an hour in the summer every year, the day would begin an hour later every year, so in twelve years time, a day that would have begun at 9 am would begin at the equivalent of 9p.m.. No wonder the Europeans have such difficulty keeping deadlines, driving and working a sensible number of hours in a week.

Also Porter was angry to be ejected from a nightclub when the clocks went back. The only reason he went was for the extra-hour free.

Somebody I was chatting to asked me whether I thought that people who worked over the hour when the clocks went back got payed for the hour lost. That's like asking if a long-haul flight attendant gets payed for two hours work on a trip to the States.

Badgerlosis

The Guardian quotes today from a report discussing the effect of culling consumptive badgers on the spread of bovine TB. The report employs the phrase,

Bereaved badgers will traverse the country...

I wonder if this isn't taking poetic licence a bit too far.

Priceless Ming Shattered

Sir Menzies Campbell, the Scots "bulldog lawyer" turned politician, lies at the bottom of the political sea not far beneath the wreck of his own party. The postNewt calls for a new leader of the LibDems who can rid the party of its new found sleezefree, chivalrous and sensible air and get the party back to basics. Alcoholism, drug abuse, rent-boys, and cheeky girls need to be high on the agenda if Britain's waning third party can salvage its bad name.

Rumblings from my lung.

Silver Dollar Jim, as some of you may know, enjoys his cigarettes. There is something beautiful about inhaling the smoke of fine virginian tobacco rolled on the thighs of illegal Mexican immigrants. There seems to be almost no event where a cigarette would not add to the occasion positively in some way. If any of you have enjoyed a smoke whilst on the crapper it is an interesting experience, if not a little unsettling. There is always the post-supper pre-crap cigarette, often goes well with an americano- it makes the final defecation all the more satisfying. Then there is the obligatory cigarette after sexual intercourse whether hand relief or not. It turns one's hand relief into an occasion! Lest we forget, perhaps the most sublime experience of life is a gorgeous double fag after a long haul flight. Of course these are some of the most common smoking occasions. I have never smoked during sex, in a hospital or while playing squash but I have my entire smoker's life ahead of me. 15 more years of bliss.

I have laid the facts down on the table for all to read. Yet for reasons that defy economic, social, metaphysical and evolutionary logic, HM Government has banned it in enclosed public places. This forces the poor, defenceless smoker into the night to be savaged by some gang-member looking to 'score some rock'.

Silver Dollar Jim hopes that the current public sentiment against enjoying tobacco is just a fad, like prohibition in his own country or the current obsession in the pornographic industry with tattoos.

Peripatetic Paninaros push pallid product

I was walking through my local high street at around lunchtime when I was offered a promotional panini (sic) by a woman in a tabard. The jostling throng hurried me along before I could properly say thank you, which gave me some passing discomfort, but nothing compared to that conferred by the 'panini' proper, which was composed of heavy glutinous ciabatta, sweaty cubes of cheese and a square piece of ham, the entire sandwich innocent of butter and seasoning. Some questions were raised.
1 - Assuming the sandwich was supposed to be eaten as it was, why would Ugo's (that, as far as I remember was the company name) go to the expense of handing out free samples when palatability is clearly not the bankable suit of the product?
2 - Assuming that the sandwich was supposed to be grilled before consumption (grilled seems to be the default setting of the expatriate panino) which would explain the underbaked ciabatta and the cubic cheese, why would they give out this product at midday in the high street, when most people would be unable to get to a grill or toastie maker for at least five hours?
3 - Does it make sense to preserve the Italianate plural (panino/panini) in a loan word? Also to be considered: Should people who call toasted bread with tomato and basil 'brushetta' be mocked or hailed as patriots? Should we call a female barista a bariste?
4 - Is it fair or even tasteful of me to be rude about a free sandwich that I was handed in the street?

Flying High in Mumbai

For those of you who share Hamilton's ever-diversifying penchant for prescription medicines, I am now in a position both to recommend and to caution you against Parvon-spas, an opioid analgesic with antispasmodic properties prescribed me by a cheerful consultant in Jaipur. This drug was, as far as I can tell, in my case, completely unnecessary. I made it clear that the abdomenal muscle pains incidental to my gastric shenanigans were very minor. Nevertheless the doctor decided that a three-day course of strong painkillers was the way forward. I have experienced vagueness of mental faculties, fatigue, spontaneous anger and mild euphoria. I would liken the good periods to that sense of pleasant detachment effected by gentle dope-smoking; but the bad parts are comparable to the worst, most soul-destroying hangovers. Parvon-spas is a charmless appellation. I feel that Dogtooth's Gambit is apposite and has real prospects as a calling-card when this giddy formula hits the backstreets of London.

Michael Winner seems to have lost a lot of weight lately, which means that he now reminds me harshly of my own mortality.

I have long enjoyed Anjana Ahuja's Science Notebook column in the Times, but does it not seem strange that a major newspaper should allow the bulk of its science reporting to be done by a postgraduate who specialised in space physics (probably the branch of science with the least bearing on our everyday lives). As scientific issues such as cloning and genetic modification, the status of DNA evidence in trials, animal testing and the threat posed by climate change increase there currency in political debetate it is worrying how few MPs, government officials or journalists have a grounding in the physical sciences.

When Cole Porter was played a recording of Ella Fitzgerald, arguably the greatest singer of her age, singing his songs he is said to have remarked only 'what marvelous diction that girl has.' As, in fairness, she does.

Bibliographica Impenetranda

'Get stewed' said Philip Larkin, 'books are a load of crap'. He was, up to a point, right. Broadly speaking the only hobby more likely to waste your time, scarify your liver, retard your career, stunt your social powers and atrophy your pudenda than the reading of novels is the writing of them. There are however two parts of every novel which are both fun to read and to write. I refer, of course, to the blurb and the first sentence. Generally a quick glance at these two bits of prose will see you through all but the most protracted lavatorial visits, and arm you with enough information to claim to have read the book in social situations. (This may not suffice in the case of 'the classics' which many people were forced to read at school. Don't panic, it is no coincidence that these very same 'classics' are the ones with helpful little introductions at the start. Don't, for the love of God, confuse this introduction with the Author's Foreword, which is even more boring and pointless than the novel itself.) So, I have devoted my not inconsiderable free time to crafting a series of first lines for your enjoyment. A selection of gripping and informative blurbs is sure to follow.

Firstly let us consider some antiquated styles of opening sentance, popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but outclassed by the sleeker and higher powered openings of today.

The Locational Opening - 'Rumsfield House lay quiet as the dawn broke/sun set (it doesn't matter what the sun is doing, as long as it is doing something) behind its high roofs.' For this type of opening you will need a stately home. The sun also does these things behind Watford services, but no novel will come out of that.


The Geographical opening - 'The village of X lies in the county of Y on the north side of the river Z, surrounded by the forest of J.' This sort of opening will continue with a local squire adopting the son or daughter of a washerwoman (also local) and will play out in rollicking, picturesque form.

The Biographical opening - 'I was born in the village of X, which lies in the county of Y on the north side of the river Z, surrounded by the forest of J.' The narrative proceeds in a similar manner to that of the Geographical opening, except that it is in the first person, and is usually written by Tobias Smollet rather than Henry Fielding.

As you will no doubt have worked out, the art of the opening was in its infancy until very recently. In modern times we have seen a return to the concept of In Media Res, the Greek technique of starting in the middle, proceeding on the beginning, and then moving to the end. A modern thriller might begin 'The Rugglington revolver (if you writer a thriller make sure you mention the manufacturer of all the guns, this will make the book sound well researched) jumped in my hand, and the man in black spun backwards toward the cliff edge.' A more punchy thriller writer might start his book 'Bang! went the Rugglington Revolver.' A writer more punchy still will just write 'Bang!' which brings us pretty close to the gripping, if unfortunately untranslatable opening sentence of Beowulf: 'Hwæt!' (the exclamation mark is implied rather than written, but like 'oy!' the word is hard to say without one).




But it was Anthony Burgess who wrote the book on opening lines. The book is Earthly Powers, and the opening line is 'It was the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday, and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that the archbishop had come to see me.' If you must ignore my advice and actually read a book then Earthly Powers isn't a bad one to waste your time on, though it isn't a patch on the first sentence. It fulfills all the criteria for a good first sentence: it raises questions it cannot answer, it hints at a story far more interesting than the one about to be told, and it brings into the story characters who will become regrettable burdens by the end of the first page. A sentence like that is perfect, because the average reader will think 'only a really great writer could take an opening line like that and weave it into a full and complex story'. The average reader is a forgiving soul, and assuming he or she doesn't make it down the first page (and once you have a really excellent first sentence your next challenge is make sure that no prospective reader does make it through the first page) then he (or she) will assume that you have succeeded, and you are, in fact, a really great writer.


Anyway, here are some more first lines after the Burgess model:

It is now nearly Whitsun, and though I may still be persona non grata in many parts of Northumbria, Porson's worm and it's attendant properties are finally mine.

Marcus was playing backgammon with his late Uncle Millroy when the Admiral's gyrocopter landed on the east lawn.

'The Headmaster has left for Vienna' said Dr Nicodemus, his eyes flashing wildly in the light of the burning museum, 'and I fear that nothing on earth can stop him now'.


An incident

I walked into a pub with a copy of The Doctor is Sick in my hand (I had been reading it on the tube) and Dogtooth looked at me in surprise. 'You're reading something by Burgess other than A Clockwork Orange.' he noted astutely. 'Isn't that a bit leftfield?'

An Evening with Dogtooth: Popular Quotables

I enjoyed this from GK Chesterton:

In former centuries the educated class ignored the ruck of vulgar literature. They ignored, and therefore did not, properly speaking, despise it. Simple ignorance and indifference does not inflate the character with pride. A man does not walk down the street giving a haughty twirl to his moustaches at the thought of his superiority to some variety of deep-sea fishes.

Delightful!

Misconduct

Courtesy of Charlie Brooker in The Guardian: 'This week Charlie accidentally got drunk and speculated wildly and offensively about an ongoing news event, breaking into song as he did so, at the top of his voice, in a pub.' We need to see more of this. Mr Brooker will receive a warm welcome at the Muted Slughorn.

Small things for small minds

'How dare you have a terrible cocaine addiction at Phillipe's birthday party!'

This made me laugh. So did this.

Brass Monkeys

As if the African farming community didn't have enough on their plate... An unfortunate turn of phrase. I'll try again: (Clears throat) AS IF the farming community of Nachu, in Kenya, did not have enough to be getting on with, the female contingent of the village are now being menaced by an influx of monkey sex-pests. 'The monkeys grab their breasts, and gesture at us while pointing at their private parts,' complained one woman. There is widespread concern among the local people, but, perversely, the first thought that struck me on reading this unhappy tale was that we should all, perhaps, be taking the Great Ape Personhood movement more seriously. In fact, the common-and-garden variety monkeys are excluded from proposals, but one wonders whether their case should not be reviewed in light of their exhibiting an advanced and highly-sophisticated facility with comedic sexual vulgarity and chauvinist backchat. Or perhaps Australian men should simply be downgraded.

Post-colonial guilt syndrome has Britain in a half-nelson

None of my numerous get rich quick schemes is bearing fruit, and the duns and bailiffs are closing in, so I have regrettably been forced to seek gainful employment as a typist and part time waiter. This will have obvious ramifications on the frequency of my posting, but I'm sure you will all cope. I took a break from my hectic schedule last night to watch The Last Confession, which is about the surprising and unexpected death of John Paul I, and stars David Suchet. We were encouraged, at least implicitly, to warm toward the short-lived Pope because of his liberal views, particularly regarding birth control. Could it be that the likability of a given Pope is inversely proportional to how Catholic he is?

I'm currently angry about the plan to build a statue of Nelson Mandela outside the Palace of Westminster. I suppose I have to state my compulsory respect for St Mandela (the respect is actually genuine, though I hate the odour of sanctity which surrounds him, and which C list celebrities, who wouldn't know Biko or de Klerk from Adam, flock to inhale), but I don't see why a South African hero should get a statue in London. If we are going to be motivated by craven post-colonial guilt and liberal self abasement let's at least build a statue of Gandhi or (and I like this idea) a wild haired Mau Mau freedom fighter, in other words people who enacted a genuine change in British history. There is room for many a statue of Mandela in South Africa, and maybe even a few more in London, but to erect a monument outside Parliament is nothing less than creepy. Imagine if the Japan put up a statue of the Duke of Wellington outside their parliament, would we be flattered, or would we think them either ingratiating or insane?

Jesus supported Villa!

For several months I've been a-nose-scratching over the numerous examples of supposed racial/religious provocation, and the number of people who publicly start bonfires under their collars at every opportunity. There was the problem of the Birmingham Sikhs who stormed a theatre after a performance depicting sexual abuse in a gurdwara - laughable, I know! But it's hardly the first time the Sikhs have resorted, en masse, to violent and unreasonable measures. Later we all had to endure an enormous, self-indulgent Islamic whinge-along about those irreverant Denmark cartoons, about which I can sum up my feelings in either of two considered phrases: Free Press. Fuck Off. The Moslem 'bath of their own tears' love-in was at least a rational response - albeit overblow - to their censorship of the prophet's image. Now, there are Christians and, puzzlingly, Hindus protesting over a Malaysian cartoon of Jesus smoking a cigarette and brandishing a can of lager. I would go so far as to suggest that those protesting are perhaps without a sense of humour. In any case, last time I looked - though in the Labour Britain's political climate, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise - smoking was not a moral transgression. Ultimately - and perhaps a new addition should be made to our manifesto - religious sensibilites are a myth! No-one really cares about insensitive images, they just crave an excuse to waggle their swollen religious identities at the rest of the world.

Punjabia

Just as I was beginning to be able to translate freely from Delhi English into English English, the itchy feet propelled me Punjabwards. Inadvisedly, I failed to get out of Amritsar after the first day, and am now looking at a second night of (albeit air-conditioned) hell in the dusty nightmare of the north-west. Amritsar is host to the very beautiful Sikh enclosure of the Golden Temple, but the Sikh religion is one of spectacular morbidity and unwarranted fanaticism. The ethos of the the creed is constructive, but for a religious group that worships a piece of paper, one cannot help feeling that the Sikhs take themselves a little too seriously. And in light of the seemingly slight differences between between their faith and the predominant Hindu inclination (they share the same objectives and the same notion of a formless/everyshaped deity, although Sikhism is without the perceived idolatrous clutter of Hinduism), and the lack of hostility on either side of the religious divide, the call for an independent nation of Khalistan seems about as reasonable as a Dorset secession movement...can you imagine: 'We will not rest until we have claimed our right to a freer, stronger, independent Dorset!'

In Defence of Neoconservatism

I'm bemused by the idea circulating in various film reviews that we need to decide which is better, Bond or Borne. This kind of ranking is moronic: both franchises serve up similar thrills and compared to, say, The Princess Diaries or Dude Where's my Car? they are very clearly aiming at the same demographics. The Bourne Identity clearly shows the influence of the Bond films (namely in the idea that espionage involves climbing up walls in black outfits and handling firearms rather than asking questions).
I am a great fan of the Bourne films, after watching the Bourne Identity I simply couldn't believe no-one had told me about it, however I can't help but rail at some of the claims made by Brenden O'Neill in Spiked. Bourne is not nearly as clever as its ravishing grey and blue photography makes it look: like the film Ronin it hides the heart of a balls to the wall action film behind muted colour tones and a 'classy' European setting. The films are much less clued up on post-Cold War politics than O'Neill claims them to be. Any film which portrays the CIA as a powerful and threatening force, rather than a hunted, haunted entity completely failing to combat international threat while its authority at home is steadily eroded by an unfriendly White House does not have its finger on the pulse. Washington is far more of an international force than Langley Falls could ever hope to be. Bourne is a much less complex hero than O'Neil gives him credit for, he stands reliably against government organisations who are almost always shown to be malicious without cause. The Bourne films fail to engage with the depressing reality that grim and despicable as American and Western foreign policy may appear to be, it is often our only bulwark against the greater evils of Communist or Islamist aggression.

I'm working on putting together a half-way readable review of Thomas Pynchon's Against the Day. In the meantime, for you enjoyment, I give you Proverbs for Paranoids, culled sensitively from Gravity's Rainbow:
1. You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
2. The innocence of the creatures is in inverse proportion to the immorality of the Master.
3. If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.
4. You hide, they seek.
5. Paranoids are not paranoid because they're paranoid, but because they keep putting themselves, fucking idiots, deliberately into paranoid situations.

So farewell, then, Bill Deedes (1913-2007)

Separated at birth

Lavatoria

I enjoyed Mick Hume's most recent article in spiked. However, I'm left torn over issues such as 'awareness ribbons'. I hate anyone who wears one, or at least I would if I didn't know lots of generally decent people who do wear them, but I find it hard to scoff at the whole concept of 'awareness'. If any positive change is bought about in Darfur by UN intervention then we can thank the medias interest in the region, compared to, say, the Congo which is far harder and more dangerous to get cameras into. Take the Poppy Day phenomenon: I don't wear a poppy because I don't see any particular need to remember the first world war, but I do give money to the collectors more often than I give to any other charity can janglers because I don't want to think that I'm refusing the Poppy for reasons of parsimony. The cause is a good one, and they've pried some money from me which would no doubt have gone on drink, and indirectly the entire Poppy gimmick is to thank for it.

I visited the lavatory of a London pub, and while urinating I noticed a machine selling 'novelty condoms', including what looked in the picture like condoms with clown faces on them. I dread to think what sort of man would look at his equipment and think 'It's good but it could do with being funnier'.


Some artists gain fame by their elusive, boundry-breaking genius, some by their obsessive dedication to the detail. Some, however, are just in the right place at the right time. Case in point: Andrea Della Robia, probably the only Old Master whose work I would pay a gallery owner to take out of my house.

Why we should take the police out of policy

In concert with Hamilton's exposure of Metropolitan idiocy and double standards, I find it objectionable that the police will freely propose new and uncomfortable restrictions on our lives every time they decide they don't like an aspect of their job. Crucially, the post-adolescent years between 18 & 21 are (give or take a cheeky annum) most people's bright college days, in which we live in unfortunate and sometimes electric proximity to the permanent residents of provincial towns and villages. It is important to usher as many of us as possible into pubs and clubs on any given evening, where we can do less damage to ourselves and innocent bystanders. And whatever happens, we will get hold of the stuff - without delay or exception. Anyone who swallows the equation NoHooch'Til21 + ThirstyStudents = AppleJuicesAllRound seriously needs their head examined. Peter Fahy, the Cheshire Chief Constable who has suggested the minimum age be raised, has unwittingly requested much more work. As the situation stands, he only has to police the 2% of 18+year-olds who are actually out of control. If and when he gets his way, he will have to police 100% of the 18-21s who like alcohol - and I imagine that's 100% of them.

Newtballs: "Your life is worth more than a chocolate bar." An insight provided by DCI Cliff Lyons of South-east London.

Barring university students from pubs will undoubtedly make them drink more responsibly!

The chief constable of Cheshire has said that parents of teenagers are 'abdicating responsibility for their children.' He goes on to place the blame for Britain's supposed 'binge culture' squarely at the feet of advertisers and the drinks industry. Abdicating responsibility is a terrible thing, isn't it?

An interview with a futurist

Hamilton: "Mr Ernesto Giacometti Dolcelatte, you are the worlds foremost, and indeed only, Futurist Curator. You curate the Academy of Primitive and Archaic Art in Luxembourg. Your unique attitude to the presentation of painting and sculpture has won you few friends in the Art Establishment. Perhaps you could tell us a little..."

(At this point I was interrupted; the impatient Mr Dolcelatte had noticed my nephew's tricycle lying abandoned on the floor, and clambered onto it. With his knees round his ears, and puffing smoke from his cigarette like a small steamship, he was describing frantic circles on the floor. I tackled him off the bike, and hit him sharply across the face. After a tussle, and then a loud debate, we agreed that he could conduct the interview between laps of the room, and every ten minutes he could go into the garden to let off some firecrackers.)

Mr D: "The thing you must understand is that up to this point all art has been too slow. While it may have other points of interest, it is rendered unpalatable to the Futurist sensibility by its stultifying lack of motion. The APAA was constructed to overcome this difficulty."

Hamilton: "And how do you achieve that?"

Mr D: "Well, initially we employed a number of small devices. Early on in the project we discovered that any small statue, for example a Cellini nymph made out of gold and bronze, could be glued to the blades of a blender. When the machine is switched on the piece becomes high speed, kinetic, Futuristic. If only Cellini had worked in a more durable medium, like cast iron or steel, he could have been a noteworthy artist."

Hamilton: "Where did you go from there?"

"Mr D: We soon realised that we would never be able to truly explore the potential of these pieces as long as people insisted on viewing them as objects, rather than high speed events. We held a Titian week, during which we shot a series of his preparatory sketches out of a cannon at a group of Ukrainians, but ticket sales were surprisingly low and budget issues forced us to stop on the fourth day. However, other schemes have been a great success, for example, where else can you see a piece of Native American woodcarving mounted on a trolley and accelerated down a hallway by magnets, or one of Lucas Cranach's early alter pieces swung from a ceiling rafter by a steel cable?"

Mr Ernesto (left) and Colleague (right) work on their controversial new method of introducing the work of Eric Gill to a potential gallery goer.

Hamilton: "Bold and radical stuff indeed! What does the future hold for the APAA?"

Mr D: "Once sufficient funding has been achieved we will convert the entire gallery into a train which travels from Paris to Shanghai in just eight hours. The dining car will serve ozonised steaks and beetroot from the vacuum still. The front of the train will be fashioned like a gigantic fist, and a number of inbuilt whistles will make the train scream unbearably as it moves through the air."

Hamilton: "Thank you Mr Dolcelatte. It has been a pleasure..."

(I spoke in vain! No sooner were his final words out of his mouth than Ernesto Dolcelatte had vaulted lightly out of the window and into the cockpit of an idling autogyro. As he flew away over my house he dropped an aluminium square on which were printed the words 'Due to it's unnecessarily stationary nature, I am about to knock off your chimney pot'.)

Broad Brushstrokes

From the morass of cynical EU laws and directives has surfaced the clause prohibiting the routine vaccination of animals against Foot and Mouth disease. A more pernicious piece of legislation you could not wish for. As Matthew d'Ancona very properly points out in The Spectator, there is no good reason why animals should not receive the vaccination in view of the large number of antibiotics and medicines with which they are already treated. Of course, the explanation is as simple as it is offensive: this flabby, regressive, jealous, grasping body of protectionist bureauworms cannot bear the idea of denting consumer-confidence in European meat; so naturally, they prefer to enforce measures that are potentially (potential that has the potential soon to have been realised twice in 6 years) catastrophic. From where I'm standing, Euroskepticism has never looked so appealing.

=Dogtooth spent most of the weekend visiting the National Gallery. Far from gaining a new appreciation, I left in something of a hot mood, feeling angry and disappointed with many of the painters who, up until this point, I have revered. It is clear to me now that, in all respects, the late Nineteenth Century was an inferior forty years. For Courbet, Manet, Degas and Cezanne, I have unshakeable admiration. By advancing the cause of portraiture they bore the only worthwhile fruit of that twoscore years. Portraiture: bold and infinitely fascinating! And how feeble and self-indulgent appear the so-called 'experimentations' of Monet's Poplars or Seurat's bloody dots in the shadow of a magnificent Ingres, a Delacroix, a Gericault or a Velazquez. Even Constable's landscapes knock the Impressionist efforts into a gaping macaroon. Go back another few centuries, and you have the likes of Titian, Lippi, Raphael, Masaccio and Caravaggio to contend with - painters who actually strove to represent human bodies and engender action, atmospere and interest, as opposed to few wispy forms shimmering ineffectually among some blurred trees. Who did Monet think he was, sitting in his boat? Claude (-Oscar?) Monet! The macaroon gapes for thee, thrice wider than for other men!

2012: The Year of the Elephant in the Room

I started watching boxing after Lennox Lewis beat Evander Holyfield in the second fight of 1999. What this means is that in my viewing lifetime there has never been a heavyweight fighter of any charisma or talent. Our current undisputed heavyweight champion is the uninspiring Ruslan Chagaev, who gained the title by fighting the walking freakshow Valuev, a seven foot Russian slugger styled 'The Beast from the East'. Over in England we have had the occasionally talented but soulless Danny Williams, the former kickboxer Matt Skelton, and the supremely unlovable and arrogant Audley 'Fraudley' Harrison. Any of these dubious characters could easily knock out one of the talented and exciting fighters to be found in the light and middle weight classes at the same time, but they could never hope to acheive the same level of respect or popularity.

What this means is that the pleasure derived from sport is not dependent, as is sometimes claimed, on the sportsmen being the best in the world at their endevour, but rather on more intangible qualities like elegance and heart. There is no reason therefore why the Paralympics should not be taken as seriously as the Olympics. That being said, there is something deeply unsatisfying about the Paralympics. Mostly it is the rather worrying ethic which seems to pervade the games that it is not about the winning, but about the taking part. Nobody ever boos the opposing amputees, and if Britain's wheelchair rugby team fail in disgrace at the next games we can be sure that there won't be any angry tabloid articles berating them. The overwhelming feeling of the Paralympics is 'aren't they doing well'. I won't take the games seriously until contestants start taking performance enhancing drugs.

There's no news like a lack of news

A long car journey today gave me ample opportunity to savour Radio Four's dreaded hour and a half of news headlines (between 5 and 6.30 if you want to enjoy it yourself. It's almost a pleasure when the Archers comes on) and I was amazed by the amount of non-news on the Foot and Mouth incident. It strikes me that news outlets assign the number of minutes each story gets according to importance, rather than how much there is to say. I accept that another outbreak of Foot and Mouth would be a dreadful and significant event, but I don't see why I need to hear constant speculation and reminders that the situation has not changed in any significant way since yesterday. When there is news, tell me it, until then let's hear about something else. It's a bit like the compulsory ten minutes of time allocated every evening for over a week to telling us that areas of the UK affected by flooding have been damaged just as badly as everyone thought they would be, but no worse.

Dogtooth's recent mockery of Green envirobeefery bought to mind a new training regime which I have myself adopted. I get on a treadmill and rack it up to a goodly pace, and then fix my eyes on the calorie counter. A medium sized egg is 80 calories, so I run until I feel tired, and then see how many eggs worth of calories I have burned. I then go home and consume that many eggs. I sort of think that moving the calories through my system, rather than letting them hang around in my subcutaneous expanses, has the effect of flushing out unhealthiness, or something of that sort. At the very least it allows me to eat a lot more eggs than I otherwise would.

Meditation on Thais

Thaksin Shinawatra has bought Manchester City FC. This is just bizarre. Thaksin, lately the Prime Minister of Thailand, was deposed in his absence after a military coup in september of last year. Since then he has been living in London. In 2004 he laughably attempted to buy Liverpool FC. Presumably he tasted the delicious prospect of owning his own club then and has never looked back. Hmmm. Football and coups d'Etat? This is really the London Prodigal's territory. Although Dogtooth was in Bangkok when the tanks rolled in and was compelled to keep tabs on the whole affair. How strange that I should have witnessed the ousting of Thai statesman, yet I have never watched a Manchester City match.

Where's the beef?

There's no idiot like a pedantic idiot. Research done by Chris Goodall, Green candidate for Oxford West, endeavours - by way of a quite breathtaking departure from reason - to show that driving to the shops is four times greener than walking the same distance. Greater idiocy hath no rationalisation than the empirical evidence offered to support this claim: that a brisk walk to the shops will result in the sudden and uncontrollable urge to devour 100g of, say, beef, the production and delivery of which leaves a hefty carbon footprint in its wake. No doubt Hamilton's trusty abacus could provide us with some reliable stats and figures, but I imagine that a national aggregate of two to three main meals is eaten daily, discounting intervals of snacking. Appetites tend to be large or small, and rarely fluctuate. Clearly a 7km treadmill session would put the wind up the conscientious calorie-counter, but I have never known anyone to return from the 400 yard hike to the post office gasping for 100g of minced beef to quell their raging metabolism. That a significant number of Europeans expand quite markedly in their middle years is proof that we are overeating/underexercising anyway, and that the amount of food we need has little bearing on the amount we eat. Goodall's statistics may apply to a hyena abroad on the African plains, eating according to its requirements; but since the dawn of what might broadly be called civilisation, they have not been applicable to our lot.

This just in: Dogtooth popped out to the shops earlier to pick up some basic groceries. When I returned I drank a chaste glass of orange juice. I breakfasted modestly this morning; notwithstanding, the impulse to gorge 100g of beef is not overwhelming. I will hang on until supper-time.

My Day Job

I recently had a long meeting with my Literary Agent, who also manages my PR and acts as proxy in a number of prolonged legal disputes I seem to have got entangled in, and we agreed that with the Harry Potter phenomenon finished this was a good time to step into the breach and introduce a new generation of children to the wonder of the written word. Because of the recent success of The Dangerous Book for Boys we agreed it should be an old fashioned yarn of derring-do etc. in the mold of Conan Doyle and John Buchan, and luckily for you people it will be serialised for free upon this very blog. Gather the children around then, as I give you the first instalment of:

Sir Arthur and the Mystery of the Cordwainer's Toe
"Silence is the condemned man's only prerogative" said Lord Entwistle, pushing the decanter across the table toward me, "but perhaps you'd care to tell us what became of the Brigadier, and the aeronautical device of the Philadelphia Jesuits?"
"With pleasure" I said, selecting a cigar from a proffered box, "It all began last January, on a bitterly cold afternoon. Like any sensible fellow I was seated before a roaring fire with a monograph of Chaldean adverbs, the last of my uncle Nungent's '66 Taylor's, and a large sixpenny whore. I was disturbed from my comfortable reveries by a hoarse salutation, and from the thick London peasouper which swirled round the far end of my study stepped a curious figure. His bearing and demeanour were undoubtedly that of a naval man, but he was dressed in the clothes of an off duty magician, or the proprietor of a second rate dog training school. He sported a large ginger moustache, of the sort which might be worn by an army chaplain recently defrocked for unnatural sexual practices,and on his cheek were tattooed a number of cryptic symbols.
'Sir Arthur' he cried, 'I come to you under the orders of the foreign office. I am told that you are a daring fellow, who would gladly put his unique talents to the defense of the empire overseas'.
'Why' I replied, 'I am a man of no particular talents. I am considered, I admit, the finest blow pipe marksman in Europe, , and a world expert in Persian dietary habits, and I'm anyone's match at Hungarian kick-boxing, but other than that my interests are somewhat obscure. However I will gladly put my few poor abilities at the disposal of my country.'
'How would you feel' he asked 'about undertaking an exceedingly dangerous mission to Constantinople?'
'Dash it' I cried, 'it sounds just the caper I've been looking for! Pull up a whore and tell me all about it.'
The visitor sat down and produced a Mussulman water pipe. For a period he was silent as he carefully filled and lit it. Eventually he looked up, his head wreathed in fragrant smoke.
'What do you know' he asked 'of the nation of Russia?'
'As I recall it was a small province of the Rhine Palatinate, which briefly attained the status of an autonomous Lutheran republic during the Thirty Years war, before being claimed as a crown possession of the Austro-Hungarian empire'
'So we have long believed. However it now appears that this was a misapprehension caused, through circumstances too Byzantine to enter into, by the idiosyncrasies of an eighteenth century archivist in the department of records, by the name of Paisley. Russia is in fact a huge and powerful nation, ruled by the Romanov dynasty and profession the Orthodox faith, situated to the far east of Europe. Its climate is extreme and its main export is timber. Its embassy is situated on the Strand, between the Royal Anthropological Society and the Pickwick Hotel.'
'Good God!' I cried. 'I always thought that building was some kind of dry goods emporium.'
'That' said my visitor darkly 'is closer to the truth than you realise.'"
"Confound it!" ejaculated Lord Entwistle passionately, "This web of intrigue is so deep and mysterious it seems that it might go on forever."
"Yes" I replied, allowing, I must admit, a wry smile to play on my lips, "it seems that it might."

Saturn Devouring His Pension Plan

One of Dogtooth's recent posts raised the topic of art and value. He suggests that a copy of Sunflowers should be valued according to its similarity to the original. Not so. I can receive all the artistic value of Hamlet from a paperback copy (let's assume there has been no textual jiggery-pokery) but that does not mean that the manuscript for Hamlet would not be worth far more money. When I buy, for example, one of Goya's black paintings (see above), I am not only paying for the artistic value but also for a unique artifact. Of course as an impoverished sea creature I might think that rarity value a ridiculous extravagance, but I bet I'd change my mind if fifty million came rolling through the door.

The Treason of Metaphors

What I want to say concerns an article (predominantly the second half, or last seven paragraphs) by Brendan O'Neill, SpikedOnline's illustrious editor. The article is a slightly flat and uninspiring variation on an original theme: the erosion of civil liberties. It's quite good stuff, if a little jaded; but notice O'Neill's rhetoric getting the better of him towards the end:

...a bill of rights that was based on a fear of out-of-control politicians and a suspicion of the celebrity-obsessed public would run the risk of turning freedom into stone, ossifying it, making it a museum piece that can be admired by lawyers and professional civil libertarians but which remains beyond the reach of the smoking, drinking, junk food-eating man in the street.

I don't see this. How would a written catalogue of civil rights have less application to the 'man on the street' than lawyers and academics? How would its application be more complicated than the Law, which has no trouble treating its subjects impartially? O'Neill has fallen victim to the felicitous metaphor. He has happened upon an analogy so fruitful that he cannot bear to part with it. The focus of his piece (a written bill of rights) is now dictated by the logic of the metaphor (an artefact on a high shelf behind thick-plated glass in a museum). Never mind that these two things are not analogous: rhetorical logic is irresistible, even to the orator.

The Treason of Images

Dogtooth is not usually known to equivocate, but in the case of Robert Thwaites I find myself once again navigating a tight passage between liberty and practicality. The value of authenticity has never diminished - much to the consternation of Roland Barthes, who would argue, probably quite sensibly, that a flawless forgery of van Gogh's 'Sunflowers' should fetch the price of the original. Or alternatively - as our economics would have it - the price of the original should fall to the aggregate of the collected fakes. In essence, Thwaites's crime was only to take advantage of the absurdly inflated value of original works of fine art. His forgeries received high praise from everyone up to and including his sentencing judge, not to mention that the paintings were of such a quality to dupe the art experts who purchased them. Honesty in one's dealing should of course be encouraged, and serious fraud exposed and punished. But as a country that hands out serious prison terms to forgers, we should reflect soberly on the how selling high-quality paintings under the name of a past-master (these were not copies of originals, but original works in the style of John Fitzgerald, a 19th century dreamscape artist) came to be a criminal offence.

Giblets to stuff the turkey of inactivity

According to Madeleine Bunting, who frequently leaps fully-clothed into freezing lakes, "we need that attentiveness to nature to understand our humanity, and of how we fit, as just one species, into a vast reach of time and space."
People really should think before they commit this sort of thing to paper.

In Memoriam

I was going to impose Ingmar Bergman's face over the knight, but I'm looking for a job and I don't really have time. To be quite honest the biggest shock about Bergman's death for me was the fact that he was still alive. Ho hum.

Tangentially, one of the most mysterious disappearances that I have ever experienced was a rented copy of Wild Strawberries which removed itself from a video player and disappeared altogether when I left the room for fifteen minutes for a cup of tea and a chicken tikka pasty.

Attempted fun with maths:

Last night I was watching Mock the Week, which I fully accept is unforgivable, and one of the news stories mentioned was a claim by police that one in twenty drinks in nightclubs is spiked. Eagerly I dusted down my calculator and got tapping. Assuming that all drink-spiking victims are women, and that everybody drinks two drinks each on average, that means one in five women drinks a spiked drink every night. Good work sturdy women of Britain, who seem to be largely able to consume spiked drinks and go home unmolested!
Also, in a nightclub which sees five hundred patrons a night there will be a thousand drinks, of which fifty will be spiked. Assuming that the prolific drink-spikers manage five Micky Finns a night each, that means that one night club patron in a fifty makes a concerted effort to drug someone else. Factor in the likelihood that most of these spikers are men and the figures become more mind boggling still.
Imagine my disappointment when a trawl of Google failed to turn up said report.

Even so, it is very hard to credit the idea that drug rape is remotely as common as it is perceived to be, though no doubt it is deeply horrible when it does occur. Only 2 percent of women who claim to have been molested with the aid of drugs showed any traces of narcotics in their systems other than alcohol or recreational drugs. Although I am not arguing for the matter to be ignored entirely, it does seem odd that a person of sinister intent would run the risk of introducing an illegal knock-out drop into somone's drink rather than just wait for someone else to suffer the inevitable effects of voluntery overindulgence.

The Death of the Novel

I am reading The Da Vinci Code. Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? as Lord Rees-Mogg queried, and Pope before him. Nevertheless, here is a little list of things that have irritated me already:

1) In spite a 500 year tradition of referring to the peerless Renaissance trailblazer as Leonardo, Dan Brown has now decided that we ought to be calling him 'Da Vinci'. This is quite simply monstrous.

2) The use, or possible conception, of the verb to serpentine. This usage is sufficiently disgraceful, and although I am, in theory, in favour of the organic advancement of the English tongue, I feel Brown is perhaps not the person to whom to entrust this delicate task.

3) Bad grammar (split infinitives, etc); awkward syntax that trips over its own untied clauses; a prose style that would make McGonagall blush; gratuitous use of italics for effect and suspense; a cheap, faux-Hollywood turn of phrase that should never be found outside a 12 year-old's creative writing assignment; and, finally - though doubtless more complaints will arise as I progress (if progress it be) - a bollock-gnawing propensity to patronise his readership by feeding us very basic points of information e.g. that his protagonist will be able to seek refuge at the US embassy because, apparently, it is not within the jurisdiction of the French police.

What I did on my holidays: an incident in the high Himalayas

Making my way through India's frozen north I arrive at length in the backpacker's paradise of Manali. On the drive up from the bus station I notice that several of the eateries spread along the winding mountain path have 'trout fish' advertised on handpainted signs outside. 'A pan fried trout, drawn freshly from the glacial streams, is just what I fancy after the grindingly relentless diet of dal, paratha and momo, enlivened only with the occasional gnasher crumbling piece of grit, which I have enjoyed up till now' I thought to myself. That very evening I dressed in my finest threads and sauntered down to the nearest cafe.
'Trout please' I say to the smiling waiter. He disappears, only to re-emerge with what apears to to be a large piece of hashish, which he places on the table in front of me.
'No, no, I want trout.'
He gestures to the narcotics.
'Ne, ne. Charas ne. Trout hai. Trout fish.'
He must be simple, for he cannot understand my flawless hindi. He just pushes the drugs a little closer to me.
'Trout. Trout. In pani hai. Ribe da. Ribe.' I realise I have lapsed into bastardised pan-slavic. I have little option but to leave fishless and forlorn. I have similar experiences at all the subsequent eating places. Perhaps 'trout' is some sort of code word. It looks like it's dal for supper again.

...But everybody hates the Jews

The following message is directed specifically at anyone who has ever speculated about the root cause of Hitler's anti-Semitism: DON'T! I've heard ludicrosities spanning the whole breadth of human insanity, from rumours about Hitler's own Jewish origins to half-baked anecdotes about bad childhood experiences with Jews. Like many others in Weimar Germany, Hitler had scrappy notions of Jewish Communism as the cause of Germany's political impotence, layered with Romantic notions of an Aryan Germany. You might as well suggest that Ken Livingstone's political affiliations can be explained by his having been daily cuffed around the head as a boy with a hardback copy of The Road to Serfdom.