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.
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.
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."
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.
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:
How can a lesbian sex scene between man and machine be artless?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.’
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 skyThe 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...
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
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
'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?'
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!
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.
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.
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?
