There's a lot of frustration available. Frustration at widespread idiocy and the infantile nature of popular entertainments and my indulgence in the worst offenders. Frustration at a lack of purpose and drive which mars potentially-worthwhile endeavours. Frustration at the unsatisfactory life options available and the wastage of time. Frustration at the passive tone necessitated by my lack of shamelessness. Frustration at the immediate lack of compassion and resulting, comforting, guarded arrogance - warm and safe. A pointless egosurvivalist, living off tins of sausages and beans and sniping fellow survivors. A hermit with a blog and a twitter-feed.
Well, that's your dose of Saturday cryptic pseudo-psych bullshit.
Showing posts with label vpgreg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vpgreg. Show all posts
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Against Poirot
I'm disgusted by the happy sentimentality of my last post, so I'm going to go back to good old-fashioned hatred.
Poirot is essentially a poor man's Sherlock Holmes. Not literally, of course, since he serves only that peculiar strain of the upper-middle-class who are so utterly detestable and parasitic that you hope they'll all be the culprits. Except that happened once already and then he let them get away with it. It's not an unusual occurrence. In fact, I watched another episode the other day where he let a jewellery thief abscond just because she was charitable enough to show him some brief attention. She even gave him a little peck on his fat, balding head as she was making a getaway. It's good to know that the most cunning criminal can evade the brilliant Hercule Poirot by showing him a bit of leg and slobbering on his face.
And his methods are deplorable. He views himself as a "psychological detective". He laughs at the idea of crawling on his hands and knees to collect clues. Instead, he leans back in his chair, eating buttered goose and psychologically profiling his adversary. No, Poirot. That isn't the mark of a great detective. Take, for example, the unsurpassed Mr Holmes. He went in disguises so brilliant even his dear friend Dr Watson (who, like Scotland Yard's Lestrade, was brazenly stolen and poorly reproduced by the egregious Agatha Christie) couldn't recognise him. He went without sleep and food when he was involved in a case, subjecting himself to horrific physical and mental abuse when he needed to untangle a particularly tricky clue. I doubt Poirot has ever missed a meal in his life, much less suffered serious discomfort for his work. He and his fatuous pop-psychology are not suitable for the role of a detective.
I've almost now exhausted my rage. Yes, this post hasn't been very coherently argued, but my defence for this is that I'm blinded by my anger at the fact that Poirot infects television with his mediocre and half-arsed methods, and lack of detective style.
Less Poirot, more Holmes!
Poirot is essentially a poor man's Sherlock Holmes. Not literally, of course, since he serves only that peculiar strain of the upper-middle-class who are so utterly detestable and parasitic that you hope they'll all be the culprits. Except that happened once already and then he let them get away with it. It's not an unusual occurrence. In fact, I watched another episode the other day where he let a jewellery thief abscond just because she was charitable enough to show him some brief attention. She even gave him a little peck on his fat, balding head as she was making a getaway. It's good to know that the most cunning criminal can evade the brilliant Hercule Poirot by showing him a bit of leg and slobbering on his face.
And his methods are deplorable. He views himself as a "psychological detective". He laughs at the idea of crawling on his hands and knees to collect clues. Instead, he leans back in his chair, eating buttered goose and psychologically profiling his adversary. No, Poirot. That isn't the mark of a great detective. Take, for example, the unsurpassed Mr Holmes. He went in disguises so brilliant even his dear friend Dr Watson (who, like Scotland Yard's Lestrade, was brazenly stolen and poorly reproduced by the egregious Agatha Christie) couldn't recognise him. He went without sleep and food when he was involved in a case, subjecting himself to horrific physical and mental abuse when he needed to untangle a particularly tricky clue. I doubt Poirot has ever missed a meal in his life, much less suffered serious discomfort for his work. He and his fatuous pop-psychology are not suitable for the role of a detective.
I've almost now exhausted my rage. Yes, this post hasn't been very coherently argued, but my defence for this is that I'm blinded by my anger at the fact that Poirot infects television with his mediocre and half-arsed methods, and lack of detective style.
Less Poirot, more Holmes!
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
InMe
Dave McPherson, frontman of InMe, one of the most criminally-underrated bands in history, is releasing a long list of signed/personalised memorabilia, gig experiences, and other awesome gifts as part of a pledge drive to raise money for UNICEF and to promote his new solo album. The prices are fantastic too, considering the level of devotion which InMe inspire in their followers. Of the people I know reasonably well, maybe 4 could be considered InMe fans. We're all borderline obsessed. They're addictive. I find myself going a week at a time listening to nothing but InMe because, by comparison, everything else seems crap. The lyrics are beautifully written and sung with haunting vocal hooks, and the guitar work is superb, particularly in the later albums. People don't always like them the first time, but listen twice or thrice, and you're hooked. They don't have a big following, unfortunately, but those people who know them love them.
I guess it's good that their following isn't too big really. It means I can buy a home gig for £500. Now if I only had £500... I can still afford the handwritten lyrics or the signed photos. Maybe the VIP pass for the Brighton gig. Fantastic stuff. I urge everyone to listen and love.
P.S. I'm now tempted to ask my brother to pay for InMe to play at his wedding. His fiancée probably won't mind.
P.P.S. ALMOST FORGOT! Here's the link to the pledge drive where you can buy the stuff:
http://www.pledgemusic.com/projects/davemcpherson/pledge
P.P.P.S Here's me with the man himself!
Image removed as part of the privacy drive (26th July 2011)
I guess it's good that their following isn't too big really. It means I can buy a home gig for £500. Now if I only had £500... I can still afford the handwritten lyrics or the signed photos. Maybe the VIP pass for the Brighton gig. Fantastic stuff. I urge everyone to listen and love.
P.S. I'm now tempted to ask my brother to pay for InMe to play at his wedding. His fiancée probably won't mind.
P.P.S. ALMOST FORGOT! Here's the link to the pledge drive where you can buy the stuff:
http://www.pledgemusic.com/projects/davemcpherson/pledge
P.P.P.S Here's me with the man himself!
Image removed as part of the privacy drive (26th July 2011)
Friday, 24 December 2010
Exhausting Small Talk
I can't be the only person who finds the task of being civil for more than a few minutes to be exhausting. Smiling, chatting, making eye contact, complimenting, not being confrontational or cynical. These are all difficult tasks, especially when attempted in unison.
I suppose most humans simply follow the path of least resistance in their lives, and a lot of people are lucky enough to find being pleasant and light-hearted to be the easiest - or at least most agreeable - way to approach social occasions. I struggle, because I'm naturally cynical and critical and my face looks grumpy in its natural position. I can muster genuine enthusiasm for close friends and relatives, because they interest me, but for everyone else - casual acquaintances, distant family members, co-workers, etc. - forced-pleasant social interaction is exhausting. I'm not adept at small talk.
I suppose most humans simply follow the path of least resistance in their lives, and a lot of people are lucky enough to find being pleasant and light-hearted to be the easiest - or at least most agreeable - way to approach social occasions. I struggle, because I'm naturally cynical and critical and my face looks grumpy in its natural position. I can muster genuine enthusiasm for close friends and relatives, because they interest me, but for everyone else - casual acquaintances, distant family members, co-workers, etc. - forced-pleasant social interaction is exhausting. I'm not adept at small talk.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Choosing Newspapers
I recently ended my turbulent love affair with The Economist after 4 or 5 years. It began with such bliss. A trip to scout out the University of Sussex, an exciting front cover with a picture of a bulldog on it. Its calm, collected, monolithic style which made you think that, if only people did everything as The Economist said it should be done, the world would be perfect.
Later on, I grew to love its quirks, like its obligatory use of the phrase "mildly Islamic" when referring to any accommodating leader in a Muslim-dominated country (notably Erdogan in Turkey), or the way it put a picture of a withered, old woman with a shawl above every article about the Roma or other travelling people.
However, The Economist has no moral dimension. For example, as someone who tends to lean to the left-wing, I find the way it absolves Murdoch's, Bush's, and Berlusconi's more heinous offences by use of such a passive and balanced voice to be deeply unsettling. As Stefan Stern in The Guardian wrote, "its writers rarely see a political or economic problem that cannot be solved by the trusted three-card trick of privatisation, deregulation and liberalisation." Beyond that, The Economist reveals itself to be limited and distant.
Of course, it might also be argued that my problem with The Economist simply stems from me not being able to cope with its views being more right-wing than mine, and there's probably something in that.
The trouble is that left-wing sources often make me feel uncomfortable for being too left. I have a healthy disregard for the Tories and the right-wing in general, and yet I feel uncomfortable with a column which assumes Tory guilt at every turn. I've been trialling The New Statesman as a replacement for The Economist but it feels to be an easy let-off for the left instead.
I guess the problem is my inherent contrarianism (a word? Probably not). What I really need is a newspaper which criticises everyone all the time, for everything. That would make me a lot happier. Of course, a more conventional solution might be to read lots of different news sources and build an aggregated view based on a careful and reasoned analysis of many different contributors' thoughts and opinions.
The former solution seems easier though...
Later on, I grew to love its quirks, like its obligatory use of the phrase "mildly Islamic" when referring to any accommodating leader in a Muslim-dominated country (notably Erdogan in Turkey), or the way it put a picture of a withered, old woman with a shawl above every article about the Roma or other travelling people.
However, The Economist has no moral dimension. For example, as someone who tends to lean to the left-wing, I find the way it absolves Murdoch's, Bush's, and Berlusconi's more heinous offences by use of such a passive and balanced voice to be deeply unsettling. As Stefan Stern in The Guardian wrote, "its writers rarely see a political or economic problem that cannot be solved by the trusted three-card trick of privatisation, deregulation and liberalisation." Beyond that, The Economist reveals itself to be limited and distant.
Of course, it might also be argued that my problem with The Economist simply stems from me not being able to cope with its views being more right-wing than mine, and there's probably something in that.
The trouble is that left-wing sources often make me feel uncomfortable for being too left. I have a healthy disregard for the Tories and the right-wing in general, and yet I feel uncomfortable with a column which assumes Tory guilt at every turn. I've been trialling The New Statesman as a replacement for The Economist but it feels to be an easy let-off for the left instead.
I guess the problem is my inherent contrarianism (a word? Probably not). What I really need is a newspaper which criticises everyone all the time, for everything. That would make me a lot happier. Of course, a more conventional solution might be to read lots of different news sources and build an aggregated view based on a careful and reasoned analysis of many different contributors' thoughts and opinions.
The former solution seems easier though...
Friday, 24 September 2010
University: Not a Waste
Back home now.
I'm experiencing that general post-university malaise which occurs when you have to go from living with friends to living with parents because you don't fancy committing yourself to a graduate scheme with a corporate entity, wasting away and generally wishing for an early death.
I learn a disappointingly large number of life lessons from films, and if there's one thing I've learnt from films in this particular regard, it's that everyone's life is essentially dull and pointless, particularly if you work for a heartless business (and they wouldn't remain in business if they weren't largely heartless).
So right now, I'm working on a solution which allows me to keep my dignity and life-satisfaction intact whilst also providing me with enough money to live. It's going to be hugely successful. Ask me how I'm doing in 10 years (Y).
As I finish this post, I realise that I have no idea why I titled it "University: Not a Waste".
That'll be that ol' university-educated mind at work again.
I'm experiencing that general post-university malaise which occurs when you have to go from living with friends to living with parents because you don't fancy committing yourself to a graduate scheme with a corporate entity, wasting away and generally wishing for an early death.
I learn a disappointingly large number of life lessons from films, and if there's one thing I've learnt from films in this particular regard, it's that everyone's life is essentially dull and pointless, particularly if you work for a heartless business (and they wouldn't remain in business if they weren't largely heartless).
So right now, I'm working on a solution which allows me to keep my dignity and life-satisfaction intact whilst also providing me with enough money to live. It's going to be hugely successful. Ask me how I'm doing in 10 years (Y).
As I finish this post, I realise that I have no idea why I titled it "University: Not a Waste".
That'll be that ol' university-educated mind at work again.
Monday, 31 May 2010
The Inherent Dangers of Social Networking
I've now signed up to twitter. It's like FaceBook's status updates, but more limited. Also, you can find out what famous people have been eating for dinner and laugh at their little in-jokes without really understanding them. It's the second time I've tried twitter, and I'm going to try and stick with it this time. I don't know why. I think it's a form of masochism. Soon I'll be strapped in to more social-networking sites than I can fit across the links section of Google Chrome. I've already got email accounts, network sites, forums and blogs up there, alongside all my news and information sites. I'm going to eventually run out of time in the day to check all these different ventures, and I'll end up not having time for a real job because I'll be too busy trying voyeuristically tracking Stephen Fry's every move. And then there's always the inherent risk that one of those crazy survivalist USA films about the government's unlimited power will turn out to be real, and I'll be cursing the day that I got myself addicted to twitter as the government surround my house and we have an exciting high-octane shoot-out.
I drew a picture to illustrate what this could look like:
Writing things down - as in, using a pen and paper - now has the feel of a bizarre form of resistance. I realise that I should be ashamed of my adherence to such an archaic system of transcribing my thoughts. And, the downside of this ancient system is that rather than everyone instantly finding out how I feel, they'll have to wait 'til I'm dead and my thoughts are published posthumously. And that'll only happen if I get famous somehow and people actually give a crap, which, let's face it, is not the most likely course of my life. So it's really a complete waste. Unlike social-networking. Which is the best use of anyone's time, always.
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Loners
According to the BBC, there is a distinction between being lonely and being a loner. The basic difference is:
A loner gets satisfaction from being alone, someone who is lonely doesn't
Which seems simple enough, except for the fact that everyone loves to be alone at some point, unless they're some sort of deranged, psychotic leech who lives off the constant attention of their social betters. And, if that is the sort of person they are, then "their social betters" probably encompasses everyone.
Anyway, regardless of the adequacies of the BBC's magazine section - which after all, is written by a hungover intern to fill the space at the bottom of article templates - the point I'm going to make is that loners have it right, because, statistically, you will not meet anyone who is worth letting down your façades and defences for, and becoming emotionally intimate with. And besides, if you do (I'm still speaking statistically here), they'll already be tied down to a fat, useless stoner. If they're a friend, they'll let you down again and again (and vice-versa, of course). Even if you do find that special someone, statistically (still) you'll end up splitting up with them or divorcing them, or losing them in a bizarre gardening accident. As any economically-minded intellect will tell you, the potential benefits are minimal, and are in no way outweighed by the almost-certain humiliations, miseries and disappointments.
The problem is that humans are idiots, so we still live with that inane, air-headed sense of wonder which makes us crave the miseries of the future even as we recover from the previous endurances. My advice to the "lonely" is to accept the logic of a life independent of the capricious frivolities of human contact and act as though their entire pathetic life was the result of an intricate and successful plan.
Monday, 17 May 2010
Against Their Own Interests.
Warning: Lazy Generalisations Ahead.
Why do people so consistently support those who won't support their interests? The answer is, of course, that everyone is a moron. Take, for example, poor Southern whites rallying against the USA's healthcare bill when it would benefit them. Or, for that matter, their support of the Republican Party at all, considering its links with the wealthy business elites. Another example is The Sun, the shameless Murdoch publication which supports the party of the rich, tax-cutting Etonians, despite its readership of low-earners and white-van men (see what I mean about the generalisations?) who would be most likely to benefit from a less evil state.
This doesn't always happen in other publications, which match their readership more. For example, The Guardian and The Independent are liberal-ish, left-ish, generally intellectual papers, designed for mid-level earners who embrace a slightly more social view of capitalism. The Telegraph is designed for the more stuffy Tory-voting rich, who are a little confused by the complexities of modern life and long for the good old days. The Daily Mail is designed for their hate-filled moron counterparts.
I suppose in many ways, Murdoch is to be congratulated for making his readership consistently and unquestioningly lap up the bile he spews out in his publications (picture all those white-van men, lapping bile. It helps). It should be viewed as a triumph of stupidity over everything else. Still, it's not the world's most complex business strategy, is it? It basically amounts to slapping breasts alongside the propaganda to distract the idiots. What a visionary.
Why do people so consistently support those who won't support their interests? The answer is, of course, that everyone is a moron. Take, for example, poor Southern whites rallying against the USA's healthcare bill when it would benefit them. Or, for that matter, their support of the Republican Party at all, considering its links with the wealthy business elites. Another example is The Sun, the shameless Murdoch publication which supports the party of the rich, tax-cutting Etonians, despite its readership of low-earners and white-van men (see what I mean about the generalisations?) who would be most likely to benefit from a less evil state.
This doesn't always happen in other publications, which match their readership more. For example, The Guardian and The Independent are liberal-ish, left-ish, generally intellectual papers, designed for mid-level earners who embrace a slightly more social view of capitalism. The Telegraph is designed for the more stuffy Tory-voting rich, who are a little confused by the complexities of modern life and long for the good old days. The Daily Mail is designed for their hate-filled moron counterparts.
I suppose in many ways, Murdoch is to be congratulated for making his readership consistently and unquestioningly lap up the bile he spews out in his publications (picture all those white-van men, lapping bile. It helps). It should be viewed as a triumph of stupidity over everything else. Still, it's not the world's most complex business strategy, is it? It basically amounts to slapping breasts alongside the propaganda to distract the idiots. What a visionary.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Dr. Greg's Sure Cure for the Blues
- Routine, and lots of it.
- Getting up early, so the day is never wasted.
- Regular exercise.
- Regular, healthy diet.
- At least 4-5 cups of tea a day.
- Classic novels / films.
- A love of comedy in every facet of life, no matter how irrelevant or irreverent.
- Pig-headed arrogance.
Monday, 19 April 2010
"Nationalism is an Infantile Disease."
The title of this post comes from Einstein, who was often critical of blind patriotism because of its inevitable descent into jingoistic violence.
Friday is St George's Day, the day which commemorates the patron saint of about half the known world, "as well as a range of professions, organisations, and disease sufferers." (Thanks, Wikipedia). I feel no connection with the man, who appears to be a semi-mythical, barbaric zealot. Since I was born in England, however, he is apparently my patron saint too.
This could be rather daunting, except England doesn't feel the need to wrap itself in flags and blind nationalism in the same way that the USA does. This is a good thing. Patriotism, regardless of its actual worth, has been disfigured by its close association with the worst, lowest elements of society. Crude racism, anti-immigration sentiment, and all-round xenophobia are the cornerstones of English nationalism, and I am glad that St George's Day receives comparatively little attention.
Apart from anything else, patriotism is completely unnecessary and unwarranted. I have no particular love for my country (although I enjoy residing in parts of it, and will happily pay for its upkeep), and I genuinely can't see why anyone else would. What is there to love? Our political system? It's certainly reasonable, and a lot better than many countries'. Our history? Like most other countries', largely shameful. The people? I like a lot of them, but only because of them, not because of their "Englishness". There's nothing inherent to England which means I should love it, any more than I should love one of perhaps ten to twenty of the most developed and progressive nations.
Perhaps, instead, patriotism is just a crude form of gang mentality. We can band together, and feel stronger in unity. I suppose that has a warm, fuzzy feel to it if you, say, decide to support England in the football World Cup (god knows why you'd want to) The downside of this gang mentality is its inevitable decline into right-wing violence. In an arguably enlightened age, I think we can dispense with this, along with the whole despicable relic of nationalism.
Friday is St George's Day, the day which commemorates the patron saint of about half the known world, "as well as a range of professions, organisations, and disease sufferers." (Thanks, Wikipedia). I feel no connection with the man, who appears to be a semi-mythical, barbaric zealot. Since I was born in England, however, he is apparently my patron saint too.
This could be rather daunting, except England doesn't feel the need to wrap itself in flags and blind nationalism in the same way that the USA does. This is a good thing. Patriotism, regardless of its actual worth, has been disfigured by its close association with the worst, lowest elements of society. Crude racism, anti-immigration sentiment, and all-round xenophobia are the cornerstones of English nationalism, and I am glad that St George's Day receives comparatively little attention.
Apart from anything else, patriotism is completely unnecessary and unwarranted. I have no particular love for my country (although I enjoy residing in parts of it, and will happily pay for its upkeep), and I genuinely can't see why anyone else would. What is there to love? Our political system? It's certainly reasonable, and a lot better than many countries'. Our history? Like most other countries', largely shameful. The people? I like a lot of them, but only because of them, not because of their "Englishness". There's nothing inherent to England which means I should love it, any more than I should love one of perhaps ten to twenty of the most developed and progressive nations.
Perhaps, instead, patriotism is just a crude form of gang mentality. We can band together, and feel stronger in unity. I suppose that has a warm, fuzzy feel to it if you, say, decide to support England in the football World Cup (god knows why you'd want to) The downside of this gang mentality is its inevitable decline into right-wing violence. In an arguably enlightened age, I think we can dispense with this, along with the whole despicable relic of nationalism.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Mark Twain: The Misanthropic Years pt.3
Okay, you'll have to bear with me on this final quote, which is how The Mysterious Stranger ends. It's a bit long, but rewarding, if you're a fan of grim, misanthropic speeches, as I am. "Satan", once again, is the speaker, delivering Twain's own damming verdict on religion, and perhaps also showing his ideas on the general futility and bleakness of life.
The book then ends with the protagonist reflecting on this: "He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realised, that all that he had said was true."
Life itself is only a vision, a dream... Nothing exists; all is a dream. God - man - the world - the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars - a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space - and you!
Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago - centuries, ages, eons, ago! - for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane - like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell - mouths mercy and invented hell - mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honourably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!
It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream - a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought - a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!
The book then ends with the protagonist reflecting on this: "He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realised, that all that he had said was true."
Mark Twain: The Misanthropic Years pt.2
A couple of quotes from "Satan" in The Mysterious Stranger, which (put criminally simplistically - I'm tired) show Twain's dissatisfaction with the human race, among other things:
For a million year the [human] race has gone on monotonously propagating itself and monotonously reperforming this dull nonsense - to what end? No wisdom can guess! Who gets a profit out of it? Nobody but a parcel of usurping little monarchs and nobilities who despise you; would feel defiled if you touched them; would shut the door in your face if you proposed to call; whom you slave for, fight for, die for, and are not ashamed of it, but proud; whose existence is a perpetual insult to you and you are afraid to resent it; who are mendicants supported by your alms, yet assume toward you the airs of benefactor toward beggar; who address you in the language of master to slave, and are answered in the language of slave to master; who are worshipped by you with your mouth, while in your heart - if you have one - you despise yourselves for it. The first man was a hypocrite and a coward, qualities which have not yet failed in his line; it is the foundation upon which all civilisations have been built.
Monarchies, aristocracies, and religions are all based upon that large defect in your race - the individual's distrust of his neighbour, and his desire, for safety's or comfort's sake, to stand well in his neighbour's eye. These institutions will always remain, and always flourish, and always oppress you, affront you, and degrade you, because you will always be and remain slaves of minorities.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Mark Twain: The Misanthropic Years
From Twain's unfinished The Mysterious Stranger, published posthumously:
So says "Satan", anyway.
Every man is a suffering-machine and a happiness-machine combined. The two functions work together harmoniously, with a fine and delicate precision, on the give-and-take principle. For every happiness turned out in the one department the other stands ready to modify it with a sorrow or a pain - maybe a dozen. In most cases the man's life is about equally divided between happiness and unhappiness. When this is not the case the unhappiness predominates - always; never the other. Sometimes a man's make and disposition are such that his misery-machine is able to do nearly all the business. Such a man goes through life almost ignorant of what happiness is. Everything he touches, everything he does, brings a misfortune upon him. You have seen such people? To that kind of a person life is not an advantage, is it? It is only a disaster. Sometimes for an hour's happiness a man's machinery makes him pay years of misery.
So says "Satan", anyway.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Student Elections and Lessons for Tories.
In perhaps the most meaningless, tedious and underwhelming process ever conceived, student "officers" have been elected to various posts at the University, where they will perhaps decide crucial policy, will possibly represent the Union, and will probably just give inarticulate comments to the meaningless, tedious and underwhelming student press whenever a similarly dry student issue makes the front page.
Aside from the obvious advantage of culling a significant number of the bloated student population, as scores of young adults find themselves unable to expose themselves to further campaigning leap to their death from the top of the library, what is the point of this process? Well, disillusioned voter, let me enlighten you:
The answer is, of course, that they provide a lesson for nationwide political processes. Instead of spending millions on "genocidal ghoul" photoshop fiascos, power hungry megalomaniacal politicians should create little cardboard-and-sellotape signs saying "Brown: poo" and "Clegg: more strong than egg", and other signs of the same intellectual calibre as university students. I don't simply say this because of the potential goldmine of negative advertising (I reckon Lab/LibDems could rhyme "Cameron" with "moron"), but because these awful, inadequate signs which would make a drunk, illiterate hobo blush, are patently the future of politics, both at the student and national level. They provide the personal touch, they show that election nominees aren't any better than "real" people (quite the opposite, in fact), and they are useful in justifying the average (non)voter's (ir?)rational hatred of politics and politicians.
The risk is that these signs will have the same effect on national politics as they do on student politics: no one will give a solitary shit what the outcome is, and all the candidates will fade into a pointless, grey blur. But that would surely be an improvement on the current state of affairs, no?
---
p.s. I'm allowed to be critical, because I voted. I may have had little idea who each of the candidates were, and I may have simply voted for them based on their hair and the literary coherence of their campaigns, but I still fulfilled my democratic duty.
Aside from the obvious advantage of culling a significant number of the bloated student population, as scores of young adults find themselves unable to expose themselves to further campaigning leap to their death from the top of the library, what is the point of this process? Well, disillusioned voter, let me enlighten you:
The answer is, of course, that they provide a lesson for nationwide political processes. Instead of spending millions on "genocidal ghoul" photoshop fiascos, power hungry megalomaniacal politicians should create little cardboard-and-sellotape signs saying "Brown: poo" and "Clegg: more strong than egg", and other signs of the same intellectual calibre as university students. I don't simply say this because of the potential goldmine of negative advertising (I reckon Lab/LibDems could rhyme "Cameron" with "moron"), but because these awful, inadequate signs which would make a drunk, illiterate hobo blush, are patently the future of politics, both at the student and national level. They provide the personal touch, they show that election nominees aren't any better than "real" people (quite the opposite, in fact), and they are useful in justifying the average (non)voter's (ir?)rational hatred of politics and politicians.
The risk is that these signs will have the same effect on national politics as they do on student politics: no one will give a solitary shit what the outcome is, and all the candidates will fade into a pointless, grey blur. But that would surely be an improvement on the current state of affairs, no?
---
p.s. I'm allowed to be critical, because I voted. I may have had little idea who each of the candidates were, and I may have simply voted for them based on their hair and the literary coherence of their campaigns, but I still fulfilled my democratic duty.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Greg's Law
I've decided to put my name to the law describing a phenomenon which probably already has a name and a law to go with it. Still, it reads:
As a celebrity story progresses, the chance of Max Clifford becoming involved approach 1.
This is in relation to the following news story: Max Clifford represents No 10 bully claims charity boss.
Obviously the aptly-named Ms. Pratt has spread her scurrilous rumours for political reasons (the website for her charity helpfully has quotes from two Tories on the homepage to indicate her allegiance), but the poor dear is suffering a backlash for her breach in confidentiality as everyone realises how transparent and despicable her motives are. Cue the entrance of Mighty Max to save the day and commandeer the vocal chords of another client, who has, to be fair, shown herself incapable of communicating in the grown-up world. Her already-tattered reputation is, with the inclusion of the egregious Clifford, now in shreds (is a shred smaller than a tatter?), and the smug publicist has increased his own profile. Everyone's a winner.
As a celebrity story progresses, the chance of Max Clifford becoming involved approach 1.
This is in relation to the following news story: Max Clifford represents No 10 bully claims charity boss.
Obviously the aptly-named Ms. Pratt has spread her scurrilous rumours for political reasons (the website for her charity helpfully has quotes from two Tories on the homepage to indicate her allegiance), but the poor dear is suffering a backlash for her breach in confidentiality as everyone realises how transparent and despicable her motives are. Cue the entrance of Mighty Max to save the day and commandeer the vocal chords of another client, who has, to be fair, shown herself incapable of communicating in the grown-up world. Her already-tattered reputation is, with the inclusion of the egregious Clifford, now in shreds (is a shred smaller than a tatter?), and the smug publicist has increased his own profile. Everyone's a winner.
Thomas Paine
He that would make his own liberty secure must guard even his own enemy from repression; for if he violates this duty he establishes a precedent that will reach to himself.- On the Propriety of Bringing Louis XVI to Trial.
If only the various global revolutions and counter-revolutions had heeded Paine's advice. Damn you, France!
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Extra-ordinary
I once initiated an argument with a man who resented my bland inoffensiveness. It was likely that, in the eyes of wider society, I was worth a lot more than this fusty old gentleman. I was reasonably intelligent, relatively attractive, and perhaps even vaguely witty and amusing. He was unemployed, unkempt, and warranted numerous governmental health warnings. My weakness, however, was my vanity, and he exposed it ruthlessly. He whiled away hours on his hobby of undermining self-belief. And in many respects, in this instance, he was entirely justified.
I had achieved nothing of note. I went from dreaming of stardom, to hoping for success, to wishing I was someone else, somewhere else. My love life, for example, was dull, uninteresting, and frequently gave me cause to feel utter humiliation when recalling past romantic events. Everything about me was loathsome and ordinary, and left little or no impression on anyone who had the ambivalent pleasure of meeting me. His crushing conclusion would always revolve around the observation that I was one of billions of identically-ordinary little humans pursuing their unattainable and worthless lives.
As he reached this damming summation, he chuckled blithely, because he knew that his hurtful words could not penetrate his own thick hide, and because he, pointless and worthless as he appeared to others, was self-assured, self-confident, and self-congratulatory on his ability to ridicule others. But I don't see him often.
I had achieved nothing of note. I went from dreaming of stardom, to hoping for success, to wishing I was someone else, somewhere else. My love life, for example, was dull, uninteresting, and frequently gave me cause to feel utter humiliation when recalling past romantic events. Everything about me was loathsome and ordinary, and left little or no impression on anyone who had the ambivalent pleasure of meeting me. His crushing conclusion would always revolve around the observation that I was one of billions of identically-ordinary little humans pursuing their unattainable and worthless lives.
As he reached this damming summation, he chuckled blithely, because he knew that his hurtful words could not penetrate his own thick hide, and because he, pointless and worthless as he appeared to others, was self-assured, self-confident, and self-congratulatory on his ability to ridicule others. But I don't see him often.
Mr Hollow
I know a man with no strong talents or opinions, whose only transferable life skill is a well-developed sense of irony and an ability to be inhumanly sarcastic at the most inappropriate times. It is quicker to list the things he likes than those which he despises, because the former consists of nothing save himself, and the latter, for all intents and purposes, encompasses everything.
His entire being is devoted to callously destroying the dreams and ideals of those who are unfortunate enough to know him, and his caustic wit respects no boundaries of friendship or familiarity.
His life is undeservedly easy, because no one can respond to his criticism. To do that, one would need to know where his own loyalties lay, and no one does know, because he has none. He is hollow.
His entire being is devoted to callously destroying the dreams and ideals of those who are unfortunate enough to know him, and his caustic wit respects no boundaries of friendship or familiarity.
His life is undeservedly easy, because no one can respond to his criticism. To do that, one would need to know where his own loyalties lay, and no one does know, because he has none. He is hollow.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Pointless Internet Arguments
The removal of "For each member who joins, we will donate $0.50 to Haiti earthquake victims".
Today, I won the most pathetic, worthless victory imaginable, barring [sports analogy]. I oversaw the removal of a group purporting to donate money to Haiti earthquake victims, which was, of course, a stupid hoaxing spam group set up by a teenager from Singapore with too much time on his hands.
It started with a message explaining how 50 businesses had agreed to donate 50 cents for every member who joined the group, encouraging members to invite all their friends, etc. It's an old formula. Obviously there was no mention of who these companies were, or when the end date for the donation would be, or whether people's leaving would result in money being taken away from Haitians, and the whole thing was so transparently fake that it was almost laughable.
Except, for some reason, almost 300,000 people had joined, presumably (excepting the minority of angry misanthropes like me) because they believed they were helping in some small way. Their ignorance was breathtaking. Unsurprisingly, I was called "sick", "cynical" and "disgusting", and many other somewhat less-eloquent words, simply because I thought that exploiting human sympathy at a time of genuine suffering was despicable.
Thanks to people pointing this out, the founder (that is, the power-crazed nerd exciting himself over the thought of getting friends to spam each other) decided to remove all forms of interaction in the group, annoying even some of the most diehard (stupid) members, but not before a tremendously underwhelming showdown where I got to tell him just how pathetic and worthless he was. I, and many others, I hope, had also reported the group repeatedly for its spam-tastic content.
A few hours later, the group had disappeared. I'm taking partial credit for this. My god, my life is so completely pathetic, that I actually feel a bit disgusted with myself for how I've wasted today.
Today, I won the most pathetic, worthless victory imaginable, barring [sports analogy]. I oversaw the removal of a group purporting to donate money to Haiti earthquake victims, which was, of course, a stupid hoaxing spam group set up by a teenager from Singapore with too much time on his hands.
It started with a message explaining how 50 businesses had agreed to donate 50 cents for every member who joined the group, encouraging members to invite all their friends, etc. It's an old formula. Obviously there was no mention of who these companies were, or when the end date for the donation would be, or whether people's leaving would result in money being taken away from Haitians, and the whole thing was so transparently fake that it was almost laughable.
Except, for some reason, almost 300,000 people had joined, presumably (excepting the minority of angry misanthropes like me) because they believed they were helping in some small way. Their ignorance was breathtaking. Unsurprisingly, I was called "sick", "cynical" and "disgusting", and many other somewhat less-eloquent words, simply because I thought that exploiting human sympathy at a time of genuine suffering was despicable.
Thanks to people pointing this out, the founder (that is, the power-crazed nerd exciting himself over the thought of getting friends to spam each other) decided to remove all forms of interaction in the group, annoying even some of the most diehard (stupid) members, but not before a tremendously underwhelming showdown where I got to tell him just how pathetic and worthless he was. I, and many others, I hope, had also reported the group repeatedly for its spam-tastic content.
A few hours later, the group had disappeared. I'm taking partial credit for this. My god, my life is so completely pathetic, that I actually feel a bit disgusted with myself for how I've wasted today.
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