Traditionally the time for short-term resolution and determination, the new year buzz is an easy target for a degraded cynic. There's fat people pretending they'll lose weight, skinny celebrities pretending they'll gain it, and all manner of exciting physical and mental challenges set by people drunk on the excesses of the festive season.
But, as much as I love an easy target which reduces the need to fully exercise my brain or acerbic facetiousness, it must be considered at least somewhat admirable that people acknowledge an area in themselves that they wish to change and thus resolve to change it. Certainly it's more worthy than the complacency which allows the person completely devoid of self-criticism to sustain themselves.
So, where do I go from here, having acknowledged that self-improvement isn't necessarily worthy of disdain? I go to the next easy target I can find - the emotionally frail and easily suggestible.
I recently read this blog post - 30 Things To Stop Doing To Yourself (opens in new window) - and unlike anything I've ever written, it appears to be uplifting and popular. Although published in early December, it's exactly the sort of the post-Christmas platitudinous tough love that we all crave - a handy list of the most essential self-improvements.
The problem with it, and similar lists, is that its resolutions are impractical, unmeasurable, facile and occasionally downright wrong:
Here a few examples:
3 - Stop Lying To Yourself
5 - Stop Trying To Be Someone You're Not
These two fall under the facile category because they fundamentally misunderstand basic human nature, which consists very significantly and vitally of self-delusion. People need to be shielded from themselves because it's a way of protecting their mental state from the harsh reality of the mess they really are. Number 3's paragraph actually says that the one person you can't lie to is yourself, which is patently bullshit. Confabulation is a recognised trait that everyone displays, for example when creating fictional narratives to explain actions they've taken or trying to explain the origin of emotional states that the person is completely clueless about.
No. 5 undermines the rest of the list because you'd have to be someone you're not in order to make changes to yourself. If I want to "stop being ungrateful" (no. 30), I have to act like a more grateful person, repressing the feelings of ungratefulness that are my more natural state, and forcibly change myself, suppressing the person I truly am.
20 - Stop Wasting Time Explaining Yourself To Others
28 - Stop Trying To Be Everything To Everyone
The first one here is both vague and dangerous. Down the path of refusing to explain yourself lies arrogance and a refusal to confront one's own shortcomings. Its failure is compounded by the accompanying sentence: "Just do what you know in your heart is right." How could the author think that encouraging gullible and hapless followers to think "I don't have to explain myself to you. I know in my heart that what I did was right" could ever be a healthy way for people to progress? I'm not sure what the second one even means. Is it a command for people to be more selfish? Less changeable? More apathetic? Perhaps I'm an exceptionally selfish person, but to how many people does no. 28 even apply?
19 - Stop Letting Others Bring You Down To Their Level
Ah, vague and sort-of hard to disagree with. Platitudinous bliss. How many people who are routinely brought down to others' levels (however that's assessed) only do so because they haven't realised that it's probably not a good thing? Will someone read this and say "Hmm... ordinarily I'd feel comfortable degrading myself and lowering myself to the same level as 'others', but now this short sentence has directed me down a new path"? There's no accompanying practical explanation, just a second sentence restating the first in different words.
I won't go on, because this post is already so long that no one will read it, or even credibly suggest they have read it. I could write anything here and it'll never be read. So, down here, after everyone's lost interest, I'm going to bury the bit where I agree with the list:
17 - Stop Complaining And Feeling Sorry For Yourself
26 - Stop Blaming Others For Your Troubles
Although, as before, these two are inadequately explained, they are useful if followed. So, how does one follow them properly? I've no idea, but then I'm not claiming to offer "PRACTICAL TIPS FOR PRODUCTIVE LIVING" as the author of "30 Things To Stop Doing To Yourself" is. My own modest contribution is to argue that one of the first steps towards any self-improvement is to acknowledge that one is the main agent for change in one's life and thus to take responsibility for yourself (no. 26). That's not to say that you shouldn't feel angry and resentful towards the people who've helped cause your troubles (and who would argue that it's possible to repress those feelings anyway?). But anyway, such a nuance is impossible when one glibly makes a list of short commands all beginning with "Stop".
Regarding no. 17, I would agree that self-pitying is damaging. I would argue this because it stops people from progressing practically or emotionally. It's so easily written and so much harder to achieve. But that's because you can't read a short list of desirable areas of self-improvement and expect to actually achieve anything by doing so. To quote Lisa Simpson (which is how all powerful paragraph-ending sentences start), "Self-improvement can be achieved but not with a quick fix. It's a long, arduous journey of personal... discovery."
As I stroll into the grey areas of hypocrisy, I'm rather disgusted at my own glibness here. I've tentatively agreed with 2 of the author's points and have written two medium-length paragraphs about why and I still feel as though this has been very inadequately explained or explored. I've no idea how the original author can reel off 30 sentences and expect them to be read as "practical" self-help. But then many people have commented positively on what he's written, so what the fuck do I know?
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Thursday, 29 September 2011
New Employment, New Dangers
I've settled comfortably into my new office role. Despite expected teething problems, such as horrifying initial incompetence and why-is-no-one-else-wearing-a-suit-syndrome, it's going okay. The people, though different from my usual crowd of hapless, giggling misfits, are affable and approachable. The office, though lacking in privacy and humidity, is spacious and calming. The work and procedures, though at first bewildering, are slowly sinking in and becoming familiar and comfortable. My major current concern is the office radio.
I like good music, not popular music, ffs. I feel like an old man, or, more accurately, a fraudulent geek. I don't understand these new cultural references. Why is everyone laughing when someone says a singer sounds like Avril Lavigne? I thought it was Avril Lavigne. And, anyway, what happened to Avril after her fabulous I'm With You. Wow, that was a cool song. Pretty nifty, in fact. Hip n' shit. But I don't understand. How come some of these new-fangled accepted songs have industrial-like instrumentals on when my own music is disregarded for its "noisome" tone? For what purpose auto-tune?
And why do they only ever sing about their worthless, failed relationships, their disgusting history of the inbreeding of the vacuous and the banal, their half-baked misremembrances of fictionalised saccharine pairings, concocted in the sweaty mind of the songwriter and regurgitated by a singer devoid of personality or flair, and whose entire claim to celebrity entitlement stems from a stealthy act of fellatio gleefully delivered to an emotionless Simon Cowell at the beginning of a long and sticky journey through a well-watched but ultimately soulless reality television show?
I even had the chance to put an end to the madness today. There was some dispute in the office when the Luddites in the row behind complained that their analogue radio clashed with the echo of the DAB radio next to me. I stupidly, selflessly fixed everything by pointing out that our radio could also receive and transmit an FM signal. Now I'm stuck in the Dark Age of analogue listening to popular music.
I can feel it eroding my soul. I have to come home and bathe in the disinfectant of Black Sabbath.
But they also have a nice water cooler here. So, like, swings and roundabouts.
I like good music, not popular music, ffs. I feel like an old man, or, more accurately, a fraudulent geek. I don't understand these new cultural references. Why is everyone laughing when someone says a singer sounds like Avril Lavigne? I thought it was Avril Lavigne. And, anyway, what happened to Avril after her fabulous I'm With You. Wow, that was a cool song. Pretty nifty, in fact. Hip n' shit. But I don't understand. How come some of these new-fangled accepted songs have industrial-like instrumentals on when my own music is disregarded for its "noisome" tone? For what purpose auto-tune?
And why do they only ever sing about their worthless, failed relationships, their disgusting history of the inbreeding of the vacuous and the banal, their half-baked misremembrances of fictionalised saccharine pairings, concocted in the sweaty mind of the songwriter and regurgitated by a singer devoid of personality or flair, and whose entire claim to celebrity entitlement stems from a stealthy act of fellatio gleefully delivered to an emotionless Simon Cowell at the beginning of a long and sticky journey through a well-watched but ultimately soulless reality television show?
I even had the chance to put an end to the madness today. There was some dispute in the office when the Luddites in the row behind complained that their analogue radio clashed with the echo of the DAB radio next to me. I stupidly, selflessly fixed everything by pointing out that our radio could also receive and transmit an FM signal. Now I'm stuck in the Dark Age of analogue listening to popular music.
I can feel it eroding my soul. I have to come home and bathe in the disinfectant of Black Sabbath.
But they also have a nice water cooler here. So, like, swings and roundabouts.
Thursday, 8 September 2011
The Golden Mean
Studies have shown that over-indulged children have trouble relinquishing their position as the centre of attention, have trouble becoming competent in everyday self-care skills, and have trouble taking responsibility.(1) Furthermore, these over-indulged infants are more materialistic and at greater risk of depression.(2)
But are adults now any better? Are we capable of waiting for things or do we need them instantly? I'm too lazy to argue extensively or convincingly here, so here's my rash assertion: adults at large have now ceased to progress from these over-indulged, infantile babblers and remain trapped in this state of whiny gratification-seeking neediness.
Instead of blindly embarking on this hellish downward spiral (which I am too lazy to detail right now), I offer here some cheap arguments expounding the virtue of self-reliance and self-discipline. Again, the link comes from childhood. Neuroscientist Sam Wang argues that self-disciplined toddlers are more likely to grow into persistent, positive, healthy and satisfied adults.(3) And that's what every adult surely secretly craves: the discipline and self-confidence which arises from being in control of one's feelings and not wallowing. Not in a repressive sense by any means, but simply in a way which prevents us being crippled by reprehensible, criminally-selfish self-pity.
The problem is that the most immediate cultural images of the proponents of combating over-indulgence are those distant, tough-love fathers usually portrayed on television and film as emotionally-repressed, stunted beer drinkers with little regard for the vital need to vent and express oneself, and an inability to look at their children whilst they explain to them why they consistently tell them to manthefuckup. This stereotype damages the importance of the role that tough love has to play in our development.
To prevent this sullying of tough love, whilst practising our self-reliant self-discipline we must also be studiously compassionate to counterbalance the potential isolating individualism of my proposed philosophy. It's a heavy request, and not one certain of success by any stretch, but I am sufficiently optimistic to hope we are capable of differentiating between those who need help and those who actually require the tough love of a benevolent friend or guardian.
As a safeguard, our first priority should always be compassion, but, in close second must be the desire for dignity and self-reliance. The benefits of encouraging self-discipline and responsibility can never be overstated. We can move from the straw strength of a generation raised with a high-altitude emotional safety net and move towards independence and dignity, ensuring always the primacy of compassion, tolerance and warmth.
Now do it.
"Sources"
(1) http://www.counseling.org/Resources/Library/VISTAS/vistas05/Vistas05.art18.pdf
(2) http://www.overindulgence.info/Documents/Study%206%20Childhood%20OI%20and%20Life%20Aspiration%20Prelim%20Report.pdf
(3)http://bigthink.com/ideas/40003
But are adults now any better? Are we capable of waiting for things or do we need them instantly? I'm too lazy to argue extensively or convincingly here, so here's my rash assertion: adults at large have now ceased to progress from these over-indulged, infantile babblers and remain trapped in this state of whiny gratification-seeking neediness.
Instead of blindly embarking on this hellish downward spiral (which I am too lazy to detail right now), I offer here some cheap arguments expounding the virtue of self-reliance and self-discipline. Again, the link comes from childhood. Neuroscientist Sam Wang argues that self-disciplined toddlers are more likely to grow into persistent, positive, healthy and satisfied adults.(3) And that's what every adult surely secretly craves: the discipline and self-confidence which arises from being in control of one's feelings and not wallowing. Not in a repressive sense by any means, but simply in a way which prevents us being crippled by reprehensible, criminally-selfish self-pity.
The problem is that the most immediate cultural images of the proponents of combating over-indulgence are those distant, tough-love fathers usually portrayed on television and film as emotionally-repressed, stunted beer drinkers with little regard for the vital need to vent and express oneself, and an inability to look at their children whilst they explain to them why they consistently tell them to manthefuckup. This stereotype damages the importance of the role that tough love has to play in our development.
To prevent this sullying of tough love, whilst practising our self-reliant self-discipline we must also be studiously compassionate to counterbalance the potential isolating individualism of my proposed philosophy. It's a heavy request, and not one certain of success by any stretch, but I am sufficiently optimistic to hope we are capable of differentiating between those who need help and those who actually require the tough love of a benevolent friend or guardian.
As a safeguard, our first priority should always be compassion, but, in close second must be the desire for dignity and self-reliance. The benefits of encouraging self-discipline and responsibility can never be overstated. We can move from the straw strength of a generation raised with a high-altitude emotional safety net and move towards independence and dignity, ensuring always the primacy of compassion, tolerance and warmth.
Now do it.
"I've made such stronger bonds with the people around me since I emptied out all the ugliness in my head."- Dave McPherson, Obsession is a Young Man's Game
"Sources"
(1) http://www.counseling.org/Resources/Library/VISTAS/vistas05/Vistas05.art18.pdf
(2) http://www.overindulgence.info/Documents/Study%206%20Childhood%20OI%20and%20Life%20Aspiration%20Prelim%20Report.pdf
(3)http://bigthink.com/ideas/40003
Monday, 22 August 2011
On the Inadequacy of Headstones
It was on one of my frequent perambulations through obscure Nottingham churchyards that I noticed that almost every grave's headstone bore the inscription "In Loving Memory".
Why did everyone creating these stones think it would be a good idea to copy the inscription of virtually every other inhabitant? It's not original, it shows poor and defective thought and a lack of the true sentimentality that one would hope one's surviving relatives and friends would feel towards one post-mortem.
Personally, I can't imagine the manufacturers of headstones being responsible. After all, they've got to do a lot of carving whether or not people want to alter the standard sentence fragment. Besides, ultimate responsibility lies with those preparing the dead person's funeral.
Even if a lazy and unscrupulous funeral director did say to you, "Sorry, mate. 'In Loving Memory' or 'Gone, but not forgotten' are your only options', would you accept that? No, not if you have any regard for the recently-deceased. Instead, you launch into a semi-incomprehensible splenetic tirade, pointing out that "of course I love them (or at least want to give that impression to the other relatives and future pompous history graduates who may walk past his grave), and of course they're not forgotten. What brand of facile asininity is this, you incompetent fool?"
You may as well just write "This man/woman was alive and now they're dead. They left behind some sad people. We had some good times." At least it's more expansive. And at least it's original. There are no benefits to the standard formula. It lacks poetry and warmth.
Now, you might argue that the space for originality is underneath the "In Loving Memory". That's where you write your sentimental drivel - "The Pain of Your Passing is Eclipsed by the Warmth of the Memories You Have Given Us" - or whatever. That's where you truly demonstrate the depth of your feelings to the deceased.
No, this isn't good enough. The headstone is all that is there in the cemetery to commemorate the dead. It should be a unique testament given to celebrate a unique life. It could be blank apart from a poem (not a poem, obviously. See below) and a name, or have playful carved-doodles of phalluses, if that is part of a relevant and affectionate tribute to the person decomposing beneath. You can tailor it as much as you like, and you shouldn't be constrained by what everyone else has written first. The Loving Memory in whose name you compose your headstone can be presumed.
P.S. The one "In Loving Memory" I could bear to sanction would be:
Why did everyone creating these stones think it would be a good idea to copy the inscription of virtually every other inhabitant? It's not original, it shows poor and defective thought and a lack of the true sentimentality that one would hope one's surviving relatives and friends would feel towards one post-mortem.
Personally, I can't imagine the manufacturers of headstones being responsible. After all, they've got to do a lot of carving whether or not people want to alter the standard sentence fragment. Besides, ultimate responsibility lies with those preparing the dead person's funeral.
Even if a lazy and unscrupulous funeral director did say to you, "Sorry, mate. 'In Loving Memory' or 'Gone, but not forgotten' are your only options', would you accept that? No, not if you have any regard for the recently-deceased. Instead, you launch into a semi-incomprehensible splenetic tirade, pointing out that "of course I love them (or at least want to give that impression to the other relatives and future pompous history graduates who may walk past his grave), and of course they're not forgotten. What brand of facile asininity is this, you incompetent fool?"
You may as well just write "This man/woman was alive and now they're dead. They left behind some sad people. We had some good times." At least it's more expansive. And at least it's original. There are no benefits to the standard formula. It lacks poetry and warmth.
Now, you might argue that the space for originality is underneath the "In Loving Memory". That's where you write your sentimental drivel - "The Pain of Your Passing is Eclipsed by the Warmth of the Memories You Have Given Us" - or whatever. That's where you truly demonstrate the depth of your feelings to the deceased.
No, this isn't good enough. The headstone is all that is there in the cemetery to commemorate the dead. It should be a unique testament given to celebrate a unique life. It could be blank apart from a poem (not a poem, obviously. See below) and a name, or have playful carved-doodles of phalluses, if that is part of a relevant and affectionate tribute to the person decomposing beneath. You can tailor it as much as you like, and you shouldn't be constrained by what everyone else has written first. The Loving Memory in whose name you compose your headstone can be presumed.
P.S. The one "In Loving Memory" I could bear to sanction would be:
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Mark Twain: The Ugly Years
I've written before about the delights of Mark Twain in his latter, misanthropic years. But now I've been studying him in a little more detail, reading a rather good biography by Ron Powers - Mark Twain: A Life. Unfortunately, as with all of one's heroes, studying Twain reveals his ugly side, his human flaws and weaknesses, which shatter the illusion that I've had of him as a faultless machine of pure satirical incision.
For example, in his early 30s, Twain became engaged to his first wife, Olivia Langdon. And he fell in love in the most clichéd and humiliating way that anyone can fall in love, complete with the worst and most offensive love-letters ever crafted, their appalling nature magnified when contrasted with his otherwise sterling verbal and written performances at the time.
Here are a few excerpts:
"Livy, Livy, Livy darling, it is such a happiness, such a pleasure, such a luxury, to write you, that I don't know when to stop."
"P.S. -- I do LOVE you, Livy!
~
P.P.P.S. -- I do love, LOVE, LOVE you, Livy, darling.
~
P.P.P.P.P.S. -- I do love you, Livy!"
"You are so pure, so great, so good, so beautiful. How can I help loving you? ... [H]ow can I keep from worshipping you, you dear little paragon?"
"I send a thousand kisses -- pray send me some."
And so on, and so forth.
Now, I value historical accuracy as much as the next graduate, but I can't help but think that Powers has done Twain a great disservice by faithfully reproducing these inane scribbles. In a new edition, perhaps he would consider striking out all references to love and replacing them with filth and bile. Mark "the truth is the most valuable thing we have, so I try to conserve it" Twain would, I'm sure, approve.
Right now, I eagerly anticipate the time, in a few years, when multiple members of his family will start perishing so that he might unlock the genius of his latter years. No one writes their best work when they're happy and complacent.
For example, in his early 30s, Twain became engaged to his first wife, Olivia Langdon. And he fell in love in the most clichéd and humiliating way that anyone can fall in love, complete with the worst and most offensive love-letters ever crafted, their appalling nature magnified when contrasted with his otherwise sterling verbal and written performances at the time.
Here are a few excerpts:
"Livy, Livy, Livy darling, it is such a happiness, such a pleasure, such a luxury, to write you, that I don't know when to stop."
"P.S. -- I do LOVE you, Livy!
~
P.P.P.S. -- I do love, LOVE, LOVE you, Livy, darling.
~
P.P.P.P.P.S. -- I do love you, Livy!"
"You are so pure, so great, so good, so beautiful. How can I help loving you? ... [H]ow can I keep from worshipping you, you dear little paragon?"
"I send a thousand kisses -- pray send me some."
And so on, and so forth.
Now, I value historical accuracy as much as the next graduate, but I can't help but think that Powers has done Twain a great disservice by faithfully reproducing these inane scribbles. In a new edition, perhaps he would consider striking out all references to love and replacing them with filth and bile. Mark "the truth is the most valuable thing we have, so I try to conserve it" Twain would, I'm sure, approve.
Right now, I eagerly anticipate the time, in a few years, when multiple members of his family will start perishing so that he might unlock the genius of his latter years. No one writes their best work when they're happy and complacent.
Thursday, 11 August 2011
Pity Poor David Cameron
In the wake of the riots, there has been a false dichotomy presented amongst various commentators as to how we can or should proceed. EITHER we can pepper the looters with live ammunition and make their corpses homeless OR give them an unconditional discharge and their own radio show.
At the centre of this rather flimsy pretext is a rather elegant philosophical debate about determinism.
In the Red Dwarf episode "The Inquisitor", Rimmer, when asked to justify his existence, says, "What else could I have been? My father was a half-crazed military failure, my mother was a bitch-queen from hell. My brothers had all the looks and talent. What did I have? Unmanageable hair and ingrowing toenails. Yes, I admit it. I'm nothing. But, from what I started with, nothing is up."
A similar argument is heard referring to the recent rioters (who are, for the sake of the argument, assumed to be disaffected, poor youths with a lack of parental influence): what else could they have been, it's easy for us to say, we're very white and middle class, don't know what it's like on the street, they need their voice heard etc.
This is, of course, a valid argument. People are products of their genetics and their environment. The former they have no control over, and the latter they have little control over. The problem is that, if we follow the argument to its full extent, can we ever punish anyone? If someone comes from a broken and abusive home and in term becomes abusive, is that their fault? They can't help it, shirley. And so on, and so forth. The problem is knowing where to draw the line of personal responsibility.
(Arguably, this is also a problem with religion - if people go to Heaven for believing, what of the people who didn't have the advantage of a Christian upbringing? It's not their fault, but they're still more likely to be punished for eternity.)
The person I really pity is David Cameron. Wealthy, aristocratic family, privileged upbringing, Eton, Oxford, married to a woman from a wealthy, aristocratic family. And those genetics! Not only white, he also has the chubby baby-like cheeks of the aristocracy. I ask you, with this start in life, what else could he have been but a Tory?
What about George Osborne? Multi-million pound trust fund, privileged upbringing, middle name Gideon, a sneering face incapable of showing compassion? What else could he have been?
We should show empathy and intelligence in understanding how people's start in life can influence their behaviour and ask what we can do to promote equality in light of this. But we must be consistent. When these people dismantle or even destroy our country, we must realise that they haven't always had the same opportunities and experiences that we have. And neither have the rioters.
P.S. Overheard in a restaurant last night - news of _______'s riots filtering through to a family from that city. Children's response was concern that they would no longer be able to buy their jeans from a certain burned-out shop. The atmosphere became slightly tense and awkward after I angrily (and rather pompously) suggested that I felt a lot more concern for the people who would lose their £5.93-an-hour jobs in that shop.
At the centre of this rather flimsy pretext is a rather elegant philosophical debate about determinism.
In the Red Dwarf episode "The Inquisitor", Rimmer, when asked to justify his existence, says, "What else could I have been? My father was a half-crazed military failure, my mother was a bitch-queen from hell. My brothers had all the looks and talent. What did I have? Unmanageable hair and ingrowing toenails. Yes, I admit it. I'm nothing. But, from what I started with, nothing is up."
A similar argument is heard referring to the recent rioters (who are, for the sake of the argument, assumed to be disaffected, poor youths with a lack of parental influence): what else could they have been, it's easy for us to say, we're very white and middle class, don't know what it's like on the street, they need their voice heard etc.
This is, of course, a valid argument. People are products of their genetics and their environment. The former they have no control over, and the latter they have little control over. The problem is that, if we follow the argument to its full extent, can we ever punish anyone? If someone comes from a broken and abusive home and in term becomes abusive, is that their fault? They can't help it, shirley. And so on, and so forth. The problem is knowing where to draw the line of personal responsibility.
(Arguably, this is also a problem with religion - if people go to Heaven for believing, what of the people who didn't have the advantage of a Christian upbringing? It's not their fault, but they're still more likely to be punished for eternity.)
The person I really pity is David Cameron. Wealthy, aristocratic family, privileged upbringing, Eton, Oxford, married to a woman from a wealthy, aristocratic family. And those genetics! Not only white, he also has the chubby baby-like cheeks of the aristocracy. I ask you, with this start in life, what else could he have been but a Tory?
What about George Osborne? Multi-million pound trust fund, privileged upbringing, middle name Gideon, a sneering face incapable of showing compassion? What else could he have been?
We should show empathy and intelligence in understanding how people's start in life can influence their behaviour and ask what we can do to promote equality in light of this. But we must be consistent. When these people dismantle or even destroy our country, we must realise that they haven't always had the same opportunities and experiences that we have. And neither have the rioters.
P.S. Overheard in a restaurant last night - news of _______'s riots filtering through to a family from that city. Children's response was concern that they would no longer be able to buy their jeans from a certain burned-out shop. The atmosphere became slightly tense and awkward after I angrily (and rather pompously) suggested that I felt a lot more concern for the people who would lose their £5.93-an-hour jobs in that shop.
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Kaiser Chiefs: A Brief Study of Lyrical Mediocrity.
This study is almost so brief that it may as well be left to the title to say it, but I'll expand a little.
The Kaiser Chiefs, along with The Killers and suchlike, were one of the new indie bands everyone liked when I was about 15. Indie had nothing to make me like it. It was popular and bland, and thus beyond redemption. It stood out in no category. Musically? Below average. Passion? Below average. Lyrics? Below average. And yet I decided I liked the Kaiser Chiefs enough to refrain from turning off their music where possible.
It is possible, if not likely, that I professed to like them purely to increase my credibility should I ever make the dubious claim that I'm a tolerant person with regards to music.
Anyway, they were, for the album I had, mostly harmless.
And then I heard their single "Ruby". The first two categories remained unchanged, but lyrically, they had gone from "below average" to "psychotically poor". For those who haven't heard this delight, the chorus goes something like:
Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby
And do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya
Know what ya doing, doing to me?
Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby
The Kaiser Chiefs, along with The Killers and suchlike, were one of the new indie bands everyone liked when I was about 15. Indie had nothing to make me like it. It was popular and bland, and thus beyond redemption. It stood out in no category. Musically? Below average. Passion? Below average. Lyrics? Below average. And yet I decided I liked the Kaiser Chiefs enough to refrain from turning off their music where possible.
It is possible, if not likely, that I professed to like them purely to increase my credibility should I ever make the dubious claim that I'm a tolerant person with regards to music.
Anyway, they were, for the album I had, mostly harmless.
And then I heard their single "Ruby". The first two categories remained unchanged, but lyrically, they had gone from "below average" to "psychotically poor". For those who haven't heard this delight, the chorus goes something like:
Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby
And do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya
Know what ya doing, doing to me?
Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby
Well, they still sold well, so I'm told, so clearly my opinion is less commercially-viable than your average music fan's. But what annoyed me even more than Ruby was a different song I happened to hear, called "The Angry Mob". Why did it annoy me more? Because it crossed over from the vapid and unimportant to the vapid and "political".
Maybe I'm just a snob. I mean, In and of itself The Angry Mob isn't so vapid (of course, it's not so worthy that it deserves a proper lyrical synopsis here. Suffice to say that it doesn't like Daily Mail readers). It ends with the repeated chanting of:
We are the angry mob
We read the papers everyday day
We like who like
We hate who we hate
But we're also easily swayed
We read the papers everyday day
We like who like
We hate who we hate
But we're also easily swayed
And, in many ways, this is a fair and accurate summary of the right-wing paper-readers they speak about. So maybe I'm wrong to criticise it. It's bland and inoffensive (and harmless), just like the band itself, you could argue. The problem is that, as recently shown at Glastonbury, many people appear to regard this as the pinnacle of lyrical excellence. Wondering around near the back of The Other Stage, I saw people chanting this with such devotion and such wonderment. There's no way that this is because of its hypnotic music quality. It has none. Perhaps people are simply caught up in the moment of seeing an act they've seen on TV before. However, when criticising the lyrics, I was informed by an intelligent and astute friend, that I was wrong in my choice of target.
Regardless of what people actually thought of the lyrics (and, as indie fans, there's a good chance they weren't thinking at all), the problem is that people will see that this group is popular, hear their lyrics, and place an unnaturally large emphasis on the worth of what the Kaiser Chiefs have to say to them. However, people sometimes forget that indie, as a genre, is devoid of any lasting political significance.
I'm not a snob and I appreciate and empathise with what I assume the Kaiser Chiefs' views are. However, reaching such a wide audience, they have a responsibility - when using political lyrics - to be outstanding, to show real intellectual worth, and make people really think. With such simplistic and monotonous lyrics, they waste this opportunity. They appeal to the lowest-political-common-denominator. With laziness like that, they may as well write papers for the angry mob themselves.
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, 20 July 2010
We Don't Hate Enough
Don't worry, this post is going to be very specific and focused, and not at all influence by vague teenage angst and a mild dissatisfaction with the way that the world functions. I'm not a teenager anyhow.
I was talking to a dear friend who asked why, when we routinely criticise "over-paid footballers", we leave over-paid film stars alone. The comparison is both legitimate and apt. Both earn a lot and can give terrible performances, both species contain their share of COMPLETE AND UTTER dickheads (in acting, Mel Gibson/Tom Cruise, mostly), both sometimes receive more than their employers can realistically and sustainably afford to pay them.
And so on, and so forth.
The point being that footballers aren't always "over-paid", because they earn what the market dictates (granted, they do sometimes receive far too much if a club is owned by an oil tycoon with obscene amounts of money and no business model). Similarly, actors aren't always over-paid, even at ($/£?)15m-odd a time, because films starring those big actors generally generate a lot more than they cost.
Now I'm a capitalist at heart, inasmuch as its completely atrocious, but its use of competition does aid us. However, rational arguments are for the weak, and instead of being a heartless old sod myself, I'm going to conclude this piece by criticising Mel Gibson.
He's misogynistic, anti-Semitic and unintelligently foul-mouthed. Also, he's aged badly. How amusing for a man who's traded so regularly off his looks.
Etc.
(Okay, so it lost some of its focus. Fuck off.)
I was talking to a dear friend who asked why, when we routinely criticise "over-paid footballers", we leave over-paid film stars alone. The comparison is both legitimate and apt. Both earn a lot and can give terrible performances, both species contain their share of COMPLETE AND UTTER dickheads (in acting, Mel Gibson/Tom Cruise, mostly), both sometimes receive more than their employers can realistically and sustainably afford to pay them.
And so on, and so forth.
The point being that footballers aren't always "over-paid", because they earn what the market dictates (granted, they do sometimes receive far too much if a club is owned by an oil tycoon with obscene amounts of money and no business model). Similarly, actors aren't always over-paid, even at ($/£?)15m-odd a time, because films starring those big actors generally generate a lot more than they cost.
Now I'm a capitalist at heart, inasmuch as its completely atrocious, but its use of competition does aid us. However, rational arguments are for the weak, and instead of being a heartless old sod myself, I'm going to conclude this piece by criticising Mel Gibson.
He's misogynistic, anti-Semitic and unintelligently foul-mouthed. Also, he's aged badly. How amusing for a man who's traded so regularly off his looks.
Etc.
(Okay, so it lost some of its focus. Fuck off.)
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, 3 December 2009
K: Nouns
In the first post of its kind (on here, at any rate), I've decided to write about something that I feel vaguely irritated about, instead of writing about violence.
Nouns: they're not verbs. So, for example, "How will this impact on us?" is wrong. However, I'm aware of an inevitable transition here. Apparently "contact" used to be a noun only. There are probably a lot of misanthropic men somewhere (not too dissimilar to me, except older and wiser) who bemoan the loss of "contact", and its usurpation as a pseudo-verb, even though to me it's perfectly justifiable to use it as a verb.
The upshot of this is, of course, that I am doomed to be forever angry at these inevitable shifts, unless I can learn to embrace them. I've already created one of my own: I "fonzied" a broken vending machine and got it working. And we all use "google" as a verb (both of these examples are also non-capitalised, which should irk me more than it does). Also, I started the previous sentence with a conjunction. Is nothing sacred?
Nouns: they're not verbs. So, for example, "How will this impact on us?" is wrong. However, I'm aware of an inevitable transition here. Apparently "contact" used to be a noun only. There are probably a lot of misanthropic men somewhere (not too dissimilar to me, except older and wiser) who bemoan the loss of "contact", and its usurpation as a pseudo-verb, even though to me it's perfectly justifiable to use it as a verb.
The upshot of this is, of course, that I am doomed to be forever angry at these inevitable shifts, unless I can learn to embrace them. I've already created one of my own: I "fonzied" a broken vending machine and got it working. And we all use "google" as a verb (both of these examples are also non-capitalised, which should irk me more than it does). Also, I started the previous sentence with a conjunction. Is nothing sacred?
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