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.

My Impending Veganism - Yawn

For the second time in my life, I've been converted by a book. Before it was The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins (yes, I'm one of dem "new" atheists), and now it's a book called Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer. I first encountered his work by watching Everything is Illuminated, a touching film based on his novel of the same name. On first appearances, he seems a mild-mannered novelist, but once you get into the meat (oh dear) of his book, he writes more like a passionate journalist. It's a readable and eye-opening book.

Just as with my clichéd love affair with The God Delusion, I was a partial-convert before I'd even heard of the book. I was aware of, and partially sympathetic to, the feelings and arguments of vegetarians, and I don't consume dairy, though only for reasons of vanity. But like with Dawkins' book, I hadn't stopped to take my slight discomfiture to its necessary conclusion: using animals for food is not justifiable.

I won't restate any of the facts and experiences recounted in the book, because I don't intend to make this a long polemical post, but I strongly recommend that you read it yourself for the full effect.

Unlike my new-found atheism, I don't really see myself becoming a great proselytiser, aggressively persuading everyone of the narrow validity of my tenets. Maybe I'm just older or more apathetic, but I think it's probably simply that I'm too aware of the awkwardness of accommodating vegans' dietary requirements.

That's a terrible reason, I know, for someone not to stick rigidly to something they believe to be right. I write this post so that, in a few years' time, I can look back and see how inflexible I've become. I doubt I'll look back as a lapsed, full-blown omnivore. I may eat meat and fish when presented with them in a social environment in which it would be rude or inconvenient to decline them, but ethical and environmental considerations leave me with little desire to purchase such items myself.

Apologies for the lack of sarcasm, cynicism or attempts at humour in this post. In retrospect, it is a very dull and boring post.

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.

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. 

Christmas as a Heathen

Back when I was a believer, Church at Christmas seemed like cough medicine: it was unpleasant, but I knew that it was good for me. Nowadays, I happily go because it's only once or twice a year, it makes one or both parents happy, and the unpleasantness of Church provides me with karma balance, so I can enjoy the pleasures of food, drink, family and presents guilt-free. Because I'm such a nice person, I tear myself away from the warmth of my room and the excitement of various free online games and attend the Christmas Church service.

I'm handed an exciting looking candle upon entry, which distracts me throughout the prayers being offered by a ten-year-old, which all end with a resounding "god wiv us". I'm clearly not looking devout enough, as a man in white, like the priest but not the priest (his sidekick, perhaps?) frowns disapprovingly at me. For a second, I feel we're going to start a horrendously violent physical fight atop the altar, as the priest faints and various members of the congregation bay for blood on the outskirts, placing bets on who'll be disembowelled first. But he seems to lose interest as a cake is brought out for Jesus. Although we sing him Happy Birthday, Jesus declines the opportunity to blow out his own candles, and the priest, who considers himself a reasonable stand-in for the son of god, does it himself.

The inevitable contradictions of a Christian service all seem to be present, as the priest lectures us on the nearest fire exits, whilst lighting the hundreds of candles he has distributed. No one seems to mind either that the ten-year-old next to me is three inches away from setting his mother on fire, or that I'm entertaining myself by trying to drip candle wax on everything around me. I also know for a fact that around 30% of the musicians playing hymns in front of me are atheists. As we eat Jesus's birthday cake, I wonder whether there are parts of the congregation's body baked into the cake, as a small way of saying thank you for the millions of pounds of flesh Jesus must have given Christians worldwide throughout the centuries. Although I make fun of their beliefs now, I find these sorts of Christians relatively benign and mostly very pleasant too, so I don't mind making the occasional sacrifice to spend an hour or two with them. After all, did not Jesus give himself up for sacrifice at Christmas? No? Oh.