Sing Heav'nly Muse

It is doubtful if sales of Milton's epic would have been quite so robust had he used Paradise Closed Due to Bad Weather as his title.

Nor indeed would his verse been improved with additional meteorological information:
Him the Almighty Power
Hurld headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Skie
With hideous ruine and combustion down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire
Moderate depressions and slight drizzle

Culture, Anarchy & Live8

We show, as a nation, laudable energy and persistence in walking according to the best light we have, but are not quite careful enough, perhaps, to see that our light be not darkness.

Matthew Arnold, Culture and Anarchy (1882)

A good deal of energy and a huge number of decibels were expended in Hyde Park and other Live 8 venues on Saturday night – and much of it was clearly laudable. Although some doubt arises regarding the almost inadvertent ease with one can become a moral hero these days: perform a couple of golden oldies in front of a cheering crowd, log on to a web site, turn up to a pop concert and clap, simply switch on the TV and all praise is heaped upon you. Doubtless there will be more vigorous morality displayed this week in the form of more or less persistent walking, as anarchists and other concerned parties march, stomp and limp their way around Edinburgh.

Of course it is right that we should be concerned about starvation. Yes, pictures of starving babies should provoke us to tears, although whether this weep-along-clap-along morality is entirely tasteful while one is slurping from a jug of Pimms and listening to Elton John’s sentimental inanities is a matter of conjecture. Of equally questionable taste but of hugely symbolic value was Madonna’s seconding of a highly bemused and embarrassed black woman – one of the successes of Live Aid - and dragging her round the stage as she performed ‘Like a Prayer’.

Is Bob Geldof a prophet crying in the wildness, or at least in Hyde Park? Well, he may lack the beard but he definitely has the hair. More seriously, he is most certainly a hero in Arnold’s sense, displaying as does the Hebraic virtues of a “paramount sense of the obligation of duty, self-control, and work” together with an “earnestness in going manfully with the best light he has.” More seriously yet, he and the other organisers are clearly good men and obviously well intentioned. The question is, of course, whether his light is not darkness, whether his call to action might not make matters much worse.

So, how are the G8 leaders to take up the ‘white man’s burden’ that Geldof so earnestly wishes to thrust upon them? More money could be sent, more debts relieved. But as we know from recent history, only a pathetically small proportion of the money will get through to those who really need it. At best most will end up in the Swiss bank accounts of kleptomaniacal African politicians or be spent on luxury Western goods; at worst, it will be used to prop up the oppressive regimes that are largely responsible for the people’s suffering in the first place. Do we really wish to strengthen the position of tyrants like Mugabe or buy his mistresses more fur coats?

Perhaps military force should be used to administer Western largess and to make sure that it gets to the right people. Perhaps Sir Bob and his weep-along-clap-along followers would like us to invade Chad, Nigeria and Zimbabwe. Anarchists for Neo-colonialism? It is almost as catchy as 'Make Poverty History'. Certainly we could do that, although whether the West has a taste for such large scale military intervention in Africa is more than a mite doubtful.

Certainly there are thing that could be done if only we can blink away the self-indulgent tears. First, we should make the provision of aid dependent upon the transparency of its disbursement. Secondly, we could attempt to impose an absolute moratorium on arms sales to African dictatorships (we might also ban the sale of luxury limos while we are at it). Above all, we could follow the US lead and agree to drop farm subsidies. The anarchists are clearly in the wrong place; they should be outside the Elysee Palace and blockading French farms.

Keeping Things Personal

"When in trouble, pick a fight with Britain: this is the time-honoured diversionary tactic for any French politician in difficulty."
- The Economist, 25th June, p.48

This strikes me as extraordinarily dangerous as entire countries are then dragged into what are essentially personal matters. Chirac’s already weak reputation is further damaged because of the French non vote and so he tries to distract attention by attacking the British rebate. We respond by going after the Common Agricultural Policy and pretty soon ordinary French farmers are appearing on Newsnight expressing their unmitigated hatred for all things British.

Far better would be for Messrs. Chirac & Blair to keep the quarrel to the purely personal sphere. After all, they clearly don’t like each other very much.

Thus, M. Chirac could respond to the French non vote by drawing attention to B’s rather silly ears and somewhat effeminate body language. While a news conference with Blair might go something like this:

Journalist:
Isn’t the CAP a thoroughly outmoded economic tool creating structural distortions throughout the EU & impeding technological development?
Blair:
Possibly, but haven’t you noticed the size of Chirac’s nose? And between you and me, the guy really stinks. Don't they sell Old Spice in Europe?

Datta, dayadhvam, damyata

Woken abruptly this morning at 6AM by a blinding flash followed by a massive explosion. After dismissing the idea that we were being attacked by Peruvian terrorists or Basque separatists, my sleep-benumbed mind worked out a slightly more probable cause & I was out of bed.

A few seconds of frantic fumbling in my office and all the computers, routers & switches were unplugged, the ADSL line ripped from the wall. Despite surge protectors sitting atop of other surge protectors & unlimited power supplies, I have a healthy fear of lightning. However, for any one in the field of IT, an electrical storm does provide a flawless excuse for a guilt-free lie in.

Just as I was getting back to sleep the phone rang. “We can’t get the internet on our workstations,” complained the client. “I can’t hear you.” I replied. “The thunder is far too loud”.

On Incipient Senility & Canine Excrement

Dementia begins today, as on every day. I was having a discussion with my argumentative young son, Fu, while more than somewhat preoccupied with finishing off a programming project. Our conversation touched on the favourite subject of weird things we’d be prepared to eat. Strange things I have already ingested include snake, alligator (think slightly greasy pork), horse, durian (utterly wonderful despite the stench of rotting flesh), frog, shark & caterpillar (the mescal worm is rather tasty if the tequila is strong enough). The main thing I definitely wouldn’t eat is dog. Fu asked why. All I was able to come up with was the exceptionally inane answer: “Dogs are stuffed full of dog poo”

Paranoid Reasoning & Damp Denim

The following recollection was prompted by two things. First, I have just read an awful description of a would-be suicide’s thoughts on hurling himself off Golden Gate Bridge:

As he crossed the chord in flight, Baldwin recalls, “I instantly realized that everything in my life that I’d thought was unfixable was totally fixable—except for having just jumped.”

The second was a chance meeting the other night with a man suffering from an obsessive fear of contamination. God knows what my final thoughts would have been had I made my leap.

The Grim Reaper walked abroad in the world of late 80’s public service advertising accompanied by images of tombs and terrifying sepulchral voices threatening a new plague. This was doubtless entirely laudable if it changed sexual behaviour and saved lives; on the other hand, I am convinced that little thought had been given to the devastating effect the campaign might have on cowardly hypochondriacs. And indeed it had an extremely negative impact on those of us of a more than slightly hysterical disposition; those who merely need to glance at a home medical book to become convinced that we suffer from beriberi, swamp fever, fallen arches and leprosy.

In that fevered hothouse atmosphere, it was all very well adjuring us not to die of ignorance, but I was living in Bangkok and hard facts were very hard to come by. What’s more the total funk the melodramatic advertising had inspired made it extremely difficult to calmly look at any factual materials I was able to acquire. I did manage to read a bit of And the Band Played On but all I was able to absorb was that blue sarcomas were somehow involved and that one could expect night sweats. The heavy book dropped from my trembling damp hands. I too suffered from night sweats.

As a matter of fact, most of us who couldn’t afford the exorbitant price of air conditioning perspired a lot at night; sweat soaked bedding was only to be expected given the high humidity and the fact that the temperature almost never fell below 100° Fahrenheit; but it took some time and several Valium for me to persuade myself that this might just possibly be the cause. It took a while longer and a few more tranquillizers before I could rid myself of the idea that the night sweats induced by heat might be masking the truly sinister AIDS-induced night sweats. I might, of course, have reflected that as I was not an intravenous drugs user and was far from promiscuous I had little to fear. But, calm reflection was not something the tropics or the advertising encouraged.

Bangkok was, after all, ‘sin city’; and we were clearly at the very epicentre of the plague. The claims that HIV transmission was only possible through the intimate exchange of bodily fluids were obviously well-intentioned lies put about to avoid general panic. I could see through this. The thing was doubtless already airborne and I insisted on my right to panic.

Then there was my friend, David, who unfortunately was even more of a wimp than me. I told him about the blue sarcomas and the night sweats; he regaled me with petrifying stories of swollen glands and hideously furred tongues. Pretty soon we would be sticking our tongues out at each other and prodding ourselves under the armpits almost every minute of the day. The result being, of course, that our underarms were severely bruised and frighteningly some of these bruises could well have been described as ‘swollen’. Then were his daily visits to my office at the university in which he would somewhat embarrassingly strip of his shirt and point a quivering finger at a small, barely perceptible freckle: “Could that possibly be a sarcoma?” Not surprisingly, the night sweats continued.

David and I would torment each other at night with constant agonizing phone calls. “I am sweating, Mark” came a plaintive voice. “Well, it is the hot season, David. Besides, I am very worried about this horrid swelling just above my belt.” “It is called a stomach, Mark”, he would reply. Often I had to resist the urge to take a taxi across town so that he could inspect my suspiciously furred tongue.

We became a kind of secret society of two locked into a mutually reinforcing cycle of self torment. We even had our own covert signals and codes. If we met up at parties, we would look across at each other’s haunted eyes and mouth things like ‘painful swelling’ or surreptitiously gesture at the glands at the back of our ears with looks of barely restrained horror. This went on for months.

The climax came on a study trip to Lampang in Northern Thailand. After a hot and distinctly uncomfortable day surveying temples with the archaeology department, I retired to my hotel room and took off my shirt. It was then that I glanced across into the mirror and confronted my worst fears: my entire upper body was a sinister dark blue. I was doomed.

David & I had often discussed what to do in such an eventuality. There could obviously be no hesitation. With some effort I forced open the window, felt a blast of hot air against my face and looked down at the grimy alley seven storeys below. The fall should definitely do the trick and there was no one about. Nor was there any real need for a suicide note: the ghastly blue markings across my chest would offer mute testimony to why I had taken my life. I prepared to throw myself out and started to drink the contents of the drinks cabinet. If I were to hurl myself into oblivion I was dammed if I would do it sober.

The drinks cabinet nearly exhausted, I happened to notice that labels on some of the miniature bottles of gin, whiskey & vodka had taken on exactly the same hue as my chest. “Hum”, I thought, “it is obviously extremely contagious”. It had even spread to the handle of the fridge. Rather more strangely I found that the ‘sarcomas’ on my chest could be erased with vigorous rubbing. Even without the benefit of any medical knowledge and despite the effect of the drinks, this struck me as distinctly odd. It was then that my eyes were drawn to the real source of the contagion: my brand new denim Thai Farmer’s shirt which was still moist and dripping blue dye from the day’s exertions.

I still wasn’t convinced that I was all clear. The malevolently intelligent sarcoma might be using the dye as a camouflage. Such was the power of paranoid reasoning that it took several visits to the excellent Bangkok Christian Hospital to reassure me that I was not infected. And even then I couldn’t look at the Grim Reaper posters without a shiver, although there was one respect in which they were spot on: ignorance can kill.

Violence in Modern Britain

A moderately respectable public house in a sleepy English market town is not the sort of place where one would expect a sudden outbreak of extreme violence. However just a few days ago, a young man suffered a vicious flying rugby tackle from a complete stranger in just such a place. It must be said that the perpetrator of this unprovoked incident was not some drug-crazed juvenile delinquent or drink-fuelled football supporter. Nor was he some sociopathic product of an impoverished single-parent family living on a blighted urban housing estate. No, the attacker was a mild-mannered albeit somewhat maladroit middle-aged man of vaguely bookish habits. It was, I confess, myself. Yet the attack was almost as much a surprise to me as it was to the poor man and to my numerous other drenched victims.

While wholeheartedly agreeing with the need for wheelchair ramps, I can’t help wondering if they themselves might almost be a cause of people landing up in wheelchairs in the first place. Of course, I didn’t have time to frame that thought – or, indeed, any other thought except “Dear God … not again!” – as I tripped over one and found myself hurtling towards the pub's swing doors at well-neigh breakneck speed. Fortunately for me – although perhaps not for the unsuspecting and hapless people in my direct path – I broke nothing, although I did receive a painful crack on the head.

The next few milliseconds seemed to stretch an age, telescoping almost to infinity. Much like, in fact, the way in which scientific discourse stretches the events that occurred in the immediate aftermath of the Big Bang. That however is pure speculation; this is the lived experience of being at the heart of a microcosmic primeval explosion in a Dorset public house.

My hideous velocity barely checked by the doors, I catapulted into the pub at knee height and noticed a pair of legs immediately in front of me. In a split second of almost preternatural clarity, I came to the entirely misguided conclusion that that the best way to arrest my headlong flight would be to grab them. Incredibly, my reactions were almost as fast as my thought and with a sickening thud the stranger’s knees were in my grasp. This is, I think, where things started to go seriously wrong.

In a perfect demonstration of Newtonian physics and the transference of energy , I stopped; my not inconsiderable momentum being instantly transferred to the stranger who equally instantly plunged to the floor. I am not quite sure of the rules determining the multiplications and bifurcations of kinetic energy … but something along those lines must explain the parabola that the drinks tray he had been holding described as it, the glasses and their contents flew onwards in much the same direction as my plump body had been travelling when I first entered. Of course, the trajectory would have been higher and - given the reduced mass and the added kinetic energy from my victim's fall - the velocity relatively greater.

After this, I rather lost my presence of mind, and events became more than a little confused. There were quite a few crashes, shattering noises, gasps and curses around me and, as I lay prone and stunned on the carpet amidst the devastation, I recall noticing that I hadn’t even been splashed - somewhat odd given that rule about equal and opposite forces. Certainly lots of other people were, although fortunately there didn’t appear to have been any injuries, at least none of an especially life-threatening nature.

Equally oddly no one threatened to thump me and a tray of replacement drinks seemed to entirely settle the matter with my young victims. Perhaps they were subdued by the weirdness of it all; perhaps my sudden incursion into their lives had given them their first ‘intimations of mortality’ and forced them to look at the awful darkness unpinning all existence. Perhaps they were just slightly shell-shocked. Who knows? But when I was their age, had I been abruptly thrown to the ground and my drinks spilled by a stout middle aged man, I doubt if I would have shown quite as much forbearance. Indeed, I might have turned quite violent.

Virtual Hilltribes & Political Correctness

It is well worth visiting the Virtual Hilltribe Museum if only for the music video. However, the introduction to the latter is largely irritating politically correct nonsense and as I couldn't post my full response to it, I will add it here:

Frankly, I don’t think that a pop video such as this bears all the hostile analysis you are throwing at it. It is a sweet, sugary confection … possibly a bit cloying but that is the nature of many music videos. Moreover, unless there are subtle nuances that I am missing - and that you are not pointing out - it is not that offensive either.

The thematic movement is towards integration with an acceptance of cultural difference rather than homogenisation. The Thai children initially see the two ‘Hmong’ with some amusement, a little derision but largely with curiosity. As the clip moves on there is more & more acceptance. For example, the plump-faced girl who smiles with a degree of schadenfreude when it looks as though the small Hmong will be punished for not wearing a uniform is quickly won over when he offers her the carrot. When he goes up to the teacher, she looks on with concern. Later, the only real opposition is between the rebelliousness of all the children lead by the Hmong and the authority of the rather humourless teacher.

It is interesting that this carnivalesque rebellion is given the royal imprimatur. The small Hmong stands at the front of the class, briefly supplanting the teacher. Above him, on one side is the King’s portrait; on the other, the Thai flag. This, by the bye, is a lesson that should be taken to heart by the bureaucrats who try to deny citizenship to the hilltribes.

As for the unrealistic elements, the whole genre is unrealistic! It can hardly be criticised for lacking the production values of cinema verite. Kids didn’t really sing in the Victorian workhouse; they do in the musical Oliver. Nuns normally don't scale mountains singing their hearts out as they do in The Sound of Music.

There is doubtless an element of patronisation going on but this is not especially sinister and not strictly racist either. It is surely better to be presented as cute exotic others and as part of the Nation (vide supra) than as dirty vermin who should be removed from society (as the Jews were during the Nazi era). I would argue that is also probably better to be seen as cute exotic members of the same nation than to be ignored and to have your legitimate grievances swept under the carpet as has largely been the case up till now.

It is a rather charming silly song and a rather silly but nevertheless cute promotional video. The only conceivable influence the thing might have is for the good. After all, for all its insipid sentimentality and racial stereotyping, Uncle Tom’s Cabin did quite a lot for the anti-slavery cause.

Death by a Thousand Qualifications or Daddy, You Bastard

The game is well & truly up, Archbishop Rowan Williams. You found the recent horrors in the Far East a somewhat trying test of your faith … yet - incredibly nay miraculously - somehow your faith survived. How touching … how unspeakably nauseating! What was ultimately on test was your reason and humanity, and both failed abysmally.

A young girl dies in excruciating agony from cancer of the throat, yet God loves her as a father loves his child? Ah, but not quite that sort of love … something mysteriously divine. In Aberfan, 116 little children die, some holding hands for comfort, smothered by thousands of tonnes of slag. More mysterious love from on high?

The years pass with more horrors: Vietnam, the Munich Olympics, the Killing Fields, Tiananmen Square, more recently earthquakes in Turkey. Who can keep track of it all? And exactly how much is the sacred affection diluted by ‘not quite that kind of love’.

Now, tens of thousands of the poorest of the poor die in Asia … yet God still loved them as some sort of cosmic daddy? The poor woman driven utterly insane by the death of her three children and who now is wandering the devastated streets hoping that whoever is looking after her drowned baby is feeding him well … is she another recipient of this wonderful, holy love? Just how much more ineffable affection can we take?

Was this simply a test, Archbishop Rowan Williams, and all this just for you? All this anguish, death and bereavement simply to provide you and your diminishing congregation with a bit of a puzzle, something to think about while warming yourself on a Winter’s evening by a cosy hearth at the Palace? How much God must truly love you.

Perhaps you remember Anthony Flew’s parable about two explorers who chance upon a clearing in the jungle. There they saw many flowers and many weeds growing side by side, and one of the explorers said, 'Some gardener must tend this plot!' So they pitched their tents and set a watch.

"But though they waited several days no gardener was seen. 'Perhaps he is an invisible gardener!' they thought. So they set up a barbed-wire fence and connected it to electricity. They even patrolled the garden with bloodhounds….But they heard no sounds, and saw no movements of the barbed wire. The bloodhounds never alerted them to the presence of any other in the garden than themselves. Yet, still the believer was convinced that there was indeed a gardener: 'There must be a gardener, invisible, insensible to electric shocks, a gardener who has no scent and makes no sound…who comes secretly to look after the garden which he loves.'

But the skeptical explorer asked, "Just how does…an invisible, intangible, eternally elusive gardener differ from an imaginary gardener or even from no gardener at all?"

Rend your purple robes in shame, Archbishop Rowan Williams. They are in tatters anyway. Go to the beaches of Phuket, to Banda Aceh or to Sri Lanka. Spurn a face mask & breathe deeply, really deeply; it is God’s breath. Then with your head cleared by the invigorating stench, recite after me:

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.