Caeci Visum

If you are feeling especially observant, you will have noticed, dear reader, that this is my first post for some time. The reason is simple. I have had very little to say. However, I shall now give you some things to ponder.

Why Oh Why?

The entirely thinkable has happened. To no-one’s surprise, the US presidential election, which takes place this November, is, barring accidents, going to be a re-match between Joe Biden and Donald Trump. Even this political junky finds the idea of a re-run of the decline of man versus the decline of Man fantastically unappealing. As I have observed on a previous occasion, the best thing that can be said of both candidates is that neither of them is the other. So why are the two parties sticking with such appalling poster boys?

Biden is the easiest for most people to understand. He may be a little wobbly, and he may be shedding his remaining marbles at an alarming rate, but he’s fairly inoffensive. He also has two advantages. He is the incumbent president, and the last time the Democrats gave serious consideration to unseating one of their own, it went horribly wrong for them. There is also the fact that Biden has already beaten Trump, so might manage to do it again.

Actually, if one can get past the horrendous hair and hyperbole, Trumps appeal isn’t too difficult to understand. Being a rabble-rouser, rather than a conventional politician, he recognises the damage caused by that insidious modern disease, political correctness. Nobody wants to be thought a racist, a misogynist, a homophobe, a transphobe, or anything else that society deems to be unpleasant. This is especially true of politicians. However, because language usage is constantly changing, what was acceptable to say last week, isn’t acceptable this week. Trump has no time for this, and neither do his supporters. This has an appeal for more persuadable non-aligned voters, as at least they feel that they know what he is saying to them.

So, the Americans are left with the choice between someone who is inoffensive but pointless, and someone who is offensive but pointless. Heaven help them – and the rest of the world.

Silence Is Golden

In one of my early posts, I ranted about music in shops. I still hate it. Apart from making the whole ghastly experience of shopping wore, I fail to see any purpose to it.

Yesterday, I was forced to consider a variation on that theme. I found myself travelling on a train with a fan of horse racing. Now, I have no problem with this. In fact, I too like a little racing now and then. However, I do think it discourteous when people insist on turning the volume on their devices up, and blasting, via an uncertain internet connection, the comings and goings of the first day of the Cheltenham Festival to a railway carriage full of other people. Why cannot those who wish to listen to things use headphones?

Hanky Panky

Recently, my partner wanted to buy some new handkerchieves. Like me, she prefers them to paper tissues. However, this proved less than straight forward. Nowhere seems to sell them any more. Eventually, she had to buy them online.

Why is this? Are hanky sales really that poor? We are being encouraged to reuse things in order to preserve the environment – even reusable versions of feminine hygiene products are being promoted – so why must we be pushed into getting disposable tissues? And it’s much more comfortable blowing one’s nose on a hanky.

I’m sure, dear reader, that you don’t need me to tell you that we are only a few short days away from Christmas. “Peace, good will to all men”, we are told, unless one shows the smallest deviation from the orthodox view that Christmas must be enjoyed, whether you like it or not. Indeed, the build-up, which goes on and on and on, for months, must also be enjoyed, come what may.

Let me be clear, there are those who genuinely enjoy Christmas. And why not? Why shouldn’t people enjoy the carols, the cheesy pop songs, belting out Fairytale Of New York in the pub, taking the children to see Father Christmas, the exchanging of presents, the food, the drink, the time with loved ones, the Christmas films, Morecambe & Wise (again), the King’s speech, or even the frantic and elicit tumble at the office party, followed by an urgent post coital prayer to any and all gods that there will be no consequences, so partners need never know? Why should not Christians enjoy comforting the birth of their lord and saviour? That is, after all, the point of Christmas. But conversely, why should everyone have to enjoy it?

For many, Christmas is a terribly difficult time. For some, it is a time of great loneliness. For others, it is the time when they feel, most acutely, the loss of a loved one, either through bereavement or some form of relationship breakdown. For victims of abuse, it can be hell, as they are confined with there abusers, and don’t have the refuge of their places of work or education. And of course, there are those who simply don’t like Christmas.

There are an ever-increasing number of pre-Christmas celebrations of Christmas, which in turn creates an unreasonable burden of expectation. We are exhorted to be frenetically sociable, whether we wish to or no. We are urged to recklessly impoverish ourselves by buying presents, not only for our nearest and dearest, but also for colleagues, our children’s teachers, friends, and a whole host of random people we barely know, and probably don’t like. If a person spends Christmas alone, it is almost considered a scandal. This is, in fact, a form of bullying. It must stop. Most people assert the right to live their lives entirely as they wish, and respect the rights of others to do the same. Why then, should the relentless celebration of Christmas be the exception? If you enjoy all of the festive shenanigans, but you know people who hate them, leave those people be. As the young people say, or so I’m told, you do you, and let them do them.

And so, dear reader, I wish you a happy Christmas, however you choose to spend it. And if it isn’t your cup of tea, I wish you luck getting through it, and would remind you that better days are just around the corner.

“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” So wrote Saint Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians, probably between AD 53 and 57. For those people who like to know chapter and verse, 1st Corinthians, chapter 13, verse 13. Whilst one could take issue with Saint Paul over a good many matters, I do agree with him about the importance of charity. However, I don’t support the methods of certain charities of persuading people to part with their cash.

There are many methods of fundraising. Most of them seem perfectly reasonable to me. However, there are three tactics which I hate. They are bullying, tugging at the heart strings, and guilt.

My experience of charitable bullying occurred twenty years ago. I was “doorstepped” repeatedly by a representative of a large charity. Its aims and objectives were, and remain, concerned with medical research. After saying, more than once, that I had neither the time nor the funds to set up regular direct debit payments, I lost patience, and suggested that they should lobby big business or the Government, not me. “If we do that,” I was told, “they will take the credit for any breakthroughs, instead of us”. After replying that if they were that petty, they didn’t deserve money from anyone, I contacted management of the charity concerned, and complained. They sided completely with their volunteer, so I’m afraid that they have not, since that day, had a penny from me. And nor will they in the future.

People say that one should never work with children or animals. However, a goodly number of fundraisers think that they should do just that. They argue that everyone loves small children and cute animals, so no-one would be prepared to allow any cruelty to take place. True, nobody likes the idea of little children or cute animals suffering. But this cynical tangling of heartstrings and purse strings is wrong.

Then there is guilt. “Don’t be mean,” we are told if we won’t contribute to whichever excellent cause. Or “for just a few pounds a month, you could make all the difference”, which implies that your non-payment will cause endless misery and pain.

I am by no means anti-charity. For most of my life, I have either volunteered for, contributed to, or benefited from various charities. For almost twelve years, I have been an active freemason, and have happily contributed to efforts to raise money for charities. Indeed, the only organisation in England and Wales to have given more money to charity than the freemasons, is the National Lottery. Nor do I seek to tar all charities wit the same brush. Most of them are very sensible in their fundraising endeavours.

By its definition, charity should be freely given. Nobody should be pressured into giving money, nor should they give, or be asked to give, more than they can afford. Just a few pounds here, and another few pounds there, can end up causing financial problems. The good that someone’s donation does is undone if it impoverishes the donor.

We are entering another festive season, and you, dear reader, will be asked to contribute to many good and worthy causes. For what it’s worth, my advice, should you be moved to put your hand in your pocket, is to give as generously as your circumstances allow, but never recklessly.

You may remember, dear reader, that nine weeks ago, I wrote a piece covering various topics, rather than focussing on only one. Because I can, I shall do so again this week.

Language Of Its Time

I’m currently enjoying a novel set in Vietnam in the early 1950s, as the French colonial era was drawing to its close. One of the characters is referred to by two others as a “racist”. Of course, “racist” would be the correct term if the book were set in the present day, or even a couple of decades ago. However, in the ‘50s, such people were called “racialists”. If I know this, then surely a writer who was alive and kicking back then should know it.

In a book I read earlier this year, which was set during the First World War, a character said that she needed to “process” her grief. Such psycho-babble wasn’t used over a century ago. It jarred, most unpleasantly. If the author were not already dead, I’d write a stern letter of complaint.

I’m not suggesting that anyone who sets a novel in the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries should use Shakespearean language for all of the dialog. But surely a little linguistic research, along with all of the historical research, isn’t beyond the whit of the average novelist?

Slogones?

I heard a discussion about political slogans on the radio earlier. It seems that those who intend to vote Labour at the next election prefer the Conservatives’ slogan. With beautiful symmetry, those who intend to vote Conservative seem to prefer Labour’s slogan. Is it, perhaps, time to scrap the slogan? None of them do any good anyway.

Horrendous Hyperbole

Australia’s cricketers won the World Cup on Sunday. There have since been mutterings about it being the best Australian side of all time. Whilst I can understand the pleasure that Australian fans take in their teams success, I can’t understand why anyone would give such a ludicrous idea brain room, never mind declaring it in public.

Although Pat Cummins and his merry men – and two cheats – were ultimately successful in there quest, they had a shocking start to the tournament. The same cannot be said for either of the sides led by Ricky Ponting, in 2003 and 2007. They didn’t lose a game in either tournament. No other country’s cricket team has played in two world cups without losing a match. So how can this bunch be the greatest?

I’m A Nonentity … Get me On Television

One of the curses of twenty-first century television, is the reality show. It is so ubiquitous because it is cheap to produce. To be fair, that is an important consideration for TV bosses in this era of huge numbers of channels and streaming services, and therefore masses of competition.

The extraordinary thing about this phenomenon, is that one broadcaster’s show becomes the topic of conversation for other broadcasters. Sometimes this is no real surprise. The current series of I’m A Celebrity … Get Me Out Of Here, for example, features the charismatic political maverick, Nigel Farage. Political journalists want to know whether Farage’s idea of introducing himself to a wider electorate will pay off.

However, the puzzling one, is the BBC’s continuing obsession with The Great British Bake Off. It was understandable when it first began. It was, after all, being shown on BBC television. However, in more recent years, it has been shown by rival broadcaster, Channel 4. This hasn’t stopped BBC presenters banging on about it, which begs the question, why give airtime to the opposition? Surely they want their viewers and listeners to concentrate on their output, and not to be lured away by their rivals?

Last week, after a spate of dog attacks, some of which proved fatal, the Prime Minister, Rishi Sunak, announced that the XL bully would be banned. Despite the fact that this new fangled American breed is responsible for half the deaths caused by dog attacks in the UK since 2021, this ban has provoked outrage.

There are two groups of outraged people. Firstly, there are those who falsely believe that all extant XL bullies will be forcibly put down. Under the Government’s proposal, they will, in fact, be sterilised, muzzled when in public, and allowed to die off naturally.

The second group relies on a rather fatuous argument. They argue that the humans who own the aggressive dogs are dangerous, not the dogs themselves. Yet a good many people who advance this idea, repudiate the analogous point of view made by the American gun lobby, that owners, not guns, are dangerous.

But if the ban is to work, it has to be better planned than the last ban. In the early 1990s, American pit-bulls were banned in the UK. However, the population has not diminished. This is because the ban wasn’t thought through carefully enough. Although importing American pit-bulls is illegal, the importing of their sperm is not. So, bitches are artificially inseminated, and the ban is neatly dodged.

But is an outright ban on any breed of dog necessarily the answer? Might another approach be better?

The answer, in my view, is yes. The Government should bring back the dog license. But it should only be awarded according to certain criteria.

Firstly, the applicant’s home should be assessed. A twelfth-floor bedsit would not be a suitable place to house a large, energetic dog such as a Rottweiler. Nor would it be suitable for someone who wished to have a number of dogs.

Secondly, applicants must undergo some sort of training. They should be taught how to look after, exercise, and socialise a dog. They should be taught not to let their dogs off the lead near livestock, to respect the fact that not everyone wants random dogs to leap all over them, and that canine exceptionalism is entirely a figment of their own imaginations,. Although their four-legged darlings are undoubtedly special to them, they are not special in the grand scheme of things.

If a dog owner contravenes the terms and conditions of the license, or has no license, the penalties should be severe – a hefty fine, suspension or revocation of the licence, etc. But of course, as developing, then implementing a system will cost money, and possibly votes, the political will just won’t be there.

These suggestions may seem harsh. But if everyone knew where they stood, everyone, dogs and humans alike, would probably be much happier.

One of the truisms of media is that sex sells. The more scandalous it is, the better. Whether it’s stories of the sexual antics of royalty, politicians, film stars, musicians, the sporting elite, or those bizarre celebrities who are famous simply because they are famous, sales of newspapers and magazines will increase. Such prurient gossip is healthy for certain bank balances, and enlivens breakfast, commutes, or time spent in waiting rooms. A good many people deplore it, yet a good many people read it.

The latest scandal of the sort is that concerning that obnoxious creature, who can’t decide whether he’s a wanna be comedian, a strange faux guru, or a Poundshop David Icke, the odious Russell Brand, following a joint investigation by The Times, The Sunday Times, and the Channel 4 programme, Dispatches. Just in case you are unaware, dear reader, some of the women interviewed in this investigation have alleged that rapes and other sexual assaults were perpetrated by Brand. Subsequently, a police investigation has begun.

Not unnaturally, the reports have spawned a plethora of further articles. One which caught my attention was a broader reflection on the way that the BBC views its most popular presenters. For a time, Brand was one such presenter.

The premise of the article was that the BBC treated these presenters as gods. They were deferred to, and behaviour which would have been rightly considered unacceptable in ordinary mortals was tolerated, or even indulged. Behind the genial, reassuring masks of high profile presenters, there can be found bullies and sexual predators. Yet because all broadcasters wish for ever higher ratings, disgraceful conduct is rarely called out.

But this isn’t a problem unique to the BBC, or even to broadcasting. It is much broader than that. People have the idea that their heroes and heroins can do no wrong. The initial stories of bad behaviour are merely scurrilous rumours. Because they sing nicely, or make us laugh, or act well, or play whichever sport amazingly, or manage to combine warmth with gravitas when they read the news, or write our favourite books, or share views with us, or simply look beautiful, those scurrilous rumours can’t possibly be true. Until it turns out that they are. And then we get to enjoy the downfall of the great and the good.

We are rightly shocked when this or that entertainer is revealed to be truly depraved. We are similarly right to be appalled when we find out that a publicly agreeable personality is privately very disagreeable. But why do we put these people on pedestals in the first place? What does it achieve, apart from reinforcing a sense of entitlement for the celebrity, and making the fans look silly?

Perhaps it is time for us to stop worshiping at the shrine of Celebrity. If we do, the BBC and other media outlets can stop deifying famous personalities, and then, maybe, newsreaders, actors, musicians, sports stars, comedians, and even Poundshop David Ickes, can learn to behave like decent human beings.

As nothing has occurred this week that I want to write about, I thought that I would, instead, pose some questions. If you can enlighten me, dear reader, please do so. Your ideas or information would be greatly appreciated.

Why do we commemorate anniversaries?

Just before I started writing this, my computer took it upon itself to follow the lead of various friends and relations, and remind me that during the next day or two, it will be my birthday. Last Friday, the media marked a year since the King succeeded his late mother. Earlier this month, military historians reminded people that it was the eightieth anniversary of the first Allied landings in Italy.

What is the point? Why do we give ourselves these constant reminders of the passing of time? Does it have any benefit, either to an individual, or to society at large?

I’m as guilty as anyone when it comes to these things. Like everyone else, I have, and shall doubtless continue, to celebrate and commemorate as the calendar continues its perpetual cycle. My head is full of birthdays, wedding anniversaries, death anniversaries, and dates of other events. But what is the point?

Does it all stem from the various religions? Festivals and other observances have to take place at set times of year. So presumably the anniversary of a birth, marriage, death or other event would originally have been remembered due to its proximity to some religious festival or other?

Or is it simply that we like to have excuses to eat and drink nice things? They enhance a celebration, and cheer us up if we are commemorating something more somber.

What constitutes good literature?

The author, ex politician, and former convict, Jeffrey Archer, contends that there are two kinds of novelist – the story teller, in which category he puts himself, and the writer. The former, as you will no doubt have gathered, can keep his or her readers gripped by there story, but not necessarily amaze them with beautiful language. The latter has a far more intellectualised approach. Language and form are more important than plot. Thus Wilbur Smiths gripping adventures are dismissively described as “popular fiction”, and James Joyce’s often impenetrable prose will always be considered “literature”.

But why should this be? Is it merely intellectual snobbery? After all, Smith can easily be understood by the masses, whereas Joyce requires some effort.

And why is Shakespeare still considered the greatest playwright the anglophone world has ever produced? Most of his jokes were topical, so are not understood by the majority of people four centuries on. His characters speak to one another in a preposterously poetic manner. Yet we all believe him to be the English literary gold standard. Is this true? Or do we simply lack the will, or perhaps the iconoclasm, to challenge the perceived wisdom of generations of school teachers?

And if Shakespeare is, indeed, the greatest, why in God’s name did the Nobel committee ward the literature prise to the ridiculously overrated Bob Dylan? How could his drug-fuelled absurdities be considered literature of any sort, never mind good quality literature?

Ah well. I suppose that I might as well end by quoting Johnny Nash, who wrote and sang that “there are more questions than answers”.