Death and Badminton

A while ago, Felix told me about a parody he had once seen of The Seventh Seal, in which Death appears on a very windy seafront, and when he announces himself the Knight thinks for a second and challenges him to a game of badminton. It doesn’t seem to be anywhere on youtube, but I did find some evidence that it really existed, in comments to a Swedish blog entry, where someone called Frederik Tersmeden claims to have made the clip as part of a series of short films for a comedy festival. He adds that the wind was so loud in the microphones that they had to redub the whole thing with the original soundtrack, changing only “Chess” for “Badminton”—with glorious results where Death asks the Knight how he knew he played, and the knight replies, “I’ve seen it in paintings, and heard about it in songs”.

Posted in Blather, Sweden | 5 Comments

Jesus saves the Mozart of Taxidermy

The Financial Times has a strangely moving story about a man whose mission it is to stuff very small and unremarkable fish.

I started my taxidermy business when I was 22 and I struggled to earn a living for 12 years, partly because of the cost of equipment. I also started doing drugs. I thought of myself as an artist who needed that high to be inspired. My skills improved, and I won the World Championship for fish taxidermy in 2003. But at the same time, my problems grew bigger.
I got to the point where I had to quit taxidermy. I felt like I had lost everything, but actually, this was a necessary step. I found Jesus and started to work as a precision mechanic. I fell in love and got married. I was convinced that I would never work as a taxidermist again when, last year, I had an inspiration from God. He gave me the feeling that it is time to restart.
It’s hard to earn a living with this job, but I hope the title I won in February will help – I was named best fish taxidermist at the World Taxidermy Championship in Salzburg. I put two months of work into my exhibit, which was a 9cm European bullhead. The judges were particularly impressed by the fin, which is 0.1mm thick. One even called me the “Mozart of taxidermy”.
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A Pelican History

England in the Eighteenth Century is a lovely, succinct and succulent volume from the Pelican History of England, written in 1950, at a time of fierce self-improvement. To quote the contemporary review in the Listener: As a portent in the broadening of popular culture the influence of this wonderful series has yet to receive full recognition and precise assessment. No venture could be more enterprising or show more confidence in the public’s willingness to purchase thoughtful books”. So there it was in the Oxfam bookshop, alongside more modern works less eloquent of the public’s desire for thoughtful books.

I had forgotten how terrible were the lives of the urban poor—that until the very end of the period, the population of the cities were maintained only by immigration from the countryside because the infant mortality rate was so high; things grew better in London until the adoption of plumbing, and water closets, which meant that all the shit was flushed into the Thames, instead of being collected for night-soil and carried out of the city, so that typhoid became a scourge. Men and horses drowned in the potholes of the Great North Road. But then I suppose it was very little larger than the bridleway that presently runs on a chalk ridge north of Saffron Walden, which at one point crosses clay, and there turns to a quagmire every time it rains.

The naked greed for empire, too, was something we easily forget. There is nothing in the American attitudes to Mesopotamia today which is not to be found in British attitudes to North America in the eighteenth century, right down to the preference for trade over empire. Here are Pitt’s reasons for capturing Canada from the French …

set out in a memorandum, sent by the Duke of Bedford, with Pitt’s approval, to Newcastle. It contained five points, and their order is interesting and significant. They were:
1. The conquest would secure the entire trade in fur and fish.
2. The French would be prevented from supplying their West Indian islands with lumber, which would drive up the price of French sugar, to the advantage of our sugar merchants.
3. France would lose a market for manufactures.
4. France would no longer be able to build ships in America or acquire masts and timber. Their naval armament would be limited.
5. The expulsion of the French would give security to British North American colonies.
The last point carried the most weight with Newcastle, but not enough. He was haunted by the increasing cost of the war, which had led to a sharp increase in taxation, with consequent grumbling from the landed interest in Parliament. To embark on a costly expedition which would gratify neither the King nor Parliament, but only a handful of merchants in America and London, seemed folly and waste to Newcastle. The project was dismissed, but carefully preserved by Pitt.
Should we perhaps regard him as a neo-Whig?

But there are also moments of pure delight to be had from the contemplation of eighteenth century science: Louis XV was so impressed by the discovery of electricity that he had a line of monks a mile long hold hands, and then ran a shock through all of them, and was himself convulsed with laughter when they leaped into the air.

To see brandy ignited by a spark shooting from a man’s finger became one of the wonders of the age. Wesley became a firm believer in electricity’s curative powers because he regarded it as a kind of elan vital, and he warmly recommended intense and prolonged electric shocks for a wide range of diseases from malaria to hysteria.

Posted in British politics, Literature, Science without worms, War | 1 Comment

Explaining creationism in British schools

The first impulse for Melanie Phillips’ long journey to the very very right came from her experiences as one of the Guardian’s education writers, where the gap between propaganda and reality was just unbearable. Today’s paper shows what she was up against. There is a story from Polly Curtis about a former Admiral pointing out that sink schools are a complete disaster in which even clever children will learn nothing because they are run by thuggish older ones whom the teachers are unable to discipline. This isn’t even controversial. (Today’s Daily Mail, for example, carries a report of a fifteen-year-old girl raped in school apparently by two boys apparently fourteen and fifteen). So what is the official response to Mr Parry?

He said children might flourish if they are taken out of their state school and put in a private school, but they would fail again “if they go back to anarchy and chaos” of a troubled home.
In an apparent admission that private schools may have an effect on the state sector, Parry said: “The minute you take what you and I would call middle class bourgeois elements out of that social context … you have [a] disadvantaged, deprived underprivileged critical mass, these schools are fighting a losing battle.”
John Bangs, head of education at the National Union of Teachers, denounced Parry’s words. “It’s that kind of ill-informed, snobbish idea of state schools which opens up the divide between the sectors that I don’t think most private school heads would support,” he said.
A spokeswoman for the Department for Children, Schools and Families said it was “a deeply misguided picture, frankly insulting to the hard-working and talented teachers and pupils in the state sector”.

It is absolutely clear from his remarks that he was talking about a minority of state schools and not about the sector as a whole. What he said was daily currency where Guardian writers discuss the education of their own children: anyone who lives in London asks of a state school whether it has enough middle class parents to make it worthwhile, and if it doesn’t, they try to avoid it. Yet the reaction of the ministry and of the biggest teachers union is simply denial and misrepresentation.

This isn’t just a story about one eccentric journalist. It also explains why there are creationists teaching in British schools today: because Tony Blair and his advisers looked at the educational establishment and decided that it was so wedded to failure that only schools where the union and the local authority had no power could hope to educate children in poorer areas. Hence the Academies, run by philanthropic businessmen, and—since some rich philanthropists are also fundamentalist Christians—the fact that some Academies are run by creationists. And, yes, of course I would rather my own children were educated by decent creationist loonies than in schools run by adolescent gangs.

But the theology of the academies was entirely irrelevant to the decision makers. Religion got its chance because the secular state failed and lied about its failure. It really isn’t a story about superstition versus rationalism.

Posted in British politics, God | 2 Comments

quick travel notes

I was in Edinburgh on Thursday. When I left my hotel to buy a paper, I found a dozen schoolchildren in the corner shop and the first thing I thought, accustomed as I am to the mores of the Home Counties, where three or more children are automatically regarded as a gang of shoplifters, was that it was extraordinary that they should all be allowed in at once. They were all in uniform, queueing politely for sweets. They said please, excuse me, and thank you. At the back of the shop, among all the normal consumer magazines, were four copies of the New York Review of Books. This really is a foreign country. It’s not, however, an idyll. Bang across from the hotel is a large pawnbroker’s; and I am only staying here because the B&B where I had been booked in decided to shut for the night at about eight pm: it was deserted completely, and the phone number led only to a switched off mobile phone. On the train down, there was a Scots family: father, mother (with a tattoo on her bicep), adult son in kilt, daughter (who weighed eight stone, she told the carriage) and a rather silent woman, presumably son’s girlfriend. The women breakfasted off sandwiches, the men off beer and crisps. They had got through four cans of Stella each by the time the train reached Darlington, which I found impressive, since we had left Edinburgh at 8am.

Posted in Travel notes | 4 Comments

More things that Telegraph readers say

The Guardian has a piece today lamenting that there is an elected BNP councillor who has a blog at the Telegraph site. Fair enough; but if the man has been elected and if what he posts is legal it’s hard to see why the paper shouldn’t be associated with fascists, if that’s what it wants to be. And if it doesn’t want to be associated with fascists, it will really have to put some work into cleaning up the comments section of its site. Obviously, a Simon Heffer piece blaming youth crime on the welfare state makes a big steaming pile of troll bait, but as far as I can see these people are entirely serious. Below the fold some results of doing a quick search through its comments for “scum”
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Posted in British politics, Journalism | 4 Comments

A quick thought

I really don’t know the answer to this question. But when I read the work of Muslims trying to modernise/reform their religion by reinterpreting the Koran from first principles (well, all right, from our principles), I’m struck by one problem: is there, in Islam, anything that corresponds to the scandal of particularity?

I quite see the point of claiming that the work stands above all interpretations, including the traditional ones, and the idea that Muhammed was really progressive for his time, and some kind of proto-feminist in the way he treated all his wives well, so that Muslims today should not be bound by the sexism of early Arabian society. This seems to be sound both ethically and logically: in fact it’s an inspiring example of the way in which theological reasoning can be used to justify changes in eternal truths.

But when this sort of argument cropped up in the debate on women priests, there was a counter-argument made sometimes that God had after all chosen first century Palestine for the incarnation, so he must have approved of the social arrangements there. If Jesus were really twentieth century a feminist, why wasn’t he born in Berkeley, CA? If God really is omnipotent, he can surely arrange for there to be a virgin in Berkeley. I remember this question being put, not in quite those words, by Graham Leonard before he left the Church of England.

The question this throws up in a Muslim context is whether there attaches any theological meaning to the prophet appearing when and where he did. Obviously, it was self-evident to seventh century Arabs that God should send an arabic-speaking messenger to their particular time. What, or who, could be more important in history than they were? But it can’t have been quite as self-evident to all the generations of non-Arab Muslim philosophers since then, and I wonder if they admitted the question and came up with any answers.

Posted in God | 2 Comments

Paging Fred Clark

Dear Fred, not all the fanmail you get is spam. Some needs a reply …

Posted in God, Housekeeping, Journalism | 2 Comments

Don’t have sex with Roman Catholics

Last Monday I went to see Nick Davies talking at Wolfson College, and in consequence bought his book; quite by coincidence. Kevin Myers’ memoir of life in Belfast Watching the Door turned up on Friday, so I read that too. The take-home message of Davies is that news business in Britain is screwed; the message you remember from Myers is “don’t ever have sex with Catholics”.

I don’t think I have ever read a better told journalistic anecdote than his account of being caught in bed with an IRA man’s wife when the husband returns unexpectedly from the border.1

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Posted in British politics, Journalism | 6 Comments

In praise, again, of Brian Aldiss

I really think he may be the most under-rated writer in England today. I am continually surprised by the range of his accomplishments. Years ago I scanned in a large extract from the opening of one of his books about the British Army in Indonesia after the war, written in a flawlessly naturalistic register. Yet he can also do “poetic” in a way that thousands of science fiction writers do their teeth-aching best to persuade you just can’t be done. Here is the opening of his very short story Creatures of the Apogee:
From a distance, the one-storey palace appeared to float on the ocean like a wafer.
Three beings came springing out of the lighted rooms of the palace behind the long colonnade, he. She, and she. They ran over the flagstones, laughing. Night crackled overhead in tones of deep blue and sherbet. Joy flared like lightning across two opposed points.
From the chambers behind them, music overflowed. In that music moved nothing but harmony itself, complete in its own cadences, yet the key in which it was pitched carried an oblique reference to the particular loaded time changes of this world. Things grew, eyes sparkled, joints were as nimble; yet this was this fateful planet and no other in the universe.
Take that great terrace, paved with flagstones in which mica emicated beneath advancing feet: across its expanse, illumination played with as many variations as the music. The night itself was a great source of light and, like an upturned cauldron, the sky spilled its nourishments over the intricacies of the building. Into the vaulted ceiling behind the colonnades, the sea smuggled its own messages of light, for oceans have better memories for heat and day than does air. The glaciers, too, and seven tiny moons, all contributed their share of luminance.
And yet those three who ran laughing – they rejoiced in night, he, She, and she, rejoiced and lived for its qualities. Now they had reached the very end of the terrace, and rested against the last slender column, with its faded paintings of sorcerers and cephalopods. Their regard went first, instinctively, to the lapping waves, as if to penetrate beneath them and view the creatures who lay waiting in the depths, waiting for the appropriate season. They smiled wryly. They raised their heads.

It’s in his collection Last Orders which the FWB found at a remainders stall over the weekend. It’s almost the whole of Stapledon painted on an enamel miniature.

I don’t terribly like a lot of his work: in particular, in the Sixties his imagination had a hermetic and surreal quality to that repels me. But that’s a complaint quite separate from admiring his technical skill and it seems to me that anyone wanting to know how to write (British) English that is simultaneously disciplined and colloquial could learn at least as much from Aldiss as from Amis the Elder. From Amis the Younger, there is nothing but an Awful Warning.
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