Wednesday, 28 May 2008


Did you know that “overpopulation” is actually viewed as a judgmental word? A word that has become “racially, religiously and ethnically sticky, and thus totally uncool.”

Well, I only learned this recently.

But it is apparently a fact that for decades no one in the demographic field has touched the word “overpopulation” with a bargepole. Instead, a genre was emerging: semantic escape from verbal commitment. Another way of putting this is to say that 'semantics' are a means used to elude the properties of a gist that are essential to it being it. And political correctness, thus understood, is an extremely agile conviction, an amalgam of lingua franca, pig-headedness and wishful thinking; but astonishingly, it is a conviction - indeed a doctrine - that remains a central tenet of urban cosmopolitanism in the West.

Indeed, it is hard to run against a movement. And I’m being sensible here.

Converting “queer” into “gay,” was the antidote to arguably the most notorious and certainly the most ambiguous sex-related phenomenon of the last century. As Raymond Chandler said in The Long Goodbye: "The queer is the artistic arbiter of the age. The pervert is the top guy now." Or you can turn a blatant miscarriage of justice into a politically correct comedy featuring O. J. Simpson as a saint. One ought to realize, of course, what kind of havoc can be wreaked with this sort of story by a director with an ability to believe his own fantasies and the requisite measure of hidden contempt. So instead of using the term “overpopulation” why not refer to it as “Non-invasive Consensual Acknowledgement Of Global Demographic Surplus Bounty (NCARGDS)?

Well, I am afraid the answer isn't that simple; and let’s cut to the chase on this, shall we?

Humanism is an ancient philosophy based on the idea that human existence may be bettered through reason. So when, in the deteriorating relationship between the global economy and the earth's ecosystem, the sun disappears in a gritty haze and traffic crawls through a noontime gloom with headlights ablaze on a planet swept by hate, xenophobia and toxic industrial effluents, there is, so far as I am concerned, no such semantic support structure. In fact, my thinking is not only “correct” - it is visionary. And like all visionary nightmares, I’m compulsively and horrifyingly attracted to it.

(Alternatively, of course, you can always try and solve a problem by pretending it doesn’t exist!)

Written in my own hand on 28 May in the year of grace 2008.


Sunday, 25 May 2008


"Supervenience holds that any change in the higher level properties, states and
processes of a composite system, must correspond to a change in the lower level
properties, states and processes. All functionalist accounts accept that the
mind supervenes on the brain, but they reject the idea that the higher-level
structure can be defined in terms of the lower-level structure."

Readers of this startling piece of information may wish to know that it originated with the current post of a blog entitled: The Duality of the Universe. Thinkers with very large brains, let alone with a verifiable education, sometimes struggle to distinguish concepts of mathematical category theory from the mathematical concept of a dual but - call me unrefined - in the very opening minutes of looking at those concepts, I had an experience reminiscent of my very first overdose of a very large amount, of very potent moonshine.

I took one fearful look and fled!

The tone is very much that of an obituary. Indeed, I am reluctant to quarrel with Gordon’s mournful thesis, but that is because I've never heard of the representational theory of the mind (RTM), so my reservations about the mind-brain relationship which falls under the umbrella of functionalism. are wholly untarnished by familiarity. Indeed, among the various epistemological propositions that Dr McCabe offers the reader, one decisively rejects the removal of an entire discipline: plain human understanding. Nor can the phenomenon of inaccessible ideas be explained by physiological changes in the cortex, let alone be “reduced to any of the structures which characterise the brain.” For whereas Freud spent some considerable time on the subliminal impulses of the human mind, the very esteemed Gordon McCabe devotes this particular lecture to the elaboration of the physical universe as an instance of a mathematical structure.

Something, one feels, is going on here. But what?

Gordon, no doubt, understands exactly the mathematical quality the subject requires and, with impeccable academic analysis, reproduces the corresponding duality both epistemologically and metaphysically (- or so I gather). But like Jung, who purged Freud's doctrines of their obscene preoccupation with the hysterical manifestations of unconscious mental states - and unless, which cannot be proved, all experience is ultimately mathematical - I, too, would suggest that Gordon’s Supervenience somewhat overstates its own intellectual contribution to the wisdom of our time and may in fact prove to be a far more hypothetical field than the natural sciences of which it claims to be a part.

But then, this is physics, not philosophy!

Philosophy always has a discernible meaning, and may strictly be called a motive-force. Its articles alert its readers to the dangers of abstraction, and of overestimating the conjectural components of the human quest for knowledge at the expense of the common instincts. This may, indeed, involve intellectual salvation, for my own emphasis is on the peace and harmony that enlightenment may bring to all who strive for it, and - on a much more personal level - on the ardent hope that a sensuous woman in need of awakening is not the kind of challenge that Gordon is going to ignore.


Wednesday, 21 May 2008


All this may seem a little off the beaten path, but since our culture is in the midst of a lingering female sexual dysfunction epidemic, it seems to me that the division of the labours and responsibilities of the sexes ought to be made quite distinct.

It has, for instance, been stated very clearly - in a report commissioned some time ago by the UK environment department - that “people who take the time to chat over the fence to their neighbours and have plenty of sex tend to be happier.” The Whitehall Wellbeing Working Group (W3G for short), was a committee of civil servants which had been charged with finding out how ministers can make citizens more cheerful. Consequently, this consisted of research into the factors influencing happiness and how governments can affect it.

So what did they do? Put themselves at the head of the ideas of their time, of course!

Fortunately - now that cosmetic surgery is available and all women can look like inflatable dolls - trials have already begun on a sex drug that works directly on the pleasure zones of a woman’s brain. If successful, flibanserin — developed by a German pharmaceutical company — could become the “female Viagra” - or a means of reinstating declining passion.

Of course, if it's necessary to have an expert on call, you can’t beat the Krauts.

You see, Viagra, designed to help men with erectile dysfunction, was also tested by Pfizer as a sex drug for women. But while it produced greater pelvic blood flow it failed, unfortunately, to emulate the male desire.

Surprise, surprise!

I’m not saying we should be soft on my own sex. Indeed, I’d like very much to be locked up in a cage and be but scantily dressed in handcuffs and whipped cream. But I think we can do better by examining states of mind. Subconsciously I have long believed that female sexual dysfunction is not just related to blood pressure, but also affected, however sublimely, by appeal to certain emotive areas dealing with the human heart. Call it a clash of temperaments, but a women never tires of meaningful declarations of affection, of dinner at a posh hotel, of being complimented for no reason at all, of having her fortune told in a predictable way, and the lid put back on the toilet bowl. In fact, I have found that my favourite moment for being told “I love you”, is just before switching off the reading light. The vagina is not a waste-disposal unit, but a metaphor for love. Besides would you really want to inseminate a female’s birth canal while she is massively medicated?

And did you know that men are admired for some of the very qualities for which women are despised?

With men, doctrines of moral and social progress simply fall on deaf ears. Predatory ideas about sexual profligacy prevail. It may sound benign compared to watching Deep Throat or witness a prostitute being spunked in the face, but, as I’ve told you before, men will fornicate with anything that is soft, warm, and has anything like a perceptible pulse. A daily shag, to most of them, provides everything they could possible want out of life. It's as enticing as snorting coke and as cordial as a game of darts. It's also pleasurable, environmentally sustainable and something you can do at home.

In fact, I only mention this, because Paula Hall, a sex therapist for the charity Relate, sounded a note of caution. She appeared less than thrilled at the prospect of sharing an intimate moment with an overheated, overbearing, overly familiar domestic adjunct, for whom in her heart she had no use at all. In fact, she went so far as to indicate her misgivings as to whether a drug could deal with the root problems of poor sex lives. “The biggest cause of low sexual desire is relationship problems,” she‘s reported to have said. “Many women with low sexual desire have no problem with sexual excitement.” The desire is there, apparently, but the right man is not.

Well, I think I‘ve heard that one before! So I’m passing this on, in every sense, as a public service announcement: It’s all down to relationship problems?!

Fortunately, a new nasal spray drug called bremelanotide is intended to take care even of that. Designed to stimulate nerve pathways linked to sexual arousal it has the same effect on men as on women. A noble and egalitarian idea, I think you may agree. Or a grab-and-run mission? I find it hard not to be prejudicial - men have a penchant for talking dirty. What’s worse, they like it when you squeal (bastards). Nor do I wish to be implicated in new and extreme ways of seducing a female. For if Whitehall’s civil servants appear to have a better eye for chemical effects rather than emotional causes, then there will never be a limit to wishful thinking. Basking in their own post-coital glows, they seem to regard all men as instantly attractive and all women as pining to be raped.

And that, surely, is all you can ask for?


Tuesday, 20 May 2008


“The Blog Post In Which I Try To Pick A Fight With Will Self“.

This - the above - is a powerful and fast-paced post, a clean prose style and a vibrant vocabulary. It may just go down in blogger history as the post in which Richard Madeley elevated the Appreciation Society from its long accepted and somewhat repetitive status as the ever dependable, to being the leading male star of the A and topmost brackets.

His is pulsating, protean language; toyed with, reinvigorated and creatively distorted by someone who speaks it every day.

So what is it about Madeley that retains such loquacity in an age when “the way an author rumbles and tussles with synonyms, and the √©lan with which he executes any series of clauses” has been overtaken by the disjointed staccato of the internet blogger?

The weblog has all the properties of a world gone wrong. Its characters live in a bestiary. They have all the facts and all the answers, but they are little people who have forgotten how to dream. Indeed, what is surprising is the high proportion of those without a marked aptitude for any particular vocation who think of blogging as a panacea. Occasionally dandified or sinuous, often debilitating and tasteless, sometimes overblown or purple, or just downright badly conceived and overwritten. And if they do have some useful propositions now and then, they do not rest until they have asphyxiated them in torrents of pointless sophistry and adolescent cleverness.

Then there is that section without past and without purpose. A generation that has no dreams left to offer, who admire the art of creative writing itself rather than writing about things that have actual significance, and who are embarrassed by any sentiment other than disenchantment. And now take The Lumber Room. Here's contradistinction. Commendably terse, illustrative, and just this side of reiterative, Elberry’s problems are much deeper than literary exertion. For what both his purposeful prose and his satirical diatribes display is a commendable absence of cant and sentimentality.

The Moonshine Memoranda are commendable only in the personal sense, and intelligent perhaps only in the sense of a constant and breathless effort to find significance in things than other people have ignored. In truth, Selena’s problems are far too distanced and uninvolved to be of popular concern. Everything happens by proxy. Unless, of course, one determines that Miss Dreamy tends to swamp a palatable topic with turgid, sinuous prose. Which, purportedly, happened when I reviewed Baroque in Hackney. Miss Baroque’s weblog experiments with socio-political themes, albeit that the experimentation remains parenthetical, and never succeeds in redeeming its topic in any significant way. Her criticism of unpopular personalities is not based on the sort of research that could ever legitimise a critical expose.

Bryan & Nige at Thought Experiments are best acknowledged, perhaps, as an example of their own indefatigable skill in locating and satisfying a topical demand. And thus they massage the paws and the fawning admiration of their trophy sycophants. McCabism? Physics, yes! But philosophy, you feel, has never really been Gordon’s first love. In Abstentia Out is at worst intellectually insecure, at best by someone who has said too much and thought too little. Nourishing Obscurity? A general, all-purpose primer for people who don't like to read; a designer’s triumph of photographic content over literary style.

Mutleythedog? He’s my nomination for comedian of the cyber-year - and for Crufts! Admittedly, for anyone concerned with general mental health, the growth of smutty fiction is alarming. No doubt. But Mutley is in no sense of the word an intentional pornographer, he’s just got a dirty mind. And that's the difference between a champ and a chump.

So am I a philistine? The answer is yes, of course I am. I’m still into Wordsworth and Milton. But you’ve been a gracious audience, and I am going clubbing. Thank God for that...


Sunday, 18 May 2008


Richard Madeley: You have such a panoramic vision, Dreamy. It amazes me that you
can predict these large historical shifts from the top of such finely pointed stilettos...
Mutleythedog: Whoever would have thought that a night club hostess would have time for such insights ...
All shook up: Only our consciousness will live on. That and our libidos.

Your libidos, gentlemen, arise because you have mistaken the persona I have created for the woman I am. You insist, after a few grunts of tactful compromise, on seeing me more as a character in chick-lit than as a real individual. And I do know that you have built up in your own emotions a person that does not exist.

Men often have these mistaken notions, and place far too much emphasis on the importance of their libidos. This faculty is predominant in men; they seem to be created with a special aptitude for sex. Indeed, men might pride themselves on their sophistication, but it seems as if the notion of the sexually dynamic woman is as utterly profligate to the emancipated male, as it is in far more fundamentalist realms. Nor am I bound by the old rules of decorum that have traditionally constrained the female. But while Selena the Hostess represents perhaps the most substantive and provocative fusion of Miss Dreamy’s private and public personas, she is a brilliantly intelligent - and my autopsy would confirm this - and highly creative women known less for her time in front of the mirror than for her distinctive social personality. Nor would I want you to think that, because women are seldom noted for great Hegelian constructions, the person Selena does not exist except as the alter ego of one who conceals her identity behind promotional images portraying her in stilettos.

And yet Selena’s persona enchants my mind and my spirit builds her up into something that battles with my real identity. One day I am erotic, libidinous, predatory, a lascivious vixen - the next I am a mysterious female a thousand years old, knowing everything in the cosmos; a combination of Madame Blavatsky, Gertrude Stein and Indira Gandhi, a space-time singularity formed some five thousand million years ago out of a cloud of swirling gas, an extravagant, wildly cerebral woman with exquisite taste in everything except the right man.

Meanwhile, I feel perfectly justified in asking questions and interpreting answers with that part of my brain that makes me different from ordinary humans. Nor can, or will, I see anything except in a millennial perspective. For while it may be difficult to resist the conclusion that there have been few periods in the long history of human endeavours which have offered a greater variety of apocalyptic possibilities than ours has, it lies at the heart of what I see as my responsibility, my mission in cyberspace: to educate, to inform, and to fundamentally alter perceptions.

“The present and the past upon earth,” said Nietzsche, “that is my most intolerable burden; and I should not know how to live, if I were not a seer of that which must come.” Some may not look too far for evidence of this; for others, this blog may be a sorry - and I fully expect temporary - use of an extraterrestrial brain. But then, if a blog doesn't make its readers reflect, it has no real vitality.


Thursday, 15 May 2008


I’m no anthropologist, and I hate to make snap judgments based on nothing other than numbers, but one of the most alarming aspects of the Decline of the West is the demographic factor. Astonishingly, while “half the population growth in the United States is Hispanic, and only about 10% white,” rather less than 20% of the world’s population is actually still “white.” Nor would anyone question the fact that the various light-skinned races seem to be in terminal decline. Indeed, one senses that the global balance of power is beginning to change, that the Caucasian Millennium is all but over, and that Obama Barack’s bid for presidential power is a first - tentative but symbolic - assault upon Caucasian hubris.

In the case of the UK, with its undoubted alien loyalties, it is claimed that mixed-race Britons are poised to become the country’s largest ethnic minority within twenty-five years. Only a few groups, such as black Africans, are growing faster, while the white British population is actually shrinking by about 100,000 every three years. Which might be an unwelcome precedent for Italy, France and Germany etc., since it has a chilling, apocalyptic dimension. Based on recent statistical calculations, the German nation - unquestionably a great humanist culture, while being thoroughly unpleasant at other times - will be totally extinct in approximately 250 years.

Nor does that mean the streets of Germany are being reclaimed by vegetation.

It simply means the end of one race and the beginning of another. Although no one has seen the relevance of this, from a strictly zoological point of view, sufficient evidence exists to substantiate the claim that within the next three centuries the white Caucasian races will all but have ceased to exist.

And in those trends perhaps, we find the key to this inexorable, widely admired, and deeply significant proclivity of races and cultures to assimilate. Discriminated against and, according to his own conviction, execrated, the Negro might confidently expect to spearhead this trend. For the fact of the matter is, that the concept of “Race” has never distinguished itself as a unifying factor. And the genetic outcome of mixed marriages is hugely persuasive for that reason alone. But while anti-white diatribes are currently articulated with an abandon that would be illegitimate if the objects were black, it is difficult at the same time not to feel any regret for the demise of the purely Caucasian line.

Much would depend, of course, on the nature of the decline. Dumbed down into a service culture with no real sense of its own purpose, the emancipated West has never recovered from the scourge of political correctness which taught its youth to be ashamed of their history. Indeed, the remarkable story of Western imperial expansion, once endowed with grand and epochal meaning, is today so universally maligned as an unprincipled if highly successful history of money-grabbing, that for all its rapacity, nobody seems to want to notice anymore how decisive the pursuit of scientific and geographical discovery has been for the future of human civilization.

The pursuit of knowledge is the cornerstone of our civilization, and while American, Russian and European technologies are still engaged in a series of evolutionary research projects, especially in the fields of cosmology and planetary physics, it is understandable, perhaps, that the idea of interplanetary migration is the furthest thing from the minds of those still in the process of industrial development. But while futurists might well be excited about the prospect of a racially heterogeneous planet, I, myself, wonder sometimes if it is not part of the “white man’s burden”, to force the pace of the “perfectibility of the human race”, and light the fuse that leads into Space, rather than succumb to the law of diminishing returns and face the potential collapse of our advanced technological societies and a possible reversal of human existence, through sheer force of numbers, to the primitive subsistence level?


Monday, 12 May 2008


Thought Experiment: “The supreme exemplars of the relaxed cheerfulness that
makes politicians popular were Reagan and Clinton (Bill)- and Blair, having sat
at the feet of Clinton, managed much the same trick...”

Havering on: (Reagan) said, “Surround yourself with the best people you can
find, delegate authority, and don't interfere ....” It’s the total antithesis of
what Gordon Brown is about and it’s why he can’t hack it.

Reagan couldn’t tell his elbow from his ass. He was a man-of-straw. Which left the Republican political establishment free to govern. An ideal arrangement. Clinton continued the magical tradition, raising Lazarus, enjoying fellatio in the Oval Office, and walking on water. Proving again that staying power is what a scoundrel is all about. Jimmy Carter was a hopeless idealist. He never got re-elected. Pulling off the impossible is something you don't do twice. Tony Blair was an overgrown school-boy, with natural aptitudes for a sex-change: easily led astray by a series of evil characters, unable to resist temptation, presumably, because he lacked human moral conviction; indeed a soul. But his real advantage over his rivals lay in his prodigious capacity for misdirection. The bigger the lie, the more self-righteous he was in defending it. So he married Cherie - (a woman who could only love what she possessed and controlled) - and got shafted by George W.

Oooops...that hurt! And then it felt so sweetly cute and devious...

In a world so mad that madness is the only response to it, Brown is the Honest George, incapable of adapting to an environment that is constitutionally preposterous. To acknowledge anything else would be to fatally undermine it. In reality, a loony bin. He came from somewhere much deeper and darker than Blair. But unlike Blair, he had no taste for conspiracy. He would proceed in silence, munificent and self-absorbed - a man apart. His was the most fatal of political conviction: that one will be rewarded in the next life for abstinence, hard work, and loyal devotion in this one. But the fact of the matter is nevertheless, that there is nothing more debilitating and draining than being a constant pain in the ass. And the great mass of the people have no morals but their own interest. This nation might have tolerated a German take-over in 1941, but they’ll never kiss the butt of a Scotsman....


Saturday, 10 May 2008


“Please pay six pounds and eighty-five pence," intoned the machine, in a flat but exigent voice.
I caught the idea. "How would you like it?" I asked. “Cash or card?”

(A long pause).

"Is a bottle of Blanco Seco, a loaf of French bread and a tin of Atlantic prawns any inducement to talk?" I asked.
"Six Pounds and eighty-five pence," the machine said.

And on this basis we actually got down to a business deal of great benefit to both sides. The check-out had been done slowly and deliberately as befitted a transaction of such significance. Up to the moment, of course, when I made the grave blunder of mistaking the slot where your money goes for the one that swallows the voucher. Which voucher? To what purpose? This was getting perfectly rotten. I bent over the machine: “If I don't get that money back, it's your ass...”

“Ahh...I do like the view!”

It was the way this was said, don't you know, the tone of voice that made me perk up considerably.
“...and what a nice way to wear those panties!“

Put like that, it didn’t seem unreasonable (nor unwelcome!), but - trust me on this - it wasn’t the machine who’d said it, it was the man behind. I think he was pleased to see me.

“Those stilettos are registered as deadly weapons on at least five continents,“ he continued, “ooops...let’s see if you can touch your toes! Or would you rather I got your money back?” He was a handsome man with a remarkable presence.

“How are you going to do it?” I inquired; and, “please, keep your hands where I can see them.”

“It's quite simple.” (He also had the aspect of a distinctly determined heavy) “Clobber it.” He meant the machine. “It only requires a little resolution.”

Perhaps to avoid such punishment, the machine refused to engage in conversation of any kind. The atmosphere was electric. The queue behind me added to the euphoria.

“There's only one thing to do,” I said. “We’ll have to call an assistant.”

This was a tall, almost regal woman, dressed in a smart headscarf, with a round ruby face, and startling big brown eyes, the kind of veiled apparition you see on travel posters of desert resorts. Nobody seemed to know who she was or whence she came. Indeed, it was hard to believe she was the little precious of a pious master who prostrated himself five times a day in the direction of Mecca. And the substance of her unspoken thoughts, kindly divined by the man behind: "You stupid stuck up bitch - you should be made to crawl all the way to Afghanistan and kiss the boots of Osama bin Laden." (Only he didn’t say “boots”. He said “f****** boots”).

"I don't understand," I said.

"Precisely!" she said matter-of-factly.

She then produced a bundle of keys and deftly proceeded to take the machine apart.

“There you are," said the man. She had somehow won his argument for him.

They were right, of course! And no one should be surprised to learn that both, I and the machine felt chastened and meek when confronted with this volcanic method of dealing with a righteous task. I owe a very great deal to both of them, the man and the woman, and herewith send them my thanks and my kindest regards...


Tuesday, 6 May 2008


Greetings, Earthlings...Selena is back! And none the worse for it.

But honestly, folks, having safely returned from a symposium by the Galactic Centre for Terrestrial Studies (GCTS) - the Ophiuchusian equivalent of the Royal Society - I remain somewhat isolated in believing that intelligent life might actually exist on earth. And may this be last time, please God, that I am ever called upon to defend it. What’s more, many Ophiuchusians hold views on human intelligence that do not alight well with politically correct doctrine as disseminated on this planet. But since political correctness has frequently pronounced me a racist bitch, a homophobic anti-feminist, and potentially insane, it is not - in my opinion - entirely to be trusted. Nor was I deliberately trying to be provocative. Let’s face it, plain human idiocy stuffed in a closet of political correctness gets no less stultifying with being aired. But I beg you, nevertheless, fellow-aliens, to give a moment of your time to this particular post, and to try and stick with it to the end.

To begin with, I concede readily every person’s right to his own opinion on the merits of any topic they’re appraising. Needless to say. But I do reserve the right to resent very emphatically any climate change sceptic who writes from an ivory tower. Indeed, I note, that there's still zero empirical evidence that anthropogenic production of CO2 is making any measurable contribution to the warming trend. And I hate to call anyone a liar. Fact is, I also humbly acknowledge the intriguing scientific case that the world is in a global thaw after the last Ice Age, rather than warming to 6,5 billion people putting out 7 billion tons of carbon into the atmosphere.

That’s fine by me. That and the filth...

Nor am I about to embark on an asinine harangue about buggeroff benefits of carbon capture technology. I really couldn't give a monkey's. And I don’t care tuppence either about anthropogenic chlorofluorocarbons or impending ozone depletion. That's clean over my head, if you don’t mind the pun. But what I do care about - the joy of sex apart - is not getting mugged, stabbed, run over, poisoned, asphyxiated, raped, or urinated on, the moment I step out of doors. Frankly, you don’t need chlorofluorocarbon-science to capture the true chaotic horror of the Biblical admonition “go forth and multiply.” The countryside is humanity’s scrap yard. We are in each other's faces as never before. Humans are compressing the Earth's Lebensraum with no hint of the horror to come. Gaia’s demographic bounty, certainly no less than every bit of contaminated, tarmac-fouled, urbanised, poisonous, gasoline-and-pesticide polluted countryside, richly attests to that. And what are we doing? We feature in a comedy that aims to remind people to turn off their lights?

Lord give me strength...!

There are now almost seven billion of us on this blue and fragile planet. There will be nine billion in less than forty years' time. What happens when people start arguing, not about lightbulbs but food and water? And there’s no doubt they will. What are we going to do when people start arriving on our shores fleeing not political persecution but environmental catastrophe?

Shoot them, I suppose.

There are more than 11m abandoned children in India alone, where in a growing number of vast urban slums newborn babies are being dumped anonymously in cots placed outside orphanages. Perversely - in an extraordinary subversion of UN population policy - in some Eurocountries, such as France, governments have introduced financial incentives for women to have more than two children. The Spanish government awards £ 2,000 to mothers on the birth of each child. China, by contrast - and this is where I can’t help approving, callous bitch that I am - executes more than 10,000 people a year (albeit the wrong sort). Obviously, they’ve seen too much of it to have any respect for human life. In fact, the Chinese government has moved away from economic incentives for children and awards punishment, instead. And not just punishment. Babies are snuffed out. Or abandoned at birth on rubbish heaps, doorsteps, bus stops, railway stations and hospitals.

In Britain they live in a fool's paradise

An English mum was aiming for her eighth child last year. Set to become the most prolific surrogate mother in the UK by carrying other couple's babies. A number of British mothers have even frozen their eggs so their infertile daughters can use them to give birth. Others are selling them. And not only eggs. The government is to sanction fatherless families by giving single women and lesbian couples an entitlement to fertility treatment. Dozens of gay British men - who for fear of a libel action I hesitate to call parasitic - have paid about £33,000 to create a child of their chosen sex on an IVF programme for two-father (sic) families. Eureka: a 67-year-old woman became the world’s oldest mother when she gave birth to twins after having travelled to America for IVF.

We are an astonishing nation!

Here we have an advanced technological species failing under the weight of idiotic affirmative action, bogus equal opportunity, endemic kleptocracy, escalating traffic congestion, and chaotic maladministration, while trying to save the world with low-energy light bulbs, solar panels, windmills, and compulsory loft-insulations. No wonder, the Galactic Centre for Terrestrial Studies showed no particular interest in what, clearly, it assumes to be a superannuated and elusive fragment of a declining terrestrial race, switching off the lights with a feeling of foreboding in their hearts, though obviously no brains in their heads.

Truth to tell, I myself have few virtues - my incurable passion for adorable fat little babies apart - but I do know that population management, not carbon manipulation, is our only shot at survival.

What this pathetic, mendacious effort in carbon capture technology leads to is simply a decline in futuristic and scientific imagination, and perceptions of a coming new dark age rather than visions of the conquest of space. The introduction of mediaeval windmill machinery instead of nuclear fusion technology, brutalised fossil expertise, and an atrophy of cosmic creativity, while lacking the elegance and conditional structures essential for evolutionary thinking, to say nothing of the failure to build highly optimised conceptual frameworks in space - the whole point of evolution and the basis of a higher-order human identity.

‘Ever fewer climb with me up ever higher mountains,’ Nietzsche once wrote, but for God‘s sake, homo sapiens, turn on the lights...