A RARE PICTURE OF MISS DREAMY DISAPPEARING INTO A HOLE IN THE EARTH...

But to what purpose?

To rediscover the vanished city of Atlantis?
To return to the scene of a crime and bury the corpse?
To undergo an overdue gender realignment?
To fulfil her demonic compact with what was a former Faustian pledge?
To ponder why there are so few women at the highest level of science?
To find and formulate The New Theory of Knowledge?
To find a shortcut to the golden sands of Copacabana beach? (ohh yes, please).
To solve the Riddle of the Sphinx?
To slide down into the womb of Gaia, with no objective in mind save for infinity and oblivion?

One wonders...Nobody seems certain of the origin of Miss Dreamy’s acumen or the extent of her abilities, but if the former is rumoured to be mystifying, the latter is totally unambiguous. Give her a fulcrum and she will move the world. Possessed with the gift of second sight, this virtuous, unprepossessing maid will launch herself into the most challenging task imaginable: To prepare a series of scholarly, incisive and wide ranging lectures on moral philosophy, analytical psychology, sexual profligacy and natural philosophy etc., that will effectively terminate the world we’ve come to know and despise, and usher in a newly invigorated Age of Enlightenment ...

For the meantime, I do commend the mating season to your endearingly one-tracked minds and entrust my memory to your ever unfailing indulgence...

Back in ten days, boys, be good!

Dreamy xxx

Things you always wanted to know and were forbidden to ask...

# Hospital admissions from drinking have doubled in just over a decade to more than 200.000 a year.

# 163 children a week are being seen in hospitable because of alcohol related illnesses or injuries.

# More than 30% of the men in our prisons are from care homes.

# 34% of UK female inmates are Jamaicans convicted of drug smuggling.

# Nearly a quarter of undergraduates failed to complete their degrees or gained lesser qualifications .

# The Central Middlesex hospital in northwest London said that on average its contractor charges £ 210 to install an electric socket.

# Nearly a third of children in Britain now live in poverty, substandard accommodation or “unacceptable conditions."

# Some 37% of North Korean children are chronically malnourished and prone to disease.

# MPs expenses average £ 136,000 per annum, more than twice their salaries.

# MEP's expenses show they and their spouses are entitled to mud baths and a 21 day thermal procedure.

# Citizens of Cuba may now carry mobile phones legally & stay in luxury hotels.

# The average salary of Cuba's citizens is £ 8.70 a month, and hotel rooms cost up to £ 100 a night.

and finally:

# The birth rate shot up in 1942 occupied Paris, even though 2m Frenchmen were locked up in camps.

(courtesy of the public domain)

NAOMI CAMPBELL - The Memorandum on Race

“They have lost my f****** bags, get me another flight, get the press, get me my lawyer...“

Oh yes! It sounds grim enough and no doubt was. The bawling, the shrieking, the thrashing, the high Cs and cacophonetic vernacular. A classic example of the assertion that Blacks, whenever possible, see themselves as victims, and while resenting their victim status, nevertheless tend to wallow in it. Naomi Campbell exploded with a rage that was in fact an outrageous proposition:

“It is because I am a black woman, you are all racists...you wouldn’t be doing this if I was white...I am going to f*** you!“

The prejudice of ascribing character and ability to race is so obvious it barely requires repetition. But the truth of the matter is nevertheless, that, for better or for worse, humans have long colluded in an ideal of Western beauty. Already, Helen of Troy was claimed to be the most beautiful woman of classical antiquity, and to this day we have continued to buy into a collective epitome. We‘ve been conditioned, no less, by the classical perception of beauty and reinforced it with the type of female role-model that can be seen every day on television. The television attracts mythomaniacs, people who wish to convince the world of their superiority. But almost inevitably, it gives other "inferior” people an often unattainable ideal of beauty. And while this may be a simplistic view, it is nevertheless deeply felt, and it certainly needs to be taken into account in any analysis of the antagonism which plainly exists between people of African origin and their Caucasian light-skinned counterpart.

If you can never inhabited an ideal, naturally you feel resentful of it.

Promoters of Western beauty products determine everything and it doesn't do any good for the psyche of another race to be presented with an ideal of beauty that is inherently inaccessible. It is a dilemma that proves insoluble. Stark African faces with Negroid features are instantly recognizable. Michael Jackson took the hard way out. He bleached his skin and gallantly modelled his face on that of Elizabeth Taylor. Naomi Campbell, of course, has long since been accepted as a natural beauty by a public to whose commonplace priorities and prejudices she always gave a glamorous setting.

“When two races meet,”, said Charles Darwin, “they fight each other.” And until the black man comes to terms with the fact that he’s not white, the problem of racism will continue to persist. Indeed, it must be wrong to legislate against it. Far from having been an interlude of racial reconciliation and mutual consolation, the damage done by the race relations industry to this country has been incalculable. The campaign of racial grievance was not a conciliatory one. Nor is the problem one of prejudice, it is one of inadequacy. Accusations of prejudice are the defences thrown up to protect a deeply wounded personality which has never recovered from the savaging it received in its colonial infancy.

The situation in America is even more remarkable.

As if to underline a change of status, race is no longer about skin colour. It is about the consolidation of a phenomenon: black culture, or ghetto prophets who preach a brand of thug philosophy or gangsta rap sociology. One may doubt its motives, and indeed sanity, but in the mind and psyche of the gangsta it is payback time. Appropriately, one in nine black men aged between 20 and 34 is in prison, while the average 17-year-old black student has the academic skills of a 14-year-old white pupil, compounding what appears to be a decided racial imbalance, and leaving blacks intentionally forbidding and self-consciously antagonistic.

So, can all their problems still be blamed on the familiar evils of white discrimination?

With every other major race, Chinese, Indian, Asian, the atmosphere is cordial and relaxed, but the Negro has made it plain that for him the problem is not simply one of creating prosperity. Nor will he ever bear a joke at his own expense. By all means, call me ungenerous, but any tribe of people who are unable to laugh at themselves is deprived indeed. This notwithstanding, James Watson, the discoverer of DNA lost his job as director of the Cold Spring Harbour Laboratories in America after suggesting that Africans were less intelligent than Europeans. In fact, when I was a student the climate was already intimidating. You weren’t permitted to talk about racial differences, even though the very idea of a universally conform racial intelligence is bound to be a fairy tale. Critics may complain that one is “racialising” intelligence by claiming that some groups are genetically less intelligent than others, but clearly, human intelligence cannot be bought, found or acquired. And intellectual dexterity is a development problem, as much as it is linked to social standing. Indeed, I would find it very hard to believe that the “noble savage” of undeveloped lands might be illumined by a higher philosophy or a more outstanding intelligence than those of the industrialised West, let alone the ancient cultures of the East. Their entire history is based on the quest for knowledge, whereas that of the African seems rather unfinished and very different from the rest of the world.

A subsequent analysis of Watson’s own DNA showed that he had part-African ancestry, which, if you think about it, rather explains his “inadequacy” - at least according to his own theory.

Dreamy

GOD’S LITTLE ENGLANDERS - to say nothing of the Irish!

“The voters of Ireland left the EU’s constitutional plans in tatters last week by
rejecting the Lisbon treaty. Now the European political elite is desperately
trying to find a way to get round their verdict.”

So, inevitably, I found myself wondering just how to create international integration without giving up national integrity, when the main problem seems to be a confusion within the A-list governments as to how exactly that is to be achieved. Personally, of course, I would be quite happy for Britain to be run from either Brussels or Berlin. There wouldn‘t be many jokes, admittedly, but all the trains would be on time, people would be able to get medical treatment before they dropped dead, and women wouldn‘t have to shave their armpits.

But Alice, a diehard isolationist, said I was taking a treasonous political stand.

Although a stout supporter of the Gender Recognition Bill, she nevertheless espouses the theory that Berlin and Paris exercise a detrimental influence on the attitude of the EU towards Westminster. My own suggestion that if there was one endeavour more formidable than teaching English to the world, then undoubtedly it was to teach the world to the English, seemed to be a trifle over her head. But both Alice and I agreed on the essential point that Zeno, in 300 BC Athens, already preached the doctrine of a World State, while the Romans introduced a common currency that extended from beyond the Tigris to Hadrian‘s Wall, whereas today even a £ 10 note issued by the Bank of Scotland arouses fierce xenophobic suspicion. It was all too retro for words.

“Just get over yourselves!” I said.

Naturally, she was sympathetic, Alice said, but nothing could alter the fact that a Kraut was a Kraut and the common European currency nothing but a Franco-German plot to flood Britain with worthless banknotes, causing massive inflation and, ultimately, the collapse of the British economy. Frau Merkel, after all, had long since promised to resurrect the “core” of the constitution — whose provisions include the creation of an EU foreign minister and the scrapping of national vetoes on justice and home affairs — “despite its rejection by French and Dutch voters in 2005”. Alice’s eyes veiled with a deep melancholy. And even more ambitious plans by the German Chancelloress to revive the defunct European Union constitution had set Britain on a collision course with Berlin, “and most of the EU’s 27 member states.”

Wasn’t Britain the odd one out, I asked?

Alice demurred, less than thrilled at the prospect of sharing a common economy with an overheated, overly familiar Frog, let alone start dating a Hun and dye her arm pits as well. “And, at any rate,” she said, “God does not approve of foreigners.“

I’m sceptical of this.

Some things simply don't translate well into English. Foreign interference, foreign government, foreign relations, are all hauled into the pillory. The element of humility is missing from Britain’s protestations, however. Truth to tell, they’re murdering one of mankind’s greatest dreams. The dream of Human Brotherhood. Reasoning from a rather jaundiced post-Empire perspective, there is no notion of the common weal so heartily embraced for over three centuries. No suggestion of national sacrifice. The doctrines of moral and social progress have buckled and bowed. Once pioneers in the use of the stick and the carrot - or a “a good thrashing first and great kindness afterwards” - over time, the imperial dream morphed into a multicultural nightmare. The converted native has come home to roost. While Magna Carta has degenerated into a series of Hate Laws and “protective“ legislation, the Mother of Parliaments is tainted in her own blood by a cumulative inheritance of nepotism and corruption, which in her indigenous population has taken the form of drunkenness and delinquency.

This is Great Britain’s apotheosis - Albion is decomposing!

Having prematurely delivered her African dominions to the machete, even Scotland has begun to tire of the benefits of the Act of Union. Looking like something from an old history book, Britannia has become divided against herself, even dysfunctional, stripped of virtually every territory, a melancholy spinster weary of her suitors, badly governed, atrociously taxed, caked in multicultural make-up and massively spied upon, her post-imperial depression has been compounded by a deepening sense of what the Conventions of the European Union have done to her former moral authority in world affairs.

But, trust me on this, the people never come of age.

With the general public's unerring capacity for getting it wrong, they represent number, mass, the limitless amorphous. Nor does the pivot of history turn upon public processes of majority decision-making, but upon the effective exercise of responsible authority and independent judgement. But there’s John Bull, hiding in his garden shed, the first refuge of the thwarted egomaniac. He will rather die in poverty and misery, as all self-centred people do, then surrender to the common weal. Once the arbiter of nations and the defender of the liberties of Europe, it is hard to see him as anything other now than a backwood little Englander with a chip on his shoulder, an irreconcilable opponent.

Poor Britannia, neither by the grace of God nor the consent of the people, but by a sort of conjuring trick, she is trying to accomplish the hardest thing on earth, international assimilation - for England will never be England again, or we are both mistaken...



Dreamy

The Richard Madeley Appreciation Society Book Club Memorandum

Richard Madeley: “There’s much that terrorises me in a bookshop....Then there are the books by misfits who hardly deserve to be described as ‘a human being’, let alone deserve book contracts. Drug dealers, ex-mafia hard men, corporate swindlers, porn stars, Delilah Smith: they’re all there, demanding our money with menaces...”

Nor, Richard, do I entertain the least apprehension that literary agents are not playing a major, perhaps the principal, role in the dumbing down of our urban, cosmopolitan society. In New York some of the big noises are well enough known even to the public at large, others retain an almost icon-like status among the cognoscenti and are content to have their reputation restricted to being zeitgeist-gurus with a taste for human testicles. The biggest bunch of prima donnas in the universe, they have been called other things, less endearing, by coarse persons who do not comprehend the influence of bad writing on an agent’s heart and blood pressure. Alright already, an awful manuscript is a dire meal to consume in the middle of a hot day. My heart bleeds. But a fundamental question of principle is here at stake: what latitude should be allowed to the purveyors of our cultural heritage in the exercise of their Imperium at a time of unprecedented, indeed, uncontainable supply?

The problem, of course, is largely attributable to the pressure of agents to attract the attention of acquisition editors and fashionable magazines. For many years now, the realm of letters has lain under the editor’s shadow, unable to take an independent line. There is a predatory audience out there, hungry for every and any kind of perversity, the more bizarre the better. Perversity has become big business, a major determinant of market value. It may not be the will of God, but it’s a stimulant. Soma for philistines, a big, bad comfort toy, a daybreak primer, an instant energizer, bestowing euphoria and excitement. And don’t imagine that I am going soft on agents (never suck the venom from a bite!) The crafty blighters will probably claim that this is just a frame-up between Richard Madeley and Selena Dreamy. But insofar as I might suggest that an army of agents is masquerading as a cultural experience, part fiction, part reality series, which generates a potentially self-perpetuating industry from your failure to succeed, the agent in our time, far from being a far-reaching intellect, well read in the world’s literature, not only frequently lacks a credible background, but is often totally devoid of empathy. Empathy is not likely to exercise the trend-spotters, who have teenage delinquents for clients, drug-abusers, self-mutilators, bulimia sufferers, self-confessed serial killers, Long Island anorexics in search of designer shoes, vestal virgins who’ve never been tried for unchastity and near-impeached Prime Ministers who’ve been acquitted by the people. These are the authors from hell, because blank-eyed hollowness is the safest promotional bet - along with film and television scripts not written by people but by sponsored automatons. The publishing industry may be struggling to break out of a handful of established genres that dominate the sales, but no one appears to be in charge. Nor could any compliance look less like an assertion of free will. I know, because I am one of the compliants. I’m as bad as they come (a state of affairs for which I refuse to apologize). But I also know that the last days of the declining West have degenerated into a theory of the absurd, with the province of letters (the intellectual legacy of an entire culture) in the hands of mediocrities in positions of absolute power.

So ask yourselves this: Has the last word been said?

Is all hope gone? Is the urban decline of the West irreversible? Take it from me, low moral is the most debilitating of battlefield diseases, but no one has terminal writer’s block. The creative mind is forever finding new rules by breaking old ones. Nor would I have it appear that I undervalue great writing. Far from it. But it is not going to solve the riddle of the modern Sphinx. Nor do I get the sense that the world is rushing to regenerate itself. The whole, on the contrary, of this revolving order of things carries with it a premonition of dissipation, decline and death. Suicide by asphyxiation. Open and shut. And frankly, I am not going to be sorry to see that happen. Let’s face it folks, death is the first condition of renewal. Nor could I bear to be a renegade, suffering the agonies of the damned, if a writer were not also a seer, and the redeemer of that which must come. Which doesn’t exactly add up to a coherent philosophy, but what the heck! Not all pole-dancers are deferential...

Dreamy

THE F-WORD: "Go take a flying fuck at a duck...!!"

This particular expression was still unusual, if not unprecedented, in the speech of cultured people a the time of my own education. Nor do I feel any inducement to impress my background. But, as I explained quite recently, I have been fortunate in having received some very exacting lessons in semantic deportment at a well-known convent school in Roehampton. Indeed, it is one of the major satisfactions of my adult life that I survived a girl’s boarding school education without acquiring anything so tedious as academic qualifications. So when I met a number of academic punters at the Spearmint Rhino - equally illiterate - who treated me to that particular expression, it was cool and exhilarating. Frankly, I couldn't have been more flattered or charmed. All I knew up to that point was that contemporary semantics favoured the masterpieces of genital or pro-coital art, and that they were never intended as a compliment. Nor did I have any idea how to take a flying fuck at anything, this rather being a man’s thing, but I felt it was exactly what I had been waiting absolutely years to say. Truth to tell, if I put the hundredth part of the energy that I have put into repressing it, into unleashing it, I may never have remained a virgin.

I might have been an indolent academic, or a female footballer instead, a ladette, perhaps, of uncertain gender extraction, or a TV chef...

Time was when forbearance was the code of behaviour that had come to be seen as appropriate to the educated classes. Today, socially, there is never a moment when there is more cachet to being a common man, a yob, a chav, a slacker with a cauliflower for a brain, or just another demented asshole...

So the art of swearing has taken on a new and exhilarating significance in modern society. There is nothing equivocal or evasive about it. It is punk condensed, leaving nothing wanting in the way of force and vigour. It is a practice that high society has taken to its heart. It is an insult that has inverted its import, elevating the detested academic, the man of letters, the poet laureate, to the desired status of the common man. It therefore has an absolutely extraordinary sense of entitlement. It is Man Booker Prize semantics, the dumming down of the average. A repellent jargon, every syllable of which implies a world of brutal idiocy, it nevertheless corrupts and depraves men like no alcohol or narcotics. For among the casualties of this campaign to abolish semantic excellence have foremost been the British educated classes. In fact, this may well be the clue you've been waiting for, the key to what determined our collective character, what inspired contemporary society to have the ideals that it has, divided perhaps between exigencies that are in opposition to our noble humanity, and a humanity that is in opposition to our ignoble needs!

Go take a flying fuck at a duck...

Indeed!

Dreamy

SLEEPING WITH PIGS...

Bryan Appleyard: “I wouldn't have noticed it before, but, after
the extravagant politeness of America, it came as a shock. The British used to
mock the 'have a nice day' culture as false and, somehow, corrupt. But it's a
thousand times better than our own surly sub-culture and, anyway, if
professionalisation and training produce good manners, what's wrong with that?
And it's not cynical and skin-deep. Some of the most interesting conversations I
had in the US were with waiters and shop assistants. Here I wouldn't bother. We
have, as I wrote on my return, a problem, a dimming of our imaginations, a
closing of our minds....”

Thus Bryan, commiserating the dimming of this nation. And I am perfectly of his opinion concerning “our surly sub-culture,” which, though extremely fashionable at present, I think altogether uncivilised. For here’s a photograph I’ve taken of my local cycling-path. It flawlessly conveys the aspiration and unadulterated behaviour of the English pig in his own backyard.

The countryside is his scrapyard. And pardon my hubris - but can people be so abysmally pigheaded and still claim the status of a civilised nation? Where you and I are enraptured by the view of sweeping meadows, the lark ascending, and the tolling of bells marking out the glorious Hertfordshire morning, that don't mean shit to a navvy, mate. The age of poetry is gone. This is the age of the common man, and every day brings some sort of reminder that we are living under the dominion of a sub-culture that I, for one, truly do not understand.

How on earth did it happen that evolution passed him by?

For that he’s still living and breathing absolutely astonishes me. Perhaps if there is a moral origin to this problem it can be found in what Disraeli referred to as the Two Nations, an important feature of which was class selfishness and the domination of the landed interests before those of the common man. For in all this, one can detect not just the gratuitous scorn of the resilient, recalcitrant navvy, but also the suppressed rage and resentment of the oppressed “workhouse boy“, cripplingly conscious of his own ignoble origins - and regarded as the poorest of the poor, as savages who slept with their pigs. In truth, we only have to think of the brutality of the factory system, the high mortality amongst child-workers, the exploitation of the labour of women, the overcrowded industrial towns, dark and poorly ventilated coalmines, low wages and long hours to understand that the English worker, to this day, will come with an attitude. He’ll carry his grudge like a battlescar - livid with a strong sense of “them” and “us,” born out of centuries of poverty and exploitation. The fact of the matter is, that the England of Celts, Frisians, Saxons, Angles and mixed bands of other invaders, has never recovered from the Norman yoke which taught the lower orders to be ashamed of their roots and who, even in our time, still display a traditional sense of grievance against the ruling establishment.

Today, of course, you’re also dealing with a large welfare-class. Your contemporary peasants will be a mixture of unemployed loafers, dysfunctional families, and genetic throwbacks who regard all foreigners with ill-concealed loathing. Truth to tell, there is something undeniably retro about the statistical fact that one in five males in this country at the very least, shows potentially psychopathic tendencies, and that mental health problems cost Britain more than £40 billion a year in treatment and lost days at work.

It’s no secret.

It harks back to the days of Wellington and Waterloo, when Anglo-Saxon warrior mystique was constructed in colloquial concoctions of ‘scum of the earth’. The scumbag has a very big heart and that bulldog tenacity which makes him totally unafraid. And history has enhanced his reputation. There is, on the other hand, a fine line between bravery and stupidity. Indeed, it strikes me as a profoundly poignant incongruity that, once the material of Empire and the arbiter of nations, now dumbed down into a consumer culture with no direction or ideals left, there appears to be an entire class of people whose historical objective has been reduced to getting habitually drunk, fouling up the countryside, and beating the crap out of each other...

Dreamy

BACK IN POLE POSITION...

"Max Mosley is to remain in office as president of the
FIA after comfortably winning today’s vote of confidence in Paris. Following a
two-hour discussion, during which frank views were exchanged regarding the
68-year-old, Mosley was understood to be delighted after the result was
announced at the FIA headquarters."

Encouraged by suggestions that bodies such as the FIA are increasingly less inclined to discriminate against working girls, I telephoned Dr Max von Moseley - henceforth to be known in this confessions as "Spanky" - at his office to arrange for an interview.

“I don‘t do interviews,” Spanky said sullenly. There is nothing to tell."

What about the Nazi insignia? I demanded to know.

“That scenario,” he said, was “pure fantasy. But I love it when a woman touches herself...”

“Ok,” I said, shifting a hand up my crotch, “lets run with that...“ And owing to the fact that such proclivities seem, in my own experience, to be applicable quite generally to male behaviour, did I need any more evidence that this man was, to say the least, a totally regular?

"Come to my dungeon,“ I purred. “I haff vays and meens off making you talk...”

“I can't,“ he huffed. “You may be wired!“'

“You may frisk me.” I said amiably. I could afford to be generous, I was going to charge him by the hour.
Spanky needed no further encouragement!

A mere 15 minutes later, outside a Gentlemen’s lavatory, I might have been back walking the streets. And Spanky stood there as if he was about to salute, bloodied but essentially unbowed. He was also, I was about to find out, inordinately partial to German.

‘Es lebe das heilige Vaterland!’ he said, casting apprehensive, inquisitive glances all around, ‘Der Sieg wird unser sein!’
But when I formally put it to him that the FIA had reasonable grounds for suspecting that he was, or might be, a person who facilitated the commission of acts of lewd perversion, Spanky’s chilling reply came to the effect that all human beings were hypocrites. “Look, I'm not asking for exoneration - I just don't see why I should get any less out of being beaten up than some schmuck like Bernie Ecclestone.”

“A regular henpecked saint!” I threw in.

“Nothing less than first cousin to an ape,” Spanky replied.

“The pursuit of happiness is contained in primary legislation and the FIA have no powers to vary its provision,“ he then suggested, adding perilously, “proving that the wronged party has a reputation that can be damaged is an important part of any libel action.”

I volunteered no advice.

But he would continue to reject the claim of particular individuals that, in accordance with protocol, the working girls had been awarded the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds. It was the Führer they admired - drawn by some mysterious need of their own - only the Führer, and not some functionary of the FIA or lesser motoring association.

“I think the forthcoming trial offers the best opportunity to clear that up.” I suggested.

Spanky was dismissive. “Every man has a basic right to fight in defence of his own happiness.“

You and I, of course, would assume that the working ladies who were present that night, were just assisting him in the pursuit of his happiness, but the News of the World remembers that they had doubtful political convictions in these matters. And while I'm still iffy about duplicitous hypocrites, and definitely a convert to freedom of sexual expression, I defer to no one in my contempt and suspicion of anyone condoning clandestine stings!

Trust me on this. We can't have a situation where some individuals are given positions they're just no qualified to hold - as in our national government - while those who are eminently qualified are not allowed to have a private life - that's totally out of order...!

Dreamy

DEATHWISH...

In Africa they starve their children,
In China they dump them,
In Brazil they shoot them,
In the UK they stab them...

The full extent of Britain’s violent crime epidemic, to date claiming the lives of some 40 teenagers - including that of Sophie Lancaster, kicked to death by a pack of feral, pubescent mutants - was brought home again, when a 15-year-old schoolgirl from south London described how no fewer than seven of her friends and relatives had been murdered in the past two years.

Meanwhile, of course, we have the collective contagion of an entire country with a virus that causes its children to treat each other like feral strays; or, to put it differently, the freeing and revitalisation of precisely those atavistic instincts whose control and humanisation has been the work of some ten millennia of domestication.

Insofar as we are the product of a system of thought control so constraining that our personal compliance appears to proceed, not from our own free choice, but from this very era of “freedom” with its inflationary consequences, the question of guilt is of course beside the point. But one is justifiably apprehensive about the subversive psychological effects of years of relentless and unceasing agitation for the freedom of a permissive moral idealism as a recognizable social creed: The unflustered, cynical imagination, the nihilistic pleasure in freedom for its own sake, and the violence that has become an end in itself. As a matter of fact if freedom of any kind is anything to go by, society has a regrettable tendency to deceive itself about what is a personal indulgence and what a collective aberration.

What is indeed bizarre about it is that between constraining and being constrained it has caught men in the grip of an invisible rage and entangled them in some decidedly psychotic forces, unimpeded by any law. Forces which, almost like something alien, something not human, makes men strive compulsively and determinedly towards paranoid and deadly self-destruction. Nor are we perhaps sufficiently alert to the fact that the conventional sociology of crime is unlikely to settle the ambiguities surrounding what has meanwhile developed into the gravest forensic crisis the world has experienced, combining, as it does, martial with homicidal impulses and taking the whole subject out of the strictly criminological frame of reference by placing it into a psychologically different category, making it ominous, alien and universal: a most unpropitious preliminary for a homicidal process of “contraceptive” Malthusian attrition.

And so the pressure builds. History's biggest bloodbath is in the making!

For the ultimate cause of the conditions under which violence seems inevitable is demographic congestion. Everything takes place under a form of stress. Great rents in normality are appearing everywhere. And while there may never have been a bleaker rendition of the orderly governance of murder than that witnessed by the first half of the twentieth century, probably at no time in the history of man have so many alien communities been so bent on plans of mutual annihilation, mass deportations, civil repression and ethnic cleansings as in the opening years of the twenty-first. Indeed, it is altogether impossible to assess what this century might still be capable of in its moral, psychotic and ecological derangement. Its history has yet to be written...

Dreamy

ON A MATTER OF SEMANTICS...

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.

Dreamy

THE McCABISM INADEQUACY...

"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.

Dreamy

ON FEMALE SEXUAL DYSFUNCTION...

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ECCE HOMO:

“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 élan 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...

Dreamy

MISS DREAMY'S PRIVATE & PUBLIC PERSONAS...

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.

Dreamy

THE DECLINE OF THE WEST...

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?

Dreamy

THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY...

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 good...awwww...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....


Dreamy

ELECTRONIC CHECK-OUT...

“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...



Dreamy