The Hobbit: A Film Review

Revisiting the magical world of Middle-earth, Peter Jackson takes us into the past in a twofold manner; the distant past of the story's characters and the recent past of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Many shots, actors, and locations return in this new epic trilogy. One could, perhaps, justify this, as The Hobbit, being a shorter and less substantial text, left Jackson needing to draw on all available resources to expand the story to an epic trilogy. It would seem that the more childish nature of the story works against a reproduction of the gravitas of The Lord of the Rings, but Tolkien's works are full of mythology and metaphor, which enriches even the most basic of plots.

The Hobbit tells the adventures of Bilbo Baggins, a well-off conservative man, who is unconcerned by the world around him. He joins a company of dwarves, who are on a quest to reclaim their kingdom from an evil dragon. Their patriarchal society, which seems completely devoid of women, had become immensely prosperous, and upon such prosperity, the foreign dragon entered their homeland (which, we are constantly reminded, belongs exclusively and inherently to the dwarves), caused trouble for the residents, and lived amid the vast wealth he hadn't earned. The foreign dragon (which, incidentally, is a symbol of China) makes living in the kingdom impossible, and eventually leads to more foreigners invading the kingdom and trying to freeload off the hard work of the natives.

The Teutonic elves, who are as perfect as they are white, refuse to aid the dwarves in their time of need. They are so enriched with culture, beauty, spiritualism, knowledge, and outstanding physical abilities that it would be ludicrous for them to risk their lives for the sake of the laborious, grubby dwarves. Later, we are reminded that they live in a paradise that is heavily gated and protected from the outside world. Given heir multiple gifts, they rightly possess an authority over the rest of the world, even if they hardly ever visit it.

Ian McKellen reprises his role as Gandalf, a wizard grounded in reality, living among the people and creatures of Middle-earth. His more academic counterpart, Saruman, makes an appearance, only to show us their parting views on the nature of goodness. Saruman believes it comes from power, which presumably means sweeping social reform. However, he lives in a gigantic tower, far from people and their problems, where idealism is his only company. He cannot see, as Gandalf can see, that his reformist ideas are no match for the small, simple gestures of good, conservative people like Bilbo Baggins.

Among the many villains this time are the malevolent orcs, and grimy, working-class goblins. Our heroes almost get eaten by trolls at one stage, the horror intensified by the prospect of being consumed by someone with such a cacophonous street accent. Fortunately, those of a lower station are not blessed with intelligence (No wonder they're so badly off!), and the company of dwarves and hobbit easily outsmart them. Andy Serkis returns and brings Gollum to the screen once again. As he is also a Hobbit, he offers a contrast to Bilbo. Instead of wasting his life on drugs and blaming the world for his problems, Bilbo pulled himself up by his boot strings, and now lives a happy and comfortable life. It reminds us that there's plenty of room at the top for those who are willing to work hard.

As I give my (work-hardened) thumbs up to this wonderful, edifying film, I hope you take notice of the wisdom it wishes to share. Middle-earth holds up a mirror to our own world, showing us the great values of the established order of things. Please, don't try to cause trouble; instead look at yourself and accept that you are probably where you are because of your own mistakes (especially that working-class accent of yours and your lack of culture).

A gratuitous sexy picture to attract more subscribers - "They're elvish abs!"

A Christmas Message

As it's Christmas, I'll spare you a rant about stuffing your piggy face with any old sentimental turd that characterises love as some profound lightening strike or tells you that there is only one person who is truly for you. I'll save you from tirades about the insidious affirmation of the Anglo-American 'special relationship', or the achy, X-Factor-styled drone of the sexualised prepubescent, or the foppishness of nearly all the male characters. I'll even forgo pontificating about the revolting ooze of middle-class, consumerist fantasy that seeps out of every pore of the film or the fact I keep thinking it stars Stephen Fry when it actually doesn't. I'll be nice and tell you a story instead.

A funny thing happened to me the other night. My wife's best friend called to the door and announced her undying love for me. It was, perhaps, the intricate, pre-meditated nature of the declaration that startled me the most. She boldly called over when my wife was at home, and cunningly played a CD of carol singers to deceive my wife, who was at the back of the house, into believing that nothing was going on. She then used a series of placards to explain what she was doing and how she was profoundly in love with me. I knew she was delusional from the beginning, as she told me that I was perfect. Nobody is perfect, and if you think you love someone because they are perfect, then you're wrong — you're in love with an idealised version of them, and any relationship with that person is likely to end in disillusionment and resentment for failing to live up to expectations. She then spoke without irony about her 'wasted heart', an act of melodrama that confirmed my suspicions about her psychosis. The severe discomfort I felt at her reckless audacity was compounded by her unmitigated adoration of me, which made me feel like an object rather than a person. As she began to slowly walk into the night, I was surprised to find myself chasing her down the street, staring deeply into her eyes, and giving her an encouraging peck on the lips. It was the least I could do for all her efforts (As it transpired, she had even edited together a worship video of me, made from clips from my wedding day). Well, I suppose I'll accept her, as she is gorgeous. It would be creepy otherwise, right?

Irish History X, Vol. 4

In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie great stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations, before crying into our knees, looks back and tries to figure out how the fuck we got here. 

The Orange Order

For this edition, The Fair Observations hit the road and headed north to Belfast. We arranged to meet some Orange Order representatives to talk about history, the changing times, and that sartorial savviness that has made the Order legendary.
I was met at the Grand Orange Lodge by Irene, a 25-year-old intern, who greeted me kindly and proceeded to guide me around the facility. I expressed my surprise — but not without charm — that a woman was escorting me around. After all, I admitted, the Orange Order had always seemed chauvinistically male. She informed me, with a terseness that was as cute as it was efficient, that the Orange Order was "a changing organisation" and that Orange Women had marched for quite some time (though not with the men). "Does that mean they'll be admitting Catholics in the near future?", I inquired with a wry smile. "I doubt that's on the cards", she said with tactful grace. "But", she admitted encouragingly, "I'm personally open to admissions."

Unexpectedly, our foreordained antagonism turned into a playful game politico-historical teasing. She corrected me on the organisation's name, letting me know it was now officially the Orange Institution. "We don't want to conjure up old images of domination and subjugation." "Don't we?", I piped in, with a raised eyebrow Roger Moore would be proud to call his own. Coyly avoiding my sideswipe, she fed me a line about the 'Institution' now focussing on celebrating heritage and culture. I asked her about the disproportionate cultural celebration of the Williamites beating the Irish Jacobites over three hundred years ago. After a little bit of historical wrangling, we both agreed that freedom from Papal tyranny was a good thing. She was particularly convincing when she argued that Catholics wasted a great opportunity to join in the celebration of heritage when the Orange Lodges marched right through their neighbourhood. The look in her eye and tactile contact further persuaded me that she was right. 

LOL

Any disagreements between us soon melted away when began to discuss the marching clothing of the Queen's loyal servants. "The Institution has a had a long tradition of plain fabrics", Irene explained. "They are back in fashion now, but I felt they never fell out of fashion in the first place.The neat cut of the shirts and suits make our members look polished. The dapper white gloves project cleanliness, and the bowler hat makes the whole outfit very chic. The blazing orange sash makes a daring contrast." "As daring as William III's usurpation of the crown", I interjected playfully. Unfazed, she continued: "All you need do is add a skinny tie to complete the look. They're all the rage now, and they hark back to the good old days" [when Catholics didn't have full voting rights or equal access to secondary education]. 

"Would you like to try it on?", she asked me, taking me aback. I eagerly admitted that I would, and soon found myself dressed in the fine attire of an Orange Man. The feelings of stylish triumphalism were intoxicating, and I could soon see the appeal of accompanying large, loud drums down the streets where my (badly dressed) enemies live. As I was leaving, I felt a cheerful, more hopeful mood descent upon me. I considered sending a letter to the 'Institute' asking them to consider admissions from all races, creeds, sexes, and sexualities. I dreamed of a bright variegation of people clad in orange sashes, marching to a Lambeg drum and flute version of Vanessa Amorosi's 'Absolutely Everybody'. I told concerned members of staff I knew nothing about the cries of "give it to me, you sectarian, fundie psycho" heard fifteen minutes previously, and then scarpered out the door.

Irish History X, Vol. 3

In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie great stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations looks back and tries to give a fair and balanced account of what happened before us.

The Great Famine

The Great Famine occurred in Ireland between 1845 and 1852. It was caused by a blight which wiped out much of the staple food of the majority of people in Ireland, the potato. Too poor to buy other types of food, hundred of thousands of people starved to death or died of diseases. About one million people emigrated, and Ireland's population sank by 20-25% over the course of a decade. Some, in a desperation comparable to being severely defeated by the soccer world champions, were forced to stoop to stealing Sir Charles Trevelyan's corn.
The blight occurred in other European countries, but Ireland was the only one to continue exporting food throughout the famine years. Leaders at the time justified this by asserting that Ireland's strength came through being an export economy. Citing statistics, they demonstrated how export figures had begun to climb again, and the resulting economic benefits would surely generate jobs and lift people out of poverty. 'Looking forward', they stated, 'this is the only plan guaranteed to get us back on track'. Even when this was translated into Irish, none of the peasants had the remotest idea what this actually meant.
Despite all the evidence of increased economic activity, the benefits were not felt in people's lives. Opponents of the policy objected to the necessity placed on Ireland, which needed food, to give food to those who had it in abundance. The leaders argued that poverty and starvation had damaged Ireland's reputation abroad, and we needed to continue exporting food in order to rebuild our good reputation.
Our aforementioned reputation, though often negative, varied from nation to nation. Prussian aristocrats, and the population at large — many of whom were unhappy with the support the German state was giving Ireland — held the impression that Ireland's woes were caused by the laziness and irresponsibility of its people, and we were the architects of our own destruction. The British made mocking comments about how adamantly we were pushing for independence, yet asked for assistance within a decade of Catholic Emancipation. Other European countries made similar assumptions, though many of them feared contagion. The potato blight was widespread in Europe, but other countries had closed their ports and kept their food within their boarders. It was feared that if Ireland closed its ports, there would be a crisis of confidence in food across Europe, which would adversity affect food distribution.
Some people suggested that the government introduce a scheme of food sharing, where wealthy aristocrats handed over some of their surplus. This was ignored, and the gentry open reviled such a scheme, reminding the peasants that they had worked hard to earn their surplus, and it was outrageous to suggest that the government would take it from them only to distribute it freely among those who hadn't earned it.
A break in the crisis finally came when the peasants began referring to government ministers as 'that shower' and demanded they be stripped of their entitlements. The outpouring of bile for government officials, and the frequent incantations of 'Táimid fucíocht, buachaillí ' and 'bhfuil an tír seo a shithailíocht' ¹ finally stemmed the tide of starvation and doom.

^{1. 'We're fucked, lads.' and 'This country's a shithole.'↩}

Irish History X, Vol. 2

In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie great stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations looks back and tries to give a fair and balanced account of what happened before us.

Éamon de Valera

Éamon de Valera served two terms as the third president of Ireland, as well head of the government for over twenty years. For decades, despite the highly partisan climate in Irish politics, he was held in high regard by Irish people. He risked his life by fighting in the 1916 Rising, and having barely survived execution, he continued to campaign against British rule. As head of the government, he introduced further measures of independence and a constitution that guaranteed the basic liberties of all Irish citizens.  He maintained Irish neutrality in World War II, while secretly aiding the Allies. He refused any pay increase while in office.
De Valera had been subject to much criticism over his lifetime, especially over his decisions during and after the negotiations of the 1921 Anglo-Irish treaty. He had also been criticised for his cultural conservatism, his overly close ties to the Catholic Church, and the way in which he handled the economy. However, since the revelations of the 1996 film Michael Collins, the tarnish has spread over the entirety of de Valera's reputation. The film revealed how de Valera evilly sanctioned Michael Collins's assassination. Some assert that Dev even pulled the trigger himself. Before Collins was felled by a bullet to the head, witnesses heard a Limerick accent in the hilltops of Béal na Bláth utter "Take this, Michael."

Further revelations have emerged since the film, damaging his image forever:

• De Valera was lacking in symmetrical proportions, rendering both his face and his body  aesthetically unpleasing.

•  He never made time in his schedule to build rock-hard, shredded muscle or grow locks of leonine masculinity.
• The endearing anecdote about a young child urinating on de Valera's lap has been revealed to be more sinister than it was previously believed to be. Prior to these revelations, people only knew of how Dev had laughed it off, saying the child had the privilege of being able to say how he weed on the president. As it transpires, De Valera was a scatophilic, urophilic paedophile, who had given the child five litres of Cidona. When the child tried to speak out about the matter years later, Dev silenced him, by defecating down his throat. (Source: some webpage.)
• He selfishly caved into the whole mortality thing after a mere ninety-two years, and left behind his children and grandchildren, who had to mourn for him.
• De Valera's 'The Ireland That We Dreamed Of' speech, which he delivered over the radio on St. Patrick's Day 1943, and for which he is heavily criticised, was far worse in its original draft. The original poured hateful pile over the women of Ireland, wishing them pain and servitude. RTE insisted it be tamed, and de Valera agreed, on the condition that they aid him in his quest to ensure that all women who rose to political power in Ireland would have to be namesakes of the Virgin Mary. (A guarantor of purity in women, according to Dev. The plan has largely succeeded.)
• Having been spared execution after the 1916 Rising, de Valera was greatly disappointed to learn that the British thought him too irrelevant to execute. Determined to make his mark on politics, he held positions of political leadership until he was ninety, dominating politics for over fifty years.
• During the 1916 Rising, De Valera acted cowardly. He supposedly succumbed to the terror of the mortal danger. Like any other human being, he shamefully felt frightened in a life threatening situation. As a school teacher, he should have possessed super-human valour, during the entirety of the sleep-deprived conflict with the greatest empire in the world. His lack of calm showed him to be of ignoble and diabolical character.
• De Valera was a conservative traditionalist who failed to promote sexual expression, the rights of women, divorce, gay rights, and the acceptance of atheism. All at a time when liberalism was flourishing all over Europe and the US. Often referred to as 'the emancipation of liberty' or 'the second enlightenment', 1933-1959 saw the emergence of civil rights and massive social change. By 1960, no liberty was left to be granted, whether it be sexual, religious, racial, or marital. The rest of the world would have been appalled by how far Ireland was behind the Zeitgeist, but (fortunately) the word was not in vogue at the time.
• During the 1950s, Dev ordered Dublin City Council to put powdered asbestos in the water of less well-off areas. He hoped that the piles of corpses could be used to fertilise new agricultural land in the city, and eventually ruralise the whole of Ireland. 
• Overcome by emotions of grief, de Valera wrote an impassioned and sentimental condolence letter to the German people after the death of Adolf Hitler. Knowledge of it was suppressed for decades, and the government fooled people into believing that the Taoiseach has sent a less embarrassing message. 
• De Valera wore glasses. Somebody had to go out of their way to manufacture him a pair of spectacles, because he was too selfish to see properly.
• He ate food. The Earth's population increased rapidly in the twentieth century, and consuming natural resources showed a lack of foresight and global awareness.

These points are but a few of the many scandalous facts that have emerged in recent years. Young Fine Gael will undoubtedly give you more if you can stomach some smarmy, little punk throwing trendy words and ideas at you — an activity that nearly rivals the dredge that seeps out of the Sunday Independent. Regardless of your view of Irish history and Éamon de Valera, I think we can all agree on saying fuck Young Fine Gael and fuck the Sunday Independent.

Irish History X, Vol. 1

In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie great stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In a new series, The Fair Observations looks back and tries to give a fair and balanced account of what happened before us.

Sinn Féin 

Sinn Féin was established in 1905 by Arthur Griffith, a celebrated Irish republican and anti-monarchist, who wished to use his party to make Ireland a co-equal partner in a dual monarch Empire with Britain. Despite his IRB ties, his opposition to socialism, and his occasional support of anti-Semites, Griffith lacked nationalist credibility, and so he veered his party towards the cause of full Irish independence.

Arthur Griffith

In 1918, Sinn Féin fielded candidates around the whole of Ireland and won the overwhelming majority of seats on the island. Citing democracy as their ally, the party claimed that they had been given a mandate for an independent Ireland, despite only winning 4.6% of the popular vote in the UK, in an election where no referendum for Irish independence had taken place. Assuming control of the whole island, Sinn Féin soon found themselves confronted by an ever-so-delightful and plummy-voiced British terror squad. After two or three years of fighting, they negotiated a treaty they utterly despised, split into two factions, and partook in a bitter civil war, which eventually saw the virtual extinction of the party.

According to a 1947 High Court ruling, the contemporaneous Sinn Féin was not the same party as that established by Arthur Griffith. Yet, the party celebrated its centenary in 2005. This has lead historians to believe that Sinn Féin became etherial and ghost-like between 1926 and 1970. In these years, it drifted across the island, partially materialising from time to time. Finally, it reified in Northern Ireland, when the Troubles began. The newly manifested party represented the IRA by refusing to take the seats they won in parliament, being banned from appearing in British and Irish media, and by denying they represented the IRA (not that they had the communicative means to do so). Members of Sinn Féin (or 'Sinn Féin IRA' in Ulster Scots) would often talk to a wall, in front of a video camera, in order to maintain the semblance of being a political party. 

 

After successfully negotiating the Northern Ireland peace process, Sinn Féin decided to try and regain their ill-fated dominance across the whole of Ireland. In the last general election, the party more than doubled their number of seats in Dáil Éireann. They offer political change in the Republic under the leadership of Gerry Adams (who, in the spirt of dual monarchy, has led Sinn Féin for 30 years with Martin McGuinness ).¹ They have found support among the working classes, those of us who like to see 'gurriers' getting a good beating, and 1916 Rising cosplay enthusiasts.

Sinn Féin means 'ourselves', but it is often translated with greater poetic eloquence, rendering this mere reflexive pronoun in more exciting forms: 'we alone', 'we stand alone', 'I'm so lonely', and 'a loan' (from Britain). The party's motto is Tiocfaidh ár lá, which translates as 'our day will come'. This has now been made redundant, as their day came quite recently, when Glasgow Celtic beat the world's best football team in the Champions League, during a season where Glasgow Rangers play in the Scottish Third Division. The following day, British prime minister David Cameron and his cabinet began plotting to re-conquer Ireland, inaugurating the dreaded 1,000 years of brutal British rule. 

I'm not saying these guys were fascists, but...

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1 I'd like to thank Feichin for this idea.

A Man of Letters

Dear Politicians,

I angrily expect you to do exactly what I want you to do. I also want it done instantly. I will hold you responsible for every mistake in society or any problems I encounter in my life, regardless of your level of culpability.
If you don't comply, I will post not particularly witty memes and pictures on the internet, ridiculing you, and perhaps going as far as comparing you to fascists. I will also complain about you in private circles, without any great effort to make a fair evaluation of your performance.

Yours sincerely,

Person who has never held a position of responsibility in their entire life



        ****************************************************


Dear Religious People,

I demand that you forsake your religious beliefs immediately. I have decided that they are false, and I refuse to accept that anyone would hold such beliefs. As a religious person, you are obliged to question and doubt your worldview, and just tolerate the fact that I will never do the same.
If you refuse to comply and just change your beliefs, I will take every opportunity to ridicule you among other internet residents who share my views. I will demand rationality all the time and assume I possess it, yet I will post irrational arguments and pictures on social networking sites. I will embrace any person or quote that agrees with my point of view, regardless of its logic or accuracy. I will refer to Jesus Christ as a zombie, even though that is clearly not what Christians believe. I will make fun of people and be incredulous when other people consider me intolerant. I will expect my aggression and intolerance to magically produce tolerance and peace.

You have been warned.

Person who rallies against fundamentalism yet often acts like a fundamentalist



        ******************************************************


Dear Nigel,

I want you to stop writing blog articles that are laced with hypocrisy. You must accept that sabre-rattling on the internet is an indulgence you must afford other people, as you frequently do it yourself.
Nobody reads your stuff anyway, as infrequent as it is.

Kindest of regards,

Nigel Fairflower

Easy Like Sunday Morning

This morning I woke up feeling fine, despite the 'intensity' of the night before. On heavy legs, lame with exhaustion, I had stumbled into my bedroom, fallen on the bed, and undressed lying down, before rolling under the sheets. Somehow, in this whirring, mind-dead state, I had managed to brush my teeth - and quite comprehensively. 'Surely', I thought, lying awake in bed this morning, 'this is one of the greatest achievements of humanity.'  'If this much is within our grasp', my mind asserted with magnificent assurance, 'then what cannot be achieved?'

We can do it. That's what I say to you today. We can feed the poor. We can end poverty. We can mend the ills of our economy and create a just distribution of wealth. We can find a sustainable society, where energy and resource shortages are no longer a threat. We can end war and simmer down conflict. We can watch crime rates drop, as the foundational social problems are dismantled. Our children will  fraternize with children of all different backgrounds. Their imaginations and hopes will drown out the mere candles we hold today with a blinding light. 

People will say 'I love you' more often, and it will mean more than it has ever meant before. People will cross borders to embrace the people from other countries. They will spend little time pondering the past, which will seem so dark and foolish and alien. Humans will explore the stars, but will never find a stellar body that outshines what they have in their hearts.

I will produce an article every fortnight. Maybe.

Les Mots Tristes

Still waiting for a publisher with the foresight and courage to publish my philosophical masterpiece, I have decided to bide my time by turning to fiction. Here is a sample from my latest literary venture. 

 Living in a delicious dreamworld,¹ Rapshaldeo laments the fact that he may grow bored of the vast wealth and wonderful experiences his life has brought him. Worse still, he is unable to live forever and perpetually get what he wants. On the eve of his 29th birthday, he realises to his great sorrow that he will grow old, like every other human being that has ever existed. 

 Rapshaldeo wandered out into the crisp air of early October. It seemed as though autumn had descended without any warning, and crisp withered leaves had already carpeted the footpaths. His crisp, nimble-footed gait propelled his body down the avenue, and his thoughts wandered along the rich and colourful landscape of his mind. Crisp ideas ran sequentially into each other, creating a beautiful tapestry in his vast imagination. The stream of his consciousness flowed crispily like a kaleidoscopic lucid dream. He pondered mental objects as ethereal as the illusive memory of feeling secure, sitting with his father in his classic Chevy Corvette, and as material as the crisp squeak of the leather seating. They were faded memories now, their crisp feel now rendered dull by the passage of time. His sigh was made visible in the crisp, chilly air. The gravity of profound sorrow weighed heavily on the crisp contours of his muscular shoulders. The multiple models who charmed him into sharing the crisp sheets of his bed had left him feeling cold; loved temporarily, like the sea set aglimmering by a short parting of the clouds. He could write a lengthy doctoral thesis on why he failed to connect with someone who could complete him crispily. A bittersweet smile creeped crisply on his face, as he contemplated a possible title; The Theory of Rapshaldeo's Everything: The Complete Hypothesis. It was not beyond his capabilities, possessing a crispy PhD in English Literature for a thesis that was almost rejected for being too beautiful and too closely resembling a work of literary art. It was only one of his specialities; sculpture, painting, skilled love-making, poker, fencing, the sciences, boxing, polo, making delicious crispy baked chicken, and acting were among the many abilities he mastered with ease. Yet, the more he learned the more he became aware of the crisp limits of his knowledge. In the best case scenario he envisioned, he would live forever and never completely assimilate all the knowledge of this crisp old world - a futile labour akin to The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. In the worst case scenario, the volumes of undisclosed literature, their pages crisp with age, piled up and up in his mind, creating a death skull edifice that told him of the nature of his existence. 

Bereft of love in the crisp wind and facing the futility of learning, Rapshaldeo sought solace in the thoughts of his loved ones. His friends were so multiple that he liked to separate them into castes of precious gold, shining silver, and crisp bronze. Bronze kept him busy and usually evoked friendliness; silver brought him fun and merriment; gold did too, and they listened when he spoke, ever protective of his crisp, delicate feelings. But, in a twist that was as ironic as it was crisp, it was never enough. They could never see the entirety of his soul, even when it shone outward through the crisp pores of his body. Even at this most beautiful of states, he was still only partially revealed, like the light shining through a crisp autumn leaf. His beauty crisply told the world of his inner truth, but not all of it. Even his older sister, who doted on him all his life, could not see how truly world weary he had become in the crisp recent days. The heliacal burden of being an enchanting light to the world had burned him to a crisp. Then, at the crisp nadir of his pensive thoughts, the crisp chill of the autumn air struck him and commanded him to pay attention to the crisp wisdom of the night. The bleak crispy despair of the poorly lit street listened and understood him. The ink-crisp night knew darkness better than any mortal, and it recognised it in Rapshaldeo. It crisped him crisply to a crisp. Crisp, crispy crisps crisped crispiness crisply.²

 

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1 I know this because I licked it.
2 Now reread the whole text, substituting 'crisp' with 'potato chip'.

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In my time as Prime Minister of this great country, the word 'no' was perpetually on my lips. No to Argentina, no to the miners, no the IRA, no to Europe, and, regrettably, no to the body I deserved. "Maggie," I would say to myself with self-depreciation "you can radically alter the UK, yet you can hardly alter your body at all." Now a pensioner, living well on the golden egg that is the labour of my youth (the only Labour I would embrace) and not the labour of others, I finally have time to succeed where previous decades have failed. The WCP programme works. The Iron Lady is now a lady of iron. 

Immanuel Kant, Titan of the Philosophical Arena
I worked long and hard against the scandal of philosophy that relied on mere faith to assert that a world lay beyond our subjectivity. I longed to strip rationalism and empiricism of their defective components and piece them together into a new philosophy that would satisfy the outstanding shortcomings of both. The light of inspiration shone upon my labours when I realised that the fundamental question was composed incorrectly; it is not a question of our subjectivity needing to conform to the external world, but the external world needing to conform to our subjectivity. Objects cannot be meaningfully observed by subjects without recourse to time, space, causality, and other categories. Therefore, I concluded, we can only have knowledge of the limits of our experiences, and all knowledge  of the objective, external world - the thing in itself - is clad in subjective clothing. Of course, I now realise that I should have focussed my labours on becoming clad in shredded, rock-hard muscle. The WCP programme has aided me in growing ever-nearer to my great ambition, to wit, a physique of pigeon-chested steeliness.

James Joyce, Celebrated Scatophile
Words departed from my pallored lips, long starved of everything but abasement. "Joyce, when will you recant the cerements of inactivity and nights dampened by the hazy listlessness of inebriation?" Long did my limbs lie in lamentable near-death. I gazed in cold horror at the cadaver in the long mirror of my disarranged room. The distended belly and emaciated limbs held together in a paradoxical form and a gloom descended over my disenchanted mind. The WCP programme lifted me out of the bog-hole mire of mummification. My body took flight and soared further than my soul did in the days of my youth. I now know what it is to live and be free: the six-pack abs I've always wanted.

Gary Glitter, Leader of the Gang
Being a rock star can completely fuck up your life. Falling deeper and deeper into more and more depraved acts, I lost all control. Before I knew it, I was a long goateed pervert up for punishment in Vietnam for having sex with minors. Things like that make you think about your life. WPC helped me pull my way out of the hole I was in. Now I can attract 16 year old girls with my new body and I don't have to fuck children any more.

You are cordially invited...

As I said in a recent Facebook status update, you have to respect the Amish. They're wise and considerate enough to keep their kids away from the rest of society until they've grown up. None of this 'Oh, I've got kids, let me on the plane first' or 'Look at all my kid's pictures on Facebook' nonsense. The act of vain self-replication is bad enough, but people should at least have the decency to spare others from the fruit of their ego.
When I see an exhausted couple struggling to simply get from one place to the next because of the whining inconsiderate little person they've volunteered to create and provide for - the lag of their loins - I thank Jesus, Allah, the Force, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Buddha, the God of Abraham, Jah, L. Ron Hubard,  and Richard Dawkins for not being among those who have begotten children.
For those of you who are unconvinced, let's take a look at the evidence:

1) Children are stupid. They don't know anything. They're illiterate, devoid of any etiquette, inarticulate, and their general knowledge is appalling.
2) They're a tremendous drain on resources. Even if you look past food and clothing, children use up so much of the Earth's precious, finite resources. Oil, precious metals, wood, waxes, and adhesives (and whatever glitter is made from) are all wasted on all sorts of noisy, clunky objects that fall all-too-quickly from a child's fascination.
3) They only think of themselves. Does a child care who else gets the ice cream, or toy, or costume? I once heard of someone who incredulously referred to kids as 'ruthless ethical egoists'. It would be funny if it wasn't demonstrably true.  
4) They need constant attention. So, having thrown all your love and hopes into this little creature, it repays you by haplessly walking into danger or sticking their fingers where they risk getting shocked or severed.
5) They grow up to disagree with you. You dedicate time and emotions to their well-being and they resent you for it. Free from nearly all responsibility, they're too inexperienced to see all you've done for them, and how much you've done to keep them safe and healthy.
6) They cost money that you will never get back. Now that you've impregnated or been impregnated by somebody, the cold sting of reality may come blustering through your mind: this kid isn't going to pay for itself. Apart from some gifts the little one may receive, you are going to have to pay for everything he/she needs (and, rather unreasonably, wants). Think thousands. Thousands upon thousands. 
7) The Earth doesn't need another human. What contribution are you really making towards the future by having a child? We're resource-eating monsters, especially those of us from the first world, and soon there'll be seven billion of us. You may well want your kid to have a good future, but, at this rate, they'll witness the next generation eat each other.

"You'll change as you get older, Nigel." I hear you say. "You'll soften to the idea of having children." Perhaps. But as I enter the final year of my twenties, I intend to enshrine my youthful wisdom in my person. Many get a tattoo, trying to define themselves on their skin. For many, that may be too radical, but not for me. I intend to go one step further and allow the arrogance of youth to be implemented throughout the rest of my life. How do I intend to do this? Why, by vasectomy of course. Sparing the world another mouth to feed, I shall have my tubes tied before the advent of my fourth decade. The occasion will be marked with a formal ceremony, something akin to a baby shower, but without impending doom of shitty nappies and sleepless nights.

You're all invited of course, when I have a set date (sometime before next April). It may well be after the procedure, so if I don't stand up to greet you, don't take it personally. I don't like to ask for presents, but if you're stuck for ideas, baggy shorts and sarongs would be greatly appreciated. Shoot me an email to RSVP. I look forward to seeing you!

Weird People I Lived with in Galway, Volume 2

After surviving the Wiccan battle-axe, I decided to move to more student-like accommodation. A fog sits between my hindsight and November 2005, but I remember the house being very typical of student accommodation (or ‘digs’ as we would call it, back in those days). I had the odious and undesired downstairs room. It was clearly a former dining area, being adjacent to the kitchen, and it was cold and Spartan – custom-made, perhaps, for the cerebral cherub that I was in those days. I was on the breadline back then (given my physique of hefty paste, I may well say breadlines), so I was happy to take it, linoleum flooring and all. In any case, my flatmates were amicable, and the weird guy, who used to piss in the sink in his bedroom (not the one I was moving into, fortunately), had moved out.
So, I passed the time eating HobNobs, reading Ulysses, chronicling my undergrad days in teleplay scripts, and avoiding doing any substantial work on my doctoral thesis. The composition of that house's residents changed quite frequently, and, after Christmas, a foul odour began to pollute the air. I wish that was a metaphor.
Returning back from the Christmas break, I found the newly arrived cretin bent over his greasy, oily, fatty food in the living room. His oil-laden hands had already slimed all over the remote control. (It wasn't long before I had developed the habit of wiping it before use.) I bid him a salutation, hopefully expecting a warm response. My greeting was met with a deeply suspicious leer, his pupils rolling to their periphery to save his head from twisting fully in my direction. The beady abysses returned to his food and TV. He may have said hello, but it was drowned out by the body language of great discomfort.
Perhaps it was because I was from the capital and he was one of those tragically small-minded people from outside the Pale who took offense to people within the Pale (a person from beyond the Pale who acted beyond the Pale if you will), or perhaps it was because he had his own set of close friends, but we rarely spoke. When we did, we disagreed. We had typical disagreements among cohabiters: the nature of individualism, the performance of Charlie McCreevy as Minister of Finance, the appropriate use of the word 'rationale', and who was the main vocalist in The Beatles. I grew more and more sickened by him, the greasy dishes he wouldn't clean properly, his diet of wedges and pizza, his egregious lack of cunning when stealing my milk, his late night drunken muttering outside my bedroom door (to be fair, it was easy to forget there was a bedroom through those doors). None of these things prepared me for the time I once went into his room. I would have assumed he was keeping a cadaver underneath his bed, so bad was the smell, but I know for sure that a corpse would have found the strength to resurrect itself and escape the terrifying stench. In the blurred panic brought on by the smell, I remember seeing a Febreeze sprayer. Clearly Smell Bag, as we affectionately called him behind his back, had learned to adroitly circumnavigate washing his clothes, opting instead to spray them with odour remover.
Like most ugly things in this world, it can never just stay in its own corner. Over time, the sickening smell began to encroach on the hallway, and even down the stairs. The nadir of the whole situation was perhaps when one of my housemates related his incredulity over seeing Smellbag walking out the door with his own excrement on the back of his beige pants. (I must concede that it was brave and progressive of him to wear beige pants. Remember, this was back in a time when it was illegal for Irish men to do so.)

Supposedly, he was going to do an apprenticeship in a large accountancy firm. I have no idea how he expected to undertake such a role with his level of hygiene and presentability. Maybe he cleaned up and looks back on those days with a little embarrassment, or maybe he's shaking in some ditch somewhere keeping himself warm with a blanket of self-delusion ("Charlie Mc Creevy's break-out-the-champagne tax giveaways were a good idea."). I'll go easy on him, for we eventually became comrades. Faced with a housemate even worse, we found enough common ground to transform our mutual disgust into a mutual disgust for another.

But that, I'm afraid, that story will have to wait for another day.
(Slaps knees and begins to rise)
"Oh, please Papa Nigel tells us more disgusting tales."
Perhaps another time. There's only so much ruthless defamation one can do in a day.
"Oh, but we love how you air your laundry so thoughtlessly."
I'd love to continue, but it hard work revealing the low side of one's character.
"But you shamelessly create mistrust in your readers so well."
(Yawns. Dons hat.)
Sorry guys. The rest of my repulsive two-facedness will have to wait for another time.

Yearly Review

As a virulent critic in these awful, awful times, where truth and intellectual precision are so rarely welcomed on the lips or fingertips, it is important for me to maintain my cerebral purity, by admitting valid criticisms of my work. To date, few have dared to challenge my arguments, presumably because of their rigour and thoroughness. Across the land, stories are told of a fearsome blog that — much in the manner of the video in the horror film The Ring - is read at one's own risk, for the demolition of one's worldview is likely, as is conversion and subscription.
The most distressing and valid criticism is that I don't write often enough. When I embarked on the 2011 leg of my writing career, I intended to post an article fortnightly. A glance at my list of archives will quickly tell you how this plan failed. In response to its readership, The Fair Observations has published a yearly review, a 'state of the blog' or regal address, if you will, that meditates on the minor failings, glacial triumphs, joys, laments, and milestones of the past twelve months. Each reader will receive a personalised version of this address from this blog. After unravelling the deep red ribbon, the subscriber can then pry his paper knife beneath the sealed folds of the envelope, the colour of which is tastefully comprised of gold and subdued glitter. Upon cutting the package open, the recipient's anticipation will be satisfied when they will find the following text on quality vintage-textured paper:



Dear valued customer,

I wish to touch base with you in regard to your recent complaint, concerning the downsizing in the proliferation of articles in the year ending December 31st 2011. At The Fair Observations, we have a deep commitment to the development and implementation of reader satisfaction. It is central, in terms of our core values. Core business strategy-wise, we are wholly committed to delivering a customer focused article delivery service experience in a manner consistent and compliant with industry-leading standards. In our annual strategy for the year ending 2011, we were committed to the plan of delivering 26 articles annually, starting in January 2011. We envisioned our plan in a challenging economic climate, one in which it is necessary for companies to implement changes in order to maintain competitiveness. Despite our continual commitment to robust and vibrant delivery of the article reading experience, an insufficient quantity of articles were produced.
The company is regretful in terms of how the shortages of articles impacted on the daily lives of our subscribers. However, such a shortage was necessary as we are subject to the directives the bottom line. The providing of our sustained article delivery service to you is not expensed. As a consequence, it is necessary the company's labour be outsourced, in compliance with the demands of the 'daily life' experience. The company was unable to maneuver in terms of flexibility, and productivity downsizing became an inevitability.
The reader satisfaction experience is our deepest commitment and a key performance indicator going forward. Time management will be realigned to support a customer responsive service, and synergy will be exhausted in terms of efficiency. Frameworks will implemented and evaluated, and the Customer and Partner Experience (CPE) will become a central component of our business, as we realize our commitment to our clients realizing their potential.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation and compliance.

Regards,

Nigel Fairflower, CEO

My New Year's Resolution

This coming year is going to be dedicated to satisfying my readership (all five of you). I promise to pump out an article once a fortnight on average. Some times of the year provide a voluptuous abundance ideas and inspiration, whereas other times are tight and lean, so my dissemination will be spurted unevenly over the next twelve months. The conception of ideas is not always possible, as some occasions are marred by dryness. This can be particularly frustrating, given that the process of writing is always hard. During the course of the year, you can watch the action unfold, and, as the year ends, you can decide if my performance was adequate. I'm accustomed to hearing moans and sighs, so I expect that when Christmas 2012 comes, I'll be under a punitive lash, begging for mercy. When you inevitably dole out the punishment, please don't use that whip. Oh, God, no! Not that one. No, surely not. I can't believe you're going to do that. Oh, I'd hate that one. Don’t whip me there, like that. I bet it would hurt so bad. Oh, no...