Wednesday, 30 January 2019

Black Lives Matter to the FSB

Somewhat startling, this account of Russia's trolling "Black Lives Matter" from the middle of both ends for a both ends against the middle effect.

A somewhat startling waste of time and money since the Twitterati do the trolling for and to themselves anyway. Promotion of the wise, courageous, moderate and just would be truly subversive but don't tell Ivan.
Pictured: Sukhoi SU-27 launches an attention-seeking missile: the shrieking "mee mee mee" as it approaches its target is designed to spread demoralisation.

Tuesday, 29 January 2019

Martial Waah

Per the Civil Contingencies Act 2004 (h/t Tony Blair)

1    Meaning of “emergency”
    (1)    In this Part “emergency” means—

        (b)    an event or situation which threatens serious damage to the environment of a place in the United Kingdom

    (3)    For the purposes of subsection (1)(b) an event or situation threatens damage to the environment only if it involves, causes or may cause—

        (b)    disruption or destruction of plant life or animal life.

posting Tiny Tim singing "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" should be enough to precipitate civil emergency, martial law and the Putsch

if anyone has the sheer damn spunk to actually try it...

Alas for my Struggle, such is not in fact a possibility in this sensible country where re-Tweeting a squib about transgenderism merely provokes a half-hour phone call from a policeman and not even an armed response team in sight.

Sunday, 20 January 2019

Why Bother Writing This Rubbish?

No surprise to discover that the Guardian has an "Opinion Donald Trump" page, which has no doubt kept a considerable staff of stone-faced harridans in daily employ for the last thirty months.

No surprise either that the "Opinion" is an incoherent gallimaufry of cognitive leftovers; it is the Guardian after all.

I was going to pick through the article and try to reconstitute the self-contradictory arguments, half-baked concepts, prejudices, snobberies &c from the scumble of titbits, but lost the will even as I read.

Would that the writers had as little staying power as I.

salad (n): a combination of Hindustani argula leaves; Swiss chard and lamb's lettuce; Oban creel-caught languostine; Peruvian (or Bolivian at a pinch) quinoa; and so forth, ported to the Guardianista's table within 24 hours of the harvesting, with a splash of the 1988 DOP balsamic of Reggio Emelia.

"salad" ("n"): the sort of common-or-garden trash of lettuce; tomato; red onion; grated carrot; and so forth eaten by poor people: ingredients* probably refrigerated somewhere along the way (!!!).

Reader: Indeed, why bother writing this rubbish? I'm the only one who ever looks at your blog, and I never get much past the first paragraph before turning to something instructive and entertaining.

Blogger: No, I meant the Guardian.

* well, at least they used to be picked by proper Albanian peasants. And who's going to prepare our coffees in Pret when the Europeans have gone?

Friday, 18 January 2019

Come Fly With Me

Some people may think that such an Accomplishment as this, can be of no use to the Owner or his Party, after it has been often Practis'd, and is become Notorious; but they are widely mistaken : Few Lies carry the Inventor's Mark; and the most prostitute Enemy to Truth may spread a thousand without being known for the Author. Besides, as the vilest Writer has his Readers, so the greatest Liar has his Believers; and it often happens, that if a Lie be believ'd for only an Hour, it has done its Work, and there is no further occasion for it. Falsehood flies, and Truth comes limping after it; so that when men come to be undeceiv'd, it is too late, the Jest is over, and the Tale has had its effect : Like a Man who has thought of a good Repartee, when the Discourse is chang'd, or the Company parted : Or, like a Physician who had found an infallible Medicine, after the Patient is dead.

Jonathan Swift, The EXAMINER. Numb. 15.
From Thursday November 2, to Thursday November 9, 1710
Or is it Number 14? Odd.

It is a strange sensation to be reading Plato's Republic during a hyperinflation of pother and mendaciousness: Polemarchus has not hidden behind a sidescreen to shout abuse at Socrates until he goes away; Thrasymachus, angry as he is, has not started bellowing his "the just is nothing other than the advantage of the stronger" incessantly, nor hired a chorus of harpies to accuse Socrates of Trumpy McHitlerFace RacoSexoPronounism, or a battalion of lawyers to keep on impeaching him until they find something to impeach him for.

There seems to be a sense that there is such a thing as reality, and that the truth of it is worth some measured and reasonable enquiry.

A relief, then, to note that Socrates was eventually put to death and that Swift was writing three hundred years ago: the "post-modern" is nothing new and civilisation has survived it until now.

Illustration: Bosch's "Ship of Fools" from five hundred years ago (phew). I cannot find an "Aeroplane of Fools" though the Falsehoods must be whizzing about somehow.