On Royal Spawn

I briefly considered feigning satisfaction and withholding this post, but I feel I've already passed the age at which I'd be inclined to follow popular opinion in order to gain favour. Besides, the weather is propitious for sedition.

Kate Middleton has just emitted a baby and so, naturally, people queued up everywhere to... Well, to what? To be in with a chance of winning the afterbirth? To sniff the umbilical cord? To get a free MP3 recording of the event (99p on iTunes)? Most people probably got to the palace and said, 'Shit, what are we standing here for?' as if being tugged from out a quixotic but venomous dream. 

Private Eye's front-page coverage. Brilliant.

There are a few things that are genuinely saddening about this media-induced fervour. Firstly, when you look on a crowd of people waiting outside Buckingham Palace, you can almost know for certain that these people wouldn't do the same even for a friend's childbirth, such is the power of media nonsense. Do these people really care about a baby that has just been born into an archaic, deeply unfair system? If so, why? I would submit that it is almost entirely media fabrication. 'Care, care, care!' the papers scream, lest you look like some sort of social terrorist. 'Just fit in!' I think most people go along with it without questioning what the hell they're subjecting themselves to, and what their incurious (spellcheck suggested 'injurious', a word that would fit with equal ease) decisions say of their whole being. I do not think it is exaggerative to say that the media is responsible for whipping up interest where it would not have existed to an even comparable degree.

What is interesting, but deeply unsettling, is that in the past monarchs have had to maintain a huge reserve of force to legitimate their reign. Nowadays, in the world of the internet and mass media, the monarchy has become a branding exercise. Why is this worse? Well, a monarch that can best manage an army is a monarch that can best defend the country, and in this way they perhaps deserved in the past at least some of their position. Presently, however, the royal family secures its future position with what is effectively deception, as all branding is. It is propagating the idea that a population needs something more than it really does. It is incredible, simply incredible, that our current royal family has such support from the public (though I do not pretend it is quite as strong as the media might have you believe). They contribute nothing to the people by whom they are largely funded. The poor souls of this country pay for a family to live in a palace. They actually have to be paid to submit themselves to such degradation. The whole thing is farcical. Worse, they are completely unelected and nobody seems to mind.

And then you have David Cameron taking it upon himself to decide that the whole nation 'will celebrate'. How loathsome. I wouldn't particularly mind others celebrating the birth of this child (one of the correspondents on BBC News said 'Kate has given birth to a young child,' as if she might have given birth to a 43-year-old Bulgarian window cleaner), but I cannot tolerate others telling me that I must titillate myself in glee. 'Nobody's got any money, most people can't afford to have fun, the world's about as hostile as it has ever been, but an ancient mechanism for oppression and greed has just been perpetuated. Wooooooo!'

It is the ideas underpinning this unquestioning acceptance of the royals that are most damning. It says the people of this country do not mind a deeply unequal society, and the monarchy is the keystone in the idea that it's OK for some people to live comfortably by exploiting others. It says we do not mind the deification, the beatification, the media wants us to bestow on the unworthy. I would suggest that to agree that these people are better through a happy accident of birth is the ultimate in self-abasement. It is an acceptance of one's own servility, in fact a resignation to it, and furthermore a rejection of talent or endeavour. I do not need to tell you that this is toxic to society and the individual alike.

Why else do I despise this simulated interest in the royal hatchling? I alluded to it earlier, but it is this: there are already people in everyone's life, real people with whom we actually have spoken, it can be guaranteed, who deserve more attention than they receive, and it is tragic that they are not praised because they are not in the media. Don't worry about babies you will never meet, whose lives are blessed by virtue of no virtue at all. Celebrate what's real and take an interest in someone the papers haven't told you to take an interest in. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge don't care about you, won't be at your wedding, won't send you a Christmas card, and you should return the favour. Think for yourself and decide who is more deserving of your time - royalty in palaces, promoted to a mystical celebrity status, or friends. 

Sonnet 94 by Shakespeare

They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself, it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

I am particularly fond of this sonnet because I was, at the time of reading it, having similar thoughts. Whilst I have no doubt that Shakespeare is not referring to the legal system, I feel the poem can still be interpreted as such. I was contemplating the law and how, whilst of course stymieing the intentions of criminals, it also makes the task of discerning the villainous from the virtuous more difficult for the everyday person. Criminals, who would with absolute freedom have killed or raped or stolen a 4B pencil from the local art merchant, under the law adopt the appearance of a virtuous person. Whatever one's morality, one is shown to be moral by abidance to the law. Of course, I'm not advocating the punishment of thought crime, but it did seem to me that those who are acting morally only for fear of retribution and personal plight should be considered less virtuous than those who acted morally regardless of the law. It is more commendable to express restraint of one's own volition than to express restraint under the fetters of judicial edicts. I absolutely detest cliché unless used ironically or comically, but the law effectively proffers wolves sheeps' clothing. Whilst you may say that this not much matters, for they cannot act on these villainous impulses under the law, I would postulate that a willingness to act immorally must taint every aspect of a person's character. It is legal, for example, to continuously act selfishly, and almost every illegality imaginable involves a heaped spoonful of selfishness. Having been proactively debarred from homicide (I am using one of the worst crimes in order to make the argument clear, most offenders of course are not murderers), this does not stop someone from being a general arse. I would rather not associate with those who are letting me live only because of the law. 

After that fairly circuitous segue, another interesting thing about this poem is that its sentiment is later appropriated, knowingly or not, by J. K. Rowling. She writes in one of the Harry Potter books: 'If you want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.' I was going to find out exactly which Harry Potter book this comes from, but I fear even J. K. Rowling would not be able to summon a dissimulation of interest if I were to waste the time doing so. Apropos, I don't think she was consciously channelling Shakespeare, but it's quaint how it seems nobody can escape his yoke. 

Spiffing, boffo, copacetic, frabjous and all that. I have no more to say. I suppose it doesn't readily occur to me, though perhaps it should, how absolutely egoistic it must seem - and is - for me to direct attention away from a Shakespeare sonnet and towards my own witterings. I have far exceeded his 14 lines and still if this was a job interview he would have the job before my interview had finished. Quality over quantity, eh. 

On Grammar Nazism

It is too hot. I do not refer to a subject in that sentence because I don't feel I need to reference one. Everything is too bloody hot. I do not appreciate the sensation of being sautéed, much less without judicious seasoning. And so the nonsense has already begun to emerge. I can't help it. Anyway, the heat today is such that I am occupied only by imagining waxwork exhibitions around the country being reclaimed by force by nature, Simon Cowell's oblong bonce bubbling and weeping to the ground in a cascade of simulated flesh, followed swiftly by his liquified mammaries as feckless museum staff rush to recover the atrophied mass. This is all perhaps a hyperbolic assessment of the weather but I feel it accurately describes my own state of discomfort.

It is the anger precipitated in me by this heat that leads me to the savage tirade that is about to ensue. This is a topic that has been clawing at my insides for quite some time and it, perhaps wrongly, continues to disgust me in the greatest way possible. The phenomenon is that of the ruthless grammatical pedant. It even has a popular term now, and the Grammar Nazi movement boasts a huge membership. I will propose in this blog post that these people can all go and, for want of a better expression, fuck themselves (or as Christopher Hitchens so elegantly described this phrase, 'attempt an anatomical impossibility.')

I cannot possibly recall how many times I have seen arguments - naturally on the internet, where one is granted a certain degree of both anonymity and physical distance - which run smoothly and appear to be coming closer to an approximation of truth, when someone will misspell something or make a mistake with a completely insignificant piece of grammar and will be absolutely pilloried for it. I cannot describe how speedily this infuriates me. Correcting someone's grammar in this way, with the wicked intent to generate embarrassment, is seen as socially acceptable. People for some reason think it either validates their argument, or rather devalues their opponent's, or creates comedy. It does neither. In fact, the ridiculous incursion of grammar into every fucking argument has precisely the reverse effect on the buffoon who feels their argument is so poor that they must make recourse to grammatical, personal jibes. Their argument suddenly looks anaemic, in need of extraneous aid, and their disposition is highlighted as one lacking humour, creativity, tolerance, or disobedience.

Perhaps one reason for my abomination of this blasted habit in argument is that I don't like to be criticised. This perhaps is true, though I rarely voluntarily sit in the company of people liable to deploy this non-sequitur. The inference is what really aggravates me - the inference is: 'Your grammar has failed, therefore the reason behind your argument is undermined.' I fail to see the logic here.

An additional reason for my hatred is that I cannot bear to be corrected, or see someone corrected, by someone else who is not at all perfect in the subject they so mightily preach on. This is sanctimonious, greasy foul play. People should not have to feel that a typo, or even deliberate error, will derail an argument.

More importantly than this - who cares? Why does it matter that your adversary omitted an apostrophe? Argument is not an editorial submission; at least, not an editorial submission with regards to grammar. The focus of an argument should be on the underlying principles. As long as you can marshal your thoughts in a comprehensible way then you should not be penalised. In trifling debates on the internet, grammar should not determine truth.

I don't think grammar has ever been as zealously praised as it is today, and I've lost count of the amount of letters or manuscripts of past poets' works I've seen that have omitted apostrophes and such. Perhaps it bespeaks fault on my part but I don't find this offensive and I don't judge any party for it. I make reference to him in every blog post but I'm not tiring of it so I'm going to recidivate... Byron was one of the most literate people who ever lived and he very frequently abbreviated or omitted punctuation in his letters. This was done largely for economy - it was expensive to send long letters in the 1800s (a state we are returning to...) and grammar could easily be compromised if meaning remained intact. This is analogous to Twitter with its character limit. And this brings me to a similar point, which is that some people patrol Twitter in the most pathetic way imaginable, trawling through tweets and highlighting poor grammar for 'comedy'. I follow, or rather did follow, someone who used to enjoy doing this, who said he 'searched for common spelling and grammar errors' for material. I found a great empathy for an existence as tragic as his must be. To highlight a grammatical error in an argument is one thing, but to spitefully do this on Twitter, which is itself a place for nonsense and frivolity, is quite another.

Here we reach a crucial point which is ineluctably damning for the advocates of - actually, I refuse to refer to invoke its idiotic appellation any longer - Grammar Land jingoism. Namely, does poor grammar, through mistake or otherwise, indicate a lesser intellect? If yes, then you are simply mocking those above whose intellects you would place your own, which is malice. There is no place for malice in equanimous debate, and a lesser mind does not necessarily mean lesser beliefs besides. If no, then why bother to bring the point up at all? It cannot possibly outline a weakness in the argument's author.

I could go on about this for too long, but I feel I would be emulating the misplaced ardour against which I fulminate. Correcting grammar to win an argument is counter to promoting reason, and correcting grammar for no reason besides maleficence is counter to promoting kindness. This habit calls upon all of man's worst vices - superiority, spite, sadism, and a desire to win at all costs. Do not mistake my position on grammar itself - it is useful in the same way as mathematical notation, but poor mathematical notation says nothing of the mathematical principles underpinning the work. I try to use good grammar when I can but I won't go out of my way to correct others in their use of it. To correct either ignorance or error is equally unkind. I am no editor and no teacher. And I certainly will not substitute prissiness for reason. 

Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow by Lord Byron

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"

When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,--
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,--
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it lov'd to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die--
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov'd,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps mov'd;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor'd by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.

It's almost 6am as I begin this post, and I have, as is customary for those with no commitments to uphold, spent the early hours of the morning watching James Bond movies. Quite enjoyable really, I had no idea softcore pornography could involve so many fight scenes and acts of escaping. Teleshopping propaganda, currently espousing some fascistic expandable hose device, now runs unbidden across my peripheral vision. The natural denouement to such a morning is of course to post about a 19th century poem on the internet. 

This poem was written by Byron at the age of 19 which, being a familiar age, naturally invites some degree of comparison between him and me; I regret to say that the contrast does not portray me in any favourable terms. He really must have been insufferable at school. 'Yes, sir, the passage of Milton you gave us was strong but I have made several emendations which, I'm sure you'll grant, free the text from its deficiencies.' Perhaps he wouldn't be this loathsome but certainly he was not ashamed of his talents, and his ironically-titled Hours of Idleness, from which this poem is taken, includes many imitations of great ancient poets such as Catullus. And all of this before the close of adolescence - I, conversely, am fortunate if I remove myself from bed by 4 in the afternoon. 

All the typical Byronic motifs are here - lament, wistfulness, and a heavy acknowledgement of ageing, to name but a handful. What fascinates me is that by the age of 19 Byron had already set the mould with which his future poetry would be cast (perhaps before this, one might argue). We even have several Romantic, orgasmic outbursts such as 'oh!' and 'ah!' which I always find amusing. I hope he did not make such noises while writing the poem at Harrow. Always inadvisable around schools.

Right-o, I'll happily shut up now. I need to sleep and your eyes need a reprieve.