It is the majority’s reaction to the actions of a criminal minority that will define the shape of society.
by George on Aug.10, 2011, under General
The events of the past few days have been frightening, embarrassing and profoundly sad. The angry and confounded British public are groping for an explanation as to why young people in London and across the UK have scarred our nation with a program of unrestrained destruction and theft.
Sadly, this confusion has exposed some deep failings, not in the rioters, but in us: the spectators and armchair commentators. Some of the responses I have seen in the press and in social media have left me with the same sense of hollowness and disappointment as footage of the riots themselves.
Over the last few days, news and social media platforms have been awash with uninformed, lazy and inflammatory generalisations- characterized by crass and outdated prejudice. Not only has widespread racist, classist and ageist sentiment emerged like pus from a wound, it has been met, not with the disgust it merits but with sage nods of assent from ‘good people’ from every transect of society.
One Twitter user wrote the following: “here’s an idea, demolish the sink estates and send these scum back to where they came from!”
This is typical of a widespread sentiment condemning the poorer elements of society and equating social disfunction with immigration. It is worth noting, that over the last few nights it has been the immigrant populations (Sikhs in Southall, Turks in Dalston and Bangladeshis in Brick Lane) that have been proactive in defending the values and property of Britain’s residents. Meanwhile, many others have shut themselves away- blind to the numerous white faces on the news, seeing only the black, contributing to the atmosphere of fear being cultivated by the shameless racist-fringe of British politics.
Another Twitter user writes: “rubber bullets to good for these chavs bring on the live ammunition” (sic.)
This kind of comment is disturbing enough on the level on the individual. It’s worse when the internet ravings of a few are representative of a large cross-section of society. Today a YouGov poll published in The Sun revealed that 33% of the population would support the use of live ammunition against protestors.
In the UK we are often bombarded with poll results, but I don’t think I’ve ever been confronted with an insight into the national state of mind as disturbing as this. Not so long ago, the population of Britain were rightly outraged by the over-zealous use of ‘kettling’ by police in the UK. Now, mere months later ordinary people are crying out for the shooting of teenagers in our streets.
To be clear- This is what the use of live ammunition to control crowds looks like.
Calls for the use of live ammunition amount to calls for re-instatement of the death penalty. Furthermore, such calls amount to demanding the application of the death penalty without due process, bypassing the system of justice that we have worked for generations to establish and putting life and death decisions into the hands of individual officers in the heat of the moment.
Thankfully, this will never happen. We are not Burma, Syria or Yemen. This is still, by and large, a sane society. The majority of us do not believe that the rule of law is best re-established by rashly destroying and radically undermining a system of justice established and refined over a thousand years. The hysterical response of a worryingly large minority is symptomatic of, and contributes to, a culture of fear and antagonism between young and old, haves and have nots.
How are we to convince the rioters that society is not their enemy when large portions of society are demanding that they be shot?
The unforgivable criminal activity that has blighted our streets these last few days has been abhorrent, but these are the actions of hundreds, maybe thousands, of young uneducated people.
More worrying to me, and as threatening to this nation, is the all too recognizable prejudice and hateful thinking that is now being exhibited by hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of ‘ordinary’ men and women.
If we are to protect and defend our society, we must not react with blind hate and fear in the face of threat, but instead with pride and strict adherence to the precious principles of inclusion and justice on which our society is founded. A hysterical response by legislators and laymen will expose us to ‘kneejerk’ policies and social discord that will threaten our collective and individual liberties in the future.
Let’s take positive steps forwards after this crisis and not allow our fear to drag us backwards into darker times.
-George Coote
@GRCOOTE
Here’s a bit of ‘creative non-fiction’ I knocked off recently. It’s about being cool (or trying to) and jumping out of planes.
by George on Aug.07, 2011, under Science & Nature
Phoenix: Rise and Fall
“How about a sky-dive?” I ask. I’m with my girlfriend Georgia in the computer area of a public library in San Antonio, Texas. It’s July 2008, and we’re a few weeks into a gap-year trip around the US.
I’m not suggesting a sky-dive because I actually want to jump out of a plane. I’m suggesting it because I want to impress Georgia. The plan is simple: I suggest a sky-dive, she is taken aback by my casual relationship with risk and adventure and says “no way!” I’ll shrug, too cool to be bothered either way, and she’ll be left to wonder when I became so attractively daring.
It’s a good plan, and I’m just congratulating myself on how well it’s going when everything falls apart. …She says “Yes.”
“What!?” I ask.
“I said yes! I’ve always wanted to sky-dive. Where do you think we should do it? Maybe Arizona?”
I feel sick, it’s clear that I’ve misjudged horribly. “Uh… yeah!” I say, voice strangled and thin. “I’ll have a look and see what’s available.” I choke a bit and stare, dazed, at my keyboard.
“Already found one!” she says. This is happening much too fast… “They’re called ‘Skydive Arizona’, near Phoenix.” She turns the screen towards me and I’m confronted with a web-page unlike anything I’ve seen since the 1990s. It’s clear that the site has been designed by a child. ‘Skydive Arizona’ is emblazoned across the top of the page in cheery Comic-Sans font. The cheeriness of the font jars with the growing sense of dread swelling up in me. It’s becoming increasingly clear to me that an attempt at appearing ‘cool’ to a girl is going to lead to my death. I’m already imagining the Wile E. Coyote style puff of dust as my body slams into the Arizona desert. What really happens to a body when it hits the ground? I wonder… Does it thud? Or splat!?
I scroll down, unable to shake the Wile E. Coyote image. I note with morbid curiosity a photograph of a plane. It is, in a word, ‘ramshackle’. I can’t see the maker, but I certainly wouldn’t be surprised to learn it had been delivered in a crate marked ‘ACME’. Below, at the bottom of the page, is a table of prices. I’m flooded with hope. If it’s expensive, there’s a real chance we won’t be able to afford a jump. “Too bad” I’ll say, feigning disappointment, saving face and looking cool. Ah, no- apparently a single jump costs just $120. Not only is this well within our budget, it seems scarily cheap.
I’d always thought that Stella Artois’ ‘reassuringly expensive’ tag-line was ridiculous. Now I understand. I am being offered (threatened with) the opportunity to jump out of a plane for the equivalent of £60. For some reason I find this disturbing. £60 is the cost of something safe and boring, like a pair of running shoes. It should not be the price of something exotic and dangerous like a skydive. Before I can articulate this concern to Georgia, she’s shushing me. She’s already on the phone booking our jump.
Minutes later, it’s done. The decision has been made for me: In four weeks time I’m going to jump out of a plane for £60. At least I’ll have some money left for a good coffin.
__________________
_____________________
Hundreds of miles, dozens of buses and countless motels later we are in an aggressively air-conditioned motel-room in Phoenix Arizona. Tomorrow is the day of the jump, but I’m avoiding thinking about it. This is difficult, as it’s all Georgia wants to talk about. “How fast do you think we’ll fall?” she asks.
“Terminal velocity for a person is about 120mph,” I answer automatically. I have spent nervous hours on Google learning the ins-and-outs (and ups-and-downs) of free-fall.
“Christ?! Can you even breathe at that speed?”
“No. That’s why it’s called ‘terminal’.” I’m surprised at myself, not just at the lameness of the joke, but because it has given my mood a little lift. I decide to push on with the gallows-humour and see where it gets me: “Don’t worry, the fall won’t kill you… It’s the abrupt and violent stop that’ll do that.”
After ten minutes in a similarly morbid vein, Georgia is taciturn and a bit sulky. In contrast, I’m bleakly cheerful. Sure, she’s unhappy with the black ‘comedy’ (“immature and cruel”), but she’s also once again under the illusion that I am not worried about the jump (“Aren’t you scared?”) For the time being I’ll happily settle for ‘cruel and cool’ ahead of ‘kind and wimpy’.
The cheer doesn’t last. The morbid jokes begin to wear on me as much as they do on Georgia and, restless with nerves, I suggest we go out and find some dinner. Despite being early evening, the temperature is almost 40°C. It feels hotter. The Arizona sun doesn’t just shine on you, it leans on you. The constant and unblinking stare of it seems to bear down with physical force. Within seconds of stepping outside I know what a shirt feels like when it’s being ironed.
Phoenix is a strange city. Like the eponymous bird, it is born from ashes- glimmering towers reaching from the sunburnt dust-bowl of the Sonoran desert. As we set out on foot, I am struck by the other-worldliness of the place. The streets of down-town Phoenix are wide, spotless and completely empty. Hot air hums and ripples above the baking tarmac. There are no pedestrians at all. We pass well-lit shops and offices, yet they appear unattended. This is meant to be America’s sixth most populous city yet it feels like a gigantic and pristine ghost-town. Surprisingly, there’s nothing unsettling about the experience. In fact, it’s strangely calming. I’m definitely beginning to feel relaxed, or perhaps I’m developing heat-stroke…
We pace through the tranquil business district, the mirrored glass of the surrounding buildings tinged reddish-gold. The only sounds are the flip-flopping of our shoes and a constant hiss as cooling mist is sprayed down onto the pavement from street lights and shop-fronts. Not at all surprised to discover that the local programme of air-conditioning extends even to the outdoors, I accept the mist without comment, grateful for some respite from the heat. I take this as a sign that I’m turning American. “Air-conditioning outdoors!? In the middle of the bloody desert!?” my inner Englishman screams at me. I ignore him.
Shortly, we come across an establishment that appears to be both open and (uniquely for Phoenix) populated. It’s a ‘Hooters’, a franchise I know by its reputation for breasts, bums and beer. Though all three of these things are compelling (not least to a 19 year old boy), I suggest it mightn’t be the ideal venue for a couple’s dinner. Georgia has no such qualms, seizing my hand and enthusiastically dragging me through the door.
We are greeted by a lot of breasts and some make-up. A crack appears in the make-up and says: “Hi there! Welcome to Hooters! I’m your hostess Carly!” As she says this, ‘Carly’ uses both hands to point out the word ‘Hooters’ printed across the front of her straining vest- as if I hadn’t noticed. “Two of you guys? Great! Come this way!” Carly skips off towards a table, Georgia and I in tow. As we follow, my eyes are drawn downwards towards Carly’s shorts. They are very tight and very small. They are also high-visibility orange, so I reason that I can’t be blamed for ‘glancing’. That kind of orange is unavoidable. Abruptly- Carly stops, and I stumble into the back of her. Looking up guiltily I meet Georgia’s gaze. She is looking at me drily with a slightly arched eye-brow. Damn it! Not so cool now.
Our meal is ridiculous, and I am embarrassed throughout. I stupidly order chicken wings. The chicken wings serve mainly as a vehicle for delivering barbecue sauce to my t-shirt, chin, cheeks and (somehow) eyebrow. Every time I take a bite, an improbably proportioned waitress comes and asks me a question. With my mouth full, I am forced into doing that awful thing when you point at your mouth, and chew ostentatiously whilst everyone sits in an expectant silence. When eventually I finish my mouthful, I invariably choke. The staff are incredibly flirty, something I am uncomfortable with at the best of times, but attempting to flirt whilst covered in barbecue sauce and sat opposite my girlfriend, is a nightmare. I bumble and stutter like Hugh Grant in a rom-com. I’ve never looked less cool. Eventually, we leave. I realise that this will probably be my last meal. I haven’t enjoyed it.
Unbelievable… Even people on death row get to enjoy their last meal.
_______________________________________
“Morning!” Georgia says. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine.” I lie.
We leave the motel, climb into a taxi and journey deep into the desert. We sit in near complete silence, much to the disappointment of our driver who chats away to no one.
We arrive. I’m not impressed. In fact I’m bloody worried. I’d always been led to believe that aeroplanes took off from airports. ‘Sky-Dive Arizona’ is most assuredly not an airport. In fact, it looks a lot like Luke Skywalker’s place on Tatooine, a few huts in a featureless desert. I take Georgia’s hand, a little too tightly (minus 1 cool point), and we approach a shabby little office.
Before we reach the door, it bursts open and a very tanned woman appears. Her skin is not dissimilar to the shorts in Hooters. “Hi! George and Georgia? Great. We’ll just get a few bits and pieces out of the way and then we’ll get you straight up in the air!” I can’t help but picture her literally moving the splattered ‘bits and pieces’ of previous visitors out of the drop-zone.
We are led into a small room and directed towards a tiny monitor. Apparently we are about to watch a safety briefing. The briefing is on VHS (VHS!? It’s 2008!) and consists mainly of a montage of previous visitors’ jumps combined with a techno soundtrack and scrolling word-art. There isn’t any mention of ‘safety’ at all.
After the ‘briefing’ we are introduced to the instructors with whom we’ll be jumping. We have two each, one to which we will be strapped and one who will film our experience/last moments. I’m shocked to learn that when I jump out of the plane, I will not be wearing a parachute. ‘Jared’, my instructor, is to wear it and, by means of a harness and clip, I am expected to wear Jared.
My training consists of my lying spread-eagled on the floor simulating free-fall whilst Alex (my camera-woman) films and laughs. To my right Georgia is doing the same. Well, almost the same… Unlike me she is making ‘woosh’-ing sounds. Who’s uncool now?
Finally it is time. We climb into our harnesses (quite S&M, way too many straps around the crotch area) and go out to meet the plane. I recognize it from the website. It appears to be in such poor condition that jumping out of it starts to look like a better idea than attempting a regular landing. Georgia looks petrified, but I feel- nothing. It feels too late for fate to intervene. I’m resigned to the fact that I’m going to get into this plane, climb to 15,000 feet and jump out of it. Since I’m going to do all these things with a camera in my face, I might as well try and do them with a smile. I grin like a skull.
We duck into the plane and sit on a bench inside. The pilot leans from the ‘cockpit’ (identifiable by the fact it is the only front-facing seat), checks we’re all aboard, and immediately sets off. I’m sat opposite the door, which remains open. This is presumably meant to add to the terror. As we pull up from the air-strip we pitch to the left and I have a perfect view of the scattered buildings below as we spiral upwards around them. Soon they resemble Lego bricks and I realise that the desert, which had seemed barren and featureless at ground level is really a subtle patchwork of ochres criss-crossed by occasional roads and fences. “It looks like a sun-blasted post-apocalyptic Wiltshire,” I think to myself, momentarily forgetting why I’m up here. A tap on the shoulder brings me back to reality. Jared beckons to me and shouts in my ear.
“It’s time buddy.”
I nod grimly and, as he spins me around to clip our harnesses together, I come face to face with Georgia. I give her a nod and the skull smile. If this is the last time she’s going to see me, I’m bloody well going to look as cool as possible. The coolness is short-lived. I waddle over to the door wearing ‘Jared the human backpack’ and violently bang my head. Alex laughs, her camera capturing every detail of this final humiliation.
Suddenly I’m perched, half-in-half-out of a plane. My face is buffeted by the air as it streams past us. “Ready?” Jared screams in my ear. I think desperately. Now is my last chance to back out.
“No, too embarrassing to quit now.” I tell myself. We’ve come all the way up here in this plane. It’d be awkward and rude not to jump. I realise that I am about to deliberately throw myself out of a plane simply to avoid embarrassment. I have just enough time to think “What a very ‘English’ thing to do…”
Then I jump.
I experience a moment of perfect disorientation. I catch a flashing glimpse of the plane. It’s upside-down, spinning away below me. For a crazy instant I’m convinced it’s crashing, then I realise- the plane’s not upside down, I am! As I tumble, the world spins in ultra-fast cycles through my visual field, alternating between cool blue sky and hot red earth. Somehow I think clearly enough to throw my hands and feet out into the star shape I’d practised. Stabilised, I find myself aligned with the horizon.
Wow.
The physical sensation of falling is not at all what I’d expected. I’m ready for the ‘digestive tract in mouth’ feeling you get from roller-coasters or unexpected dips in the road, but instead all I feel is fast. At 120mph the air blasts past me, whipping at my hair and clothes. Oxygen-rich air is driven into my mouth and lungs like the intake of a jet engine. This, combined with the adrenaline surging around my body, gives me an impossibly intense rush.
It is utterly beautiful. Hanging there, 15,000 feet above the desert, I have an endless view of the world below. I forget where I am, I forget that there is a man on my back, I forget that this experience will last only moments. I feel absolutely and perfectly detached from the world. This is a moment in which I have no worries, no responsibilities, no limitations. I’m literally flying. Totally unencumbered. I understand why it is called free-fall.
As Alex swims into the empty space in front of me with her camera, I grin broadly and shout breathlessly. I want to communicate that this is the happiest moment of my life.
All too quickly I feel Jared’s hand on my wrist. He pulls my hand back and places it on a toggle. I grasp tightly and pull.
The parachute billows out behind us and we decelerate from 120mph to 15mph in about a second. It’s a horrible feeling, and it’s made all the more horrible by the fact that, as the harness takes my weight, the crotch-straps scissor together. As we drift downwards I wonder if I’ve just been castrated in mid-air. ‘Probably not’, I decide, but it’s still bloody painful. I decide I’m too happy to care and, with that final thought, we slide into the drop-zone. I have been brought back to earth. I jump out of my harness, beam at the camera and, babbling words like “best ever” and “brilliant”, run over to kiss Georgia.
_______________________________________
Now it’s March 2011. I’m writing at my desk on a rainy night in Bristol. Until I started writing this I hadn’t thought about my time in Arizona for several years. A lot has changed. I am older and tired-er. The ‘girlfriend’ is now just a ‘(girl)-friend’. As I watch the footage of the jump itself I am struck by what a transformative moment of my life it was. The George who disappeared into the desert sky that day was not the same man who touched down 15 minutes later. I watch, rewind and re-watch the final moments of the DVD. The last frame is a close up of my face. It’s the happy face of a young man who has realised that he is capable of doing and achieving things he would never have thought possible. It’s a face of a person thinking: “This is the beginning of my life.”
As the final image fades I can’t help but feel ashamed. In the intervening years, I’ve let that young man down. Without noticing, I’ve slipped into apathy and boredom, becoming nothing more than another world-weary ‘grown-up’. How disappointed would the younger me be if he could see me now? How disappointed to learn that, what he thought was the beginning, was more like the end?
It’s a horrible realisation. I’ve wasted three years. That young man who fell to earth is the man I want to be, a man who believes he can fly. But now, as I reflect on the afterglow of that fading face, I realise it’s not too late. I was that man once, why not again? I pick up the phone.
“Georgia? It’s me… “How about a sky-dive?”
What is Love?
by George on Mar.21, 2011, under Philosophy
Given it’s apparent popularity, it’s strange that we don’t have a proper handle on what ‘love’ means. I asked Yahoo Answers “what does love feel like?” and received answers varying from: “it feels like time stands still and your soul merges with another” to “it feels like cocaine and marijuana mixed together.” It’s clear that not everyone agrees on what love is like. So can we even know if we’re in love?
I hear Bristol students proclaiming to ‘love’ all sorts of things, but they don’t always seem to mean the same thing: “Oh, I love Mumford & Sons- seriously, even before they were famous”, “I love my house-mates, except Jenny, she’s a butter-stealing bitch” or “I’m very much in love with Robert, our relationship has been the happiest month of my life.”
The word ‘love’ is the same in these examples, but the thing that the word describes is different in each case. The love someone has for a band is not the same as the love they have for a boyfriend. You might love your brother but (unless you’re from Norfolk) you wouldn’t make love to him. There’s nothing about the word’s usage that tells us what kind of love we might be dealing with in each case. This leads to a problem.
The problem is ambiguity… Some words, ‘bachelor’ for instance, are relatively unambiguous. For something to be a bachelor, certain conditions have to be met, namely that thing has to be an unmarried man. If you call a woman ‘a bachelor’, you’re an idiot, and you’re using the word wrong. Words of this sort work because everyone knows the ‘rules’ for using the word. The meanings of most words, however, are not as clear to us.
Some people (teenagers, idiots, housemates etc.) proclaim their love for each other all the time, sometimes on facebook, but we can’t justifiably say “No, idiot, you’re not in love” because, unlike the ‘bachelor’ case, we don’t know the rules that set the word’s meaning. This problem is fairly common.
Sometimes people get headaches and say “I think I have a migraine.” Later on they might get a much worse headache and say “pffff, last week’s headache was nothing! This is a migraine…” but they don’t really know, because they can’t directly compare the experience with other people’s migraines. “I have a migraine” essentially reports an internal condition specific to the individual, it can’t be directly compared to what it’s like for others. This means no one knows if they have a migraine or not! A case of ‘love’ might be similar. One might say “I thought I was in love when I was 15 but it was just a crush. Now I’m in love…” but how do they know? It might just be another, more intense, crush. Where does this leave us?
Well, it means we’ve got to be careful about forming any beliefs based on vague language. Semantic anti-realists will tell you that all language is ultimately imprecise but, even at the practical level, the language of love seems especially difficult.
Maybe you once said you loved a girlfriend and she said “I love you too.” I’d suggest that you shouldn’t take her word for it, because she might just love you in the same way that she ‘loves U2′.
Sex, Clubbing & Ethics.
by George on Mar.09, 2011, under Philosophy
I’m in ‘Bunker’ for a sports social and I’m dancing with a pretty girl. Previously my dancing has been described as ‘uncomfortable viewing’ but, for now at least, it seems to be going well enough. Ah, she’s turned her back on me… but hey, that’s cool, I’ve seen people dance like this before, she seems to be having fun, hips don’t lie, right?
Wow! Now her friend is forcing herself between me and dancing girl! Is this a cock-block? Surely not, they’re clearly loving this, and my mum says I’m really handsome. I must be headed for a threesome… Hang on, now dancing girl is miming smoking a cigarette at her friend. She’s pointing towards the door! Perhaps she wants me to follow them outside to talk? Perhaps we’re going back to hers!? Is ‘old faithful’ finally going to get taken out of my condom-graveyard/wallet?
-Perhaps not.
The club ‘hook-up’ is a familiar enough feature of university life, but what are the limits of acceptability when it comes to club seduction?
The central issue of ‘club-ethics’ is about respecting, or failing to respect, yourself and others. Immanuel Kant, arguably the most influential philosopher of the last 500 years, famously said that we must ‘never treat others as a means to an end but instead always as an end in themselves.’ This principle, called the categorical imperative, is central to ‘deontological ethics’- one of the two major schools of ethical thought.
The thrust of the thing is that: all people, by virtue of their rationality, are essentially deserving of respect, and thus, regardless of our purposes, we may never simply ‘Use Somebody.’
Aside from confirming that The Kings of Leon’s ethics are as diabolical as their music, what are the implications for our clubbing?
It’s bad news I’m afraid. It’s clear that picking up an anonymous and (hopefully) attractive individual for the purposes of sex alone is in clear breach of the categorical imperative. It could get worse, since alcohol is normally conspicuously involved. By getting ourselves drunk, and plying others with drink, we are deliberately forfeiting our essential rationality for the purposes of indulging our sexual appetites. This plainly contradicts Kantian ideals and makes justifying club hook-ups look very difficult indeed.
In fact it makes any sex look unjustifiable, Kant is even sceptical about sex within a stable and loving relationship claiming that “sex makes of loved persons an object of appetite.” Basically, Kant seems to believe that sex, and the inevitable context of seduction that surrounds it, is unethical.
Pffff… Kant would say that. There were no clubs in 18th century Königsberg and, at 79 years old, he died a virgin. Obviously the philosopher who isn’t on the guest list is going to say that clubbing is wrong, so I don’t think that we need to be too concerned. Other philosophers take a more positive standpoint claiming sex is a chance to pleasure the self and the other at the same time, it’s fine! Since Kant’s view leads to the elimination of the human race within one generation (no sex=no babies) I think perhaps the latter position is the one I’ll be sticking with.
There is NO FUTURE!?
by George on Mar.09, 2011, under Philosophy
Our experience of time is a pretty fundamental part of how we navigate the world. We conceive of ourselves as existing within a certain bracket of time and we refer to time when describing, planning and recalling events. We’re all used to sentences like: “She gave me her number last night.” or “Yeah, I’m texting her right now” and: “She said if I contact her again, she’ll call the police.” In our daily discourse we constantly refer to past, present and future- but do these things really exist?
The philosopher John McTaggart denied the existence of time altogether. McTaggart, who was schooled at Clifton College in Bristol, was born ‘John McTaggart Ellis’, but took ‘McTaggart’ as his surname as a condition of his inheriting his uncle’s fortune. Consequently, he came to be known as ‘John McTaggart McTaggart’, which is ridiculous- and completely irrelevant. Sorry.
When it comes to time, McTaggart said that: if time exists, it must exist as a series of points ranging from the distant past, through to the present and onwards to the distant future. This is called the ‘A-series’ of time. Intuitively, this is how we experience time. If we wanted, we could list all our life’s events- from our births in the past, to our deaths in the future. Such an ordered series of events would be an A-series. For argument’s sake we’ll take ‘X’ to be an example of a life-event…
“Moment ‘X’ is the present time… -that is to say that it was the present time at the precise moment that I pressed the ‘x’ key. By the time that you read this sentence, ‘X’ is in the past… Furthermore, at the time that I started writing this column, ‘X’ was still in the future.” Still with me? Ok- According to the above, the following statements are true:
1: X is in the past.
2: X is in the present.
3: X is in the future.
These three statements can’t be true simultaneously- so, to explain time, we have to add that any event (x): “has been in the future, is in the present and will be in the past.” The problem is that the italicised portions of that sentence seem to refer back to time. Thus, because we assume time to explain time, we have a vicious circle- and consequently, a crap argument.
Since ‘circularity’ is the hallmark of bullshit philosophy, according to McTaggart, we have a good reason to reject our classical conception of time altogether.
In light of McTaggart argument, the best way to conceive of time is as being integrated into a ‘space-time continuum’ (whatever that is). The popular scientific position would have us understand time as being a simple dimension like length or width. Thus, movement in time is basically the same as movement in space. Seems weird… but cool I guess?
For a clearer and more philosophically sound exposition of the science and philosophy of time, please see bibliography.
Bibliography:
Lloyd, C. Fox, M.J. 1985 Back to the Future.
EAT Kerry Katona…
by George on Mar.09, 2011, under Science & Nature
I LOVE MEAT- and I eat it a lot. I also love animals, and not just because they’re delicious. The thing is, if I love them so much, why am I content to have them killed, cut up and delivered to me on a plate? I wouldn’t eat a person, but animals seem different, where should I draw the line?
To generalize, we don’t eat other humans because we believe them to be imbued with some kind of moral status. It is generally held that people deserve to not be killed and eaten simply because they are people, but most of us don’t seem to extend this moral status to animals, why not? What sets us apart from them? A common answer is to correlate moral worth with rationality and intelligence. We don’t mind eating chicken and sheep because chicken and sheep are morons incapable of experiencing an intellectual life. Since people are capable of these things, we spare them the chop. But what about the severely disabled? Some people are born without the ability to reason and without the capacity for an intellectual life, but to eat one of these people is murder. You could argue that a particularly intelligent animal, such as a pig, has more capacity for reason then Kerry Katona yet, whereas one meal comes with mashed potatoes, the other comes with a life in prison. Other animals, fish and birds for instance, seem to have little intellectual capacity- slaves to their innate behaviours, and intuitively we think of them as having less moral worth. So it seems there are degrees of intelligence in animals. It seems likely that there is a cut-off point above which it is certainly unacceptable to eat someone/something, but it seems more than a little arbitrary (and suspiciously convenient) for us to draw this ‘too intelligent to eat’ line exactly at the point where animals end and humans begin.
So far so reasonable… We have more qualms about eating intelligent animals than the stupid ones and most people do draw a ‘too intelligent to eat’ line somewhere and it’s worth carefully considering where you draw yours. Would you eat a dolphin or a chimpanzee? Probably not, and your reason is probably because they’re too intelligent. Good, me too! This seems like a position that we could reasonably defend, and it’s broadly the way that most of us try to choose what we will and won’t eat. The problem is, a lot of us make our decisions about what to eat, not on rational grounds, but on sentimental ones. For example, very few of us would order dog or cat were we to see them listed on a menu- how could we? They’re too damned cute. Calamari is a different story, very few care what happens to an octopus. Whereas a kitten is unsurpassably adorable, I literally can’t imagine anything you could do to make an octopus uglier.
The thing is, an octopus and a cat are about as intelligent as each other, yet we baulk at eating one whilst merrily chowing down on the other. This, I think, is where we need to be more careful about our eating habits… A creature’s chances of ending up on our dinner plates should be affected, not by tradition, how expressive their features are or the degree to which they look like funny little people, but by their capacity for intelligence and personality. So! Conclusion… Consider leaving clever-but-ugly bacon off your shopping list and tuck into some Katona casserole instead.
Why Are Philosophers Crap With Girls?
by George on Mar.09, 2011, under Philosophy
I’m now in the final year of my Philosophy course and, like other finalists, I’m spending a lot of time wringing my hands over my future career. The obvious problem is, Philosophy isn’t really a job… Apart from experiencing incredibly ‘deep’ thoughts about unemployment, what kind of life can I look forward to? In an idle bid to learn a little bit about the life of a philosopher, I invested (wasted!?) a few hours reading up on a selection of my favourite philosophers. What kind of lives did they lead? How could I go about emulating them?
Depressingly, it turns out that philosophers are right up there with pandas and badminton players on the list of the world’s most pathetic individuals. A case in point: Friedrich Nietzsche, often name-dropped by flat-capped twats as “literally my biggest influence”, he is thought of as one of history’s ‘coolest’ philosophers. He had a moustache and said stuff like “God is dead. Everything is permitted.” Hey! That’s totally cool! …Right? Unfortunately, WRONG. It turns out Nietzsche was really crap with girls.
At school, I was told by my Philosophy teacher that, in his whole life, Nietzsche had one sexual experience- from which he contracted syphilis… That’s pretty uncool- and all in all it does not exactly amount to a glittering romantic record. This is bad, but for the worst we need to look to 19th century Copenhagen.
The Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard is often referred to as ‘the father of existentialism’ (that’s so cool!) and he had a good start romantically, getting engaged to the beautiful Regine Olsen when he was 24. Unfortunately, as he developed his philosophy, he became increasingly ‘melancholy’ and self-involved.
To a degree, this kind of behaviour can be pretty cool- it can lend a mysterious air, and some girls love the tortured artist vibe, but Kierkegaard took it too far. He decided, in his melancholy, that he was unsuitable for marriage as romance was incompatible with his work. Consequently, despite his enduring love, he abruptly broke off his engagement to Olsen. In an effort to drive the heartbroken and devoted Regine away from him, he made an elaborate show of ‘laddish’ behaviour all over Copenhagen whilst feigning indifference to her pleas for reconciliation.
Eventually he succeeded in driving Olsen into the arms of another man, securing his own miserable bachelor status and providing the perfect platform from which to spend the rest of his life sending her letters professing his remorse and undying love. It also set him up perfectly to generate quotations that read like the Facebook statuses of a 15 year old ‘misunderstood’ goth. Here’s my personal favourite: “My depression is the most faithful mistress I have known- no wonder then, that I return the love.”
So, if you’re a prospective ‘cool philosopher’, the lives of Nietzche and Kierkegaard make for pretty depressing reading. Having said that, if you’re looking to emulate these guys, depression’s probably a good start. Boost your CV by dumping your girlfriend and picking up an STD and you’ll be eminently qualified. If you’ve done these things, you’re now a philosopher! I’ll see you in the JobCentre queue….
Does Santa Claus Exist?
by George on Mar.09, 2011, under Philosophy
Most of you readers (excluding the freshest of freshmen) will by now have heard the bad news. FATHER CHRISTMAS DOES NOT EXIST. I’ve read a lot of questionable material in the papers recently (“Will Gives Kate Diana Ring of Death”), but this outrageous Christmas lie is a step too far. One of the principle occupations of philosophy is establishing what, exactly, exists. Normally we’d be worrying about the existence of God and morality, but these hardly seem important when our festive cheer is at stake. So… Before this salacious rumour snowballs any farther, I thought I might level a few arguments to reassure you of St. Nick’s continued existence.
1. An argument from empirical observation: Over the last two decades I’ve had quite a lot of presents left under my tree. How did they get there? Duh! Father Christmas put them there. In this case we can easily infer the cause (Father Christmas) from the effect (presents!) -Any smart-arses thinking that ‘your mum did it’ have obviously never met my mum…
2. An argument from the particular properties of Father Christmas: Any physics student could tell you that Father Christmas is a ‘macroscopic quantum object.’ This means that he is able to exist in a state of superposition, effectively meaning he is able to be in two places at once. This is how he manages to fly all over the world and climb down millions of chimneys in just one night. Any doubters can actually witness St. Nick in two places at once by simply visiting two department stores in the same day this December. The curious should take care to avoid observing him on Christmas Eve however, lest his wave-function should collapse- sending Santa and sleigh plummeting to earth in a great ball of flaming festive death.
3. A (somewhat questionable) argument from formal logic: If we want to get technical (as if the quantum mechanics weren’t enough), we can prove existence by demonstrating that the claim that “Father Christmas does not exist” entails a contradiction.
We start by saying: “Father Christmas does not exist.” BUT, then we apply the law of existential-quantifier introduction (the logical equivalent of saying that ‘if George is tall, then there is a tall person’) Applying this law to “Father Christmas does not exist” produces the following statement:
“There exists ‘x’, such that ‘x’ does not exist.” This is a contradiction, which mean that the opposite is true. Thus, Father Christmas DOES exist!
So with the skeptics humiliated and Christmas saved I can sit back and pour myself a congratulatory brandy. It’s Christmas, I suggest you forget dissertations and do the same!
Induction- Will The Sun Rise Tomorrow?
by George on Mar.09, 2011, under Philosophy
Why everything scientists tell you is a lie…
Philosophers are commonly stereotyped as absent-minded beard strokers. One imagines them reclining in a musty and tangential corner of academia almost entirely disconnected from ‘real world’ concerns. Though I concede there is some truth in this rather cruel picture of philosophy (the beards), there is plenty of philosophy with substantial relevance (even importance!) to other disciplines.
A great example (especially for scientists) is David Hume’s ‘Problem of Induction’; a very simple idea that will grab your brain, drag it all the way through your digestive tract and finally flush it away- along with all your scientific ‘knowledge’…
The best way to explain the problem, is by way of a simple thought experiment:
Imagine I’m with a version of you in a room (hello, nice to meet you!) This version of you is a clone; identical to you in every aspect excluding one; they have never seen a coin.
I invite your clone to examine a normal 50p, noting that there is a ‘heads’ side and a ‘tails’ side. I then instruct them to toss the coin 100 times. Amazingly, the coin lands ‘heads’ up every time. I know that there’s a 50/50 chance of landing ‘heads’ with each toss. The clone however, given their limited experience of coins, would expect with certainty that the coin would land heads up on the 101st toss. Why do they believe this? Because, in their experience of coin tosses: ‘coins always land heads up’, and from this; they infer that coins will continue to land heads up. This inference is ‘induction’.
More worryingly, if you were asked “how do you know the sun will rise tomorrow?” you might answer: “because it always does!” The problem is, by doing this, we are drawing a universal conclusion (the sun always rises, coins always land heads up) from a finite set of observations (a limited number of dawns or coin tosses). We are assuming that, just because something has always behaved in a certain way, it will do so forever… But this isn’t necessarily true! This assumption is unproven, it’s merely a feature of our behaviour that we subscribe to it.
So where does that leave us? Well, anything we thought we ‘knew’ (the sun rises, gravity pulls down, radium decays, food nourishes us) might actually turn out to be false at any time. Worse news; any justification of inductive inference (i.e. “Induction has worked well so far, therefore it’ll work well in future”) depends on induction itself! This circularity means it’s not, strictly speaking, rational to commit to many of our beliefs.
Having said that, we all do it anyway… Of course we all believe the sun will rise and gravity will continue to pull. The thing is; we don’t actually know these things, our sense of certainty is just a lie we tell ourselves. We continue to use inductive inference simply out of brutish pragmatism and animalistic habit.
So! That’s science binned… Next time- CHRISTMAS!
Sorry about the lack of updates….
by George on Nov.29, 2010, under Science & Nature
I’ve been REALLY busy. But here’s something…
This attractive photo is a clue relating to my next post.
