Baiting the 'righteous'

They don't like people who smoke, who drink a little more than a single glass of wine every other day, or who like the odd bit of red meat now and again. Light heartedness is an alien concept, as is imagination. They don't think you have the right (or ability) manage your own affairs or bring up your own children. They want to dictate what information others have available, how much exercise they take, and look upon themselves as the arbiter of all that is 'moral'. They have no 'live and let live' about them and judge others only by their own narrow standards. You must do as they do, believe as they do. All else is anathema. These are people who serve vegetarian cuisine at dinner parties and never provide for those who prefer a little meat or fish with their meals. Many believe in the evil of Eugenics and that 'Global Warming' is real. They exert a disproportionate influence upon our daily lives.

These are the new puritans. UK local and central government is plagued both by and with them.

I believe Longrider was first to dub them the 'Righteous'. I may be wrong, but his blog is where I first recall seeing the term. Although Longrider in the comments says it was Leg Iron of 'Underdogs bite upwards'. Thanks for the correction.

Synonyms and adjectives include bigot, chauvinist, diehard, doctrinaire, dogmatist, enthusiast, extremist, fanatic, fiend, maniac, Malvolio, monomaniac, nimby, puritan , racist, sectarian, segregationist, sexist, stickler, zealot. Other worthy descriptions are; grinch, misery, wet blanket, scourge, shrew, self righteous, misery guts.

My personal choice is the term used by the Aussies and Kiwis; 'Wowser'. Far more appropriate, and carries just the right balance of pejorative disdain without treading the unimaginative trail of Anglo-Saxon four letter invective. Even if that is where temptation leads.

You can even use the word in polite society without legitimate censure; as in.
"You're a bit of a Wowser aren't you?"
"He's a complete and utter Wowser."
"Wouldn't date her. She's a complete Wowser."
"Don't be such a Wowser." ....and so on.

Although our friends south of the 49th parallel apparently think 'wowser' is an adolescent term of approval.

I prefer the Anzac version.

Common knowledge, innit?

I keep on seeing people in the comments section of newspaper articles, which are often unintentionally funnier than the articles themselves, repeat this quotation, attributing it to an 18th Century 'Historian' Alexander Fraser Tytler (Not Tyler), from a book ('Cycle of Democracy' published around 1770) Having looked extensively for this title, I can't find any trace of via the various online catalogues I browse for research. However, the quotations provenance is probably far more convoluted, at least according to this researcher.

Now I'd always thought these remarks, or some like them, originally came from Benjamin Franklyn, which just goes to show how wrong you can be. The 'quotation' runs as follows;

A democracy is always temporary in nature; it simply cannot exist as a permanent form of government. A democracy will continue to exist up until the time that voters discover that they can vote themselves generous gifts from the public treasury. From that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates who promise the most benefits from the public treasury, with the result that every democracy will finally collapse due to loose fiscal policy, which is always followed by a dictatorship.

Now this false attribution doesn't make the words any less true. Spend more than you've got, and you're cruising for a very bruising time financially. As our Greek friends are finding out the hard way.

Just as an aside, French political thinker and Historian, Alexis de Toqueville really did make this remark;

A democratic government is the only one in which those who vote for a tax can escape the obligation to pay it.

Many people, especially those on the left wing of politics, don't seem to get the connection between prosperity and work done. They miss the fundamental truth that parties always end, and the bill has to be paid sometime. The bigger the party, the bigger the bill. This is one of the less pleasant financial 'facts of life'. You know what they are, the ones your Mum and Dad were always bleating on about and you didn't listen to. Remember them? Got it in one.

Being fiscally prudent, any non food purchases we make today are to come from Garage sales and the local 'Swap meet'. Just helping the local economy go round.

Am feeling particularly smug today because yesterday afternoon, with the help of our landlords workshop (The man is utter diamond), we built a custom padded headboard for our bed. Now I can sit up and read in languorous comfort without banging the back of my head on the wall. Very cosy.

Good stuff

Have just laid hands on a copy of the Altemus' edition of Dantes Inferno illustrated by Gustave Dore (See above). Excellent condition, but can't pin down the year. I know when the original illustrations were done, but there's no indication of the actual print run date. Pre 1900 seems possible as the preface page is pre incorporation of Henry Altemus publishing house.


Have also seen that the toxophilite's favourite piece of folklore, 'Robin Hood' is coming to the big screen May 14 2010. Ridley Scott directs; Russell Crowe and Cate Blanchett star. Expect the usual Hollywood treatment of History, but at least in the pre release photo's, Crowe appears to be using a period correct Longbow, with a Flemish Twist bowstring, no less. If it's only half as good as 'Gladiator', I shall be booking my tickets early.

Wildlife and stuff

Read in the local news about a little girl being pulled off a wharf by a Harbour seal while her father was fishing. Fortunately she was wearing a life jacket and bobbed to the surface. The theory goes that the Seals, so emboldened by being hand fed at said wharf, decided to try and get a little further up the food supply chain. Maybe the little girl was trying to pet the Seal and it took offence. In short, it bit her.

In a local magazine recently, a columnist wrote an article about how to handle an encounter with a Bear. A reader, a professional Hunter and guide, wrote in reply and basically told the columnist that he was talking a load of eco-rubbish and that columnists advice would result in the untimely demise of anyone who was daft enough to follow it. One of the pieces of advice that the hunter rubbished was the 'roll over and play dead' item on the columnists list. The hunter indicated that anyone following such advice would be readily killed by any species of bear. He quite vehemently indicated that if a bear is that hungry, you're lunch.

I would tend to trust advice from an experienced hunter and guide rather than some deskbound columnist, and apart from giving any bear a generous chance to walk away, would be fully prepared to give any such creature a jolly good reason not to think of me as an al fresco dinner. While Mister Mrs or Ms Bear might be hungry for a little extra something to stock up before Winter's long kip, this particular hyper evolved monkey carries a big stick when out in the woods and would make the bill for trying to lunch on his errant hide very steep indeed. However, he is quite happy to live and let live, but don't push your luck buster.

A hunting shooting and fishing friend once said to me "Walt Disney should have been shot for crimes against humanity." Referring to the twee anthropomorphic animations and wildlife 'documentaries' issuing from that studio. I'm not so sure. I think Disney, along with the Harman-Ising animations simply filled a niche in the human psyche. A highly atavistic niche at that where certain animals are sometimes almost instinctively regarded as avatars. Gods in animal form, by whose contact it is possible to obtain the animal's 'power'. People have pictures of Wolves, Eagles and Bears etc in their houses for very similar reasons.

Legends of the local Coast Salish peoples say that a black bear with a white blaze on its chest is a creature of portent. The opportune arrival of particular animals is seen, even by relatively civilised people as full of meaning. This meaning will be divined regardless of the actual reason for said animal's presence. Yet cultures down the ages have manipulated such 'omens' for individual advantage. As such, I am led to conclude that animal 'omens' relating to the supernatural are meaningless. For a hypothetical example, let's say the Chief of a clan falls ill and the shaman says "Hey guys, remember that funny looking fish Ug caught last month? The moment I saw it I knew trouble was coming." Or making repeated unproveable assertions and then claiming success when an unrelated unfortunate incident comes to pass. Remind you of anything?

As one with a healthy regard for both his own skin, and a thoroughly rural upbringing I learned as a boy that animals, even so called 'tamed' domestic species are not little humans in different form. They do not speak words, and their thinking is in my observation, very simple and follows it's own agenda. Animals are not like the fairytale sort, not like the rabbits of 'Watership Down', where the animal characters have human speech, thoughts and emotions. Humans to animals are by turn a source of fear, threat, curiosity and in various ways, food.

In addition, animals don't have fingers and opposable thumbs to manipulate their world like we do, all they have is their mouths, tongues, and Didja see the teeth? Even 'gentle' herbivores can deliver a nasty bite. Hippo's are vegetarians, yet more people in Africa are killed by those 'Water Horses' than any by carnivorous crocodile. Sharks 'taste test' surfers because from underneath a paddling surfer resembles their favourite entrée of Seal or Turtle. As an additional example, Sheep have been known to sink their grazing incisors into people if they get too cheeky. Same for any animal, domesticated or not. As a five year old I took a highly educational nip from a pet rabbit, and at age nine from a colt. Those two occasions permanently cured me of any anthropomorphic inclinations.

My Dog, to whom I am pack leader and provider of all good things, puts up with my occasional strangeness just to sit at my feet while I work. Why? It's how dogs are. In the wild they are pack animals and live in tribes with a particular pecking order. His behaviour to me is merely a mild perversion of his Lupine forbears. It developed from a highly successful survival strategy. Yes he's a bright dog, and does understand maybe a hundred words or so of what I say, but most of it is in my tone and body positioning. How do I know? Because certain words, no matter how they are delivered, always evoke a particular response from him. That implies aural pattern recognition specific to language. However, his intelligence is limited, especially when it comes to repeating mistakes. On the other hand, when it comes to unashamed scrounging, he could rival Einstein. He's a dog, what can I say?

Humans, particularly urban humans, seem to have a common idea that anything with four legs and fur is 'cute', which in extremis leads to incidents like the one at the Vancouver Wharf. A game warden at Yellowstone Park stopped a woman painting her ten year old son's face with honey in order to encourage a black bear to lick it for a photo, seemingly unaware that Mr Bear would be sorely tempted to do a bit more than lick a lump of deliciously honey basted protein popsicle given the opportunity.

On a more domestic note, how many people have been bitten or clawed by their 'tame' pets for overstepping the mark, or simply being late with the habitual meal. Hundreds of incidents every day should teach us that the species we tempt into our homes and gardens do not think like us and never will. Yet we ignore, we project, we rationalise, we apply incomplete and childish thinking which leads to occasionally fatal human / animal encounters.

It is said in some circles that we are a modern society in neolithic bodies. I find myself agreeing, but only to a point. Observe human culture, the way it functions against logic and experience, and you will be drawn to the same conclusion as I am; that we are not part of a 'modern' or 'rational' society. If we were, Anthropomorphism would be extinct. We are primitive and tribal, it is part of our nature. If asked the question 'what is man?'; my most succinct answer would be 'Bipedal tribal predator', which to me seems to tick all the necessary boxes if you exclude aberrations. Skin us down to our cultural bones, and that is what you will find.

What this really means is that we don't apply logic and experience when it comes to other non human species, or anything else. Our frontal lobes are not always fully engaged. The end result is human children being seen as a food source by wildlife, because hey, protein is protein.

Utter cobblers

Saw this 'news' story and had to stifle a 'what a bunch of pathetic idiots' that rose unbidden to my lips.

If you read the story, which is a prime example of lazy cut and paste journalism, you'd think this is a new phenomenon. Gasp! Bad people running amok with GUNS! Lawks! We're all gonna get our froats slit in our BEDS! Help, help! Call nine one one! Call out the militia, cos we're all a-gonna DIE! Well excuse me, but this is a complete load of utter bollocks.

I'm going to pour cold water on this one because there's nothing new about shotgun peppered roadsigns in the UK. People potting street furniture in rural areas has been going on ever since a drunken Farmer Brown first took exception to these manifestations of the Highway code late one night. It happens in rural Canada, the USA, probably in China, Russia, Australia, or wherever. I've passed shotgun peppered warning signs in France, Germany Italy, Switzerland and Spain. My first recollection of the practice came when my Dad drew my attention to one such example when I was a mere stripling of ten years. Less than a quarter mile from our doorstep. Was anyone shot to death? No.

The culprits are generally otherwise respectable folk who've been out 'lamping' for vermin in the dead of night, and have had a nip or two to keep the cold out of their bones. Mostly young guys, but I've heard of one incident where a very respectable pillar of the community took a dislike to a particular speed limit sign, and gave it both barrels of his Purdey in the early hours of one morning. As kids, specific unpopular road signs were often targets for catapults, rocks and airgun pellets when no one was looking. No-one ever got hurt. It was usually a protest at a specific unpopular council decision, so to draw attention to such practices as 'sniping', is hyperbole of the first order. One guy I recall was stupid enough to get caught shooting at road signs and lost his shotgun licence for a year, but that was the worst of it.

The RAC foundation spokesman in question is obviously wetter than a Halibuts breakfast and needs to grow a pair. Must be the silly season.

Going on the wagon

Have decided to forgo the pleasures of my old boon companion Al Cohol for a while, as he's tending to get in the way of the creative process. One MSS has been completed and despatched for consideration this year and I'm busy on the follow up, so have elected to keep a clear head while I plough on with the narrative. If you aren't so hot on keeping notes like me, keeping a fictional world neatly juggled between your frontal lobes is much easier without chemical intervention.

Not that I'm a great drinker, to be honest, since I came to Canada my consumption of such beverages has dropped off the edge of the proverbial cliff. There's just not the need for a large glass of wine after the frustrations of the working day any more. Despite all the shenanigans with Wife's Ex, putting together the immigration documents, Mrs S's occasional bouts of guilt over the girls, as well as the struggles with permits and stuff, I just don't want the booze so much any more.

At present there's also what I call the 'post submission blues', which is the 'did I do a good enough job' meme that can play around your head like a maddening tune that you can't shut up. All you can do is get your head down and say "Ah stuff it". To quote another bloke called Bill:

Jog on, jog on the footpath way and merrily hent the stile-a
Your merry heart goes all the day, your sad tires in a mile-a

Midsummer madness

Every year I see the various new age groups 'celebrating' solstice. In amongst them, there are a number of people calling themselves 'Druids'.

I would like to draw my one readers attention to the following; they aren't real Druids. None of them. They're all fakes. Every last single one. Either unemployed, or frustrated Junior Accountants, or low level Council Workers to a man. Especially those under the age of twenty eight. There is no such thing, or ever was if you adhere to the strict letter of the Lore on these things, as a Druid under that age. Three simple reasons;

First: A would-be Druid must first be a Bard, an acknowledged singer of songs who must be able to rhyme and scan - no blank verse, that's cheating. No girls either. Which is bad news for the feminists because there are no recorded instances of genuine female Bards in Druidic culture. This training traditionally began with boys at the age of fourteen and took seven years entailing a number of sacred rituals like being left to survive the night lying in a swamp (Don't ask why - they just did). At the end of this seven years the would be Bard must prove their ability by singing in front of a council of his peers, all of whom must be either acclaimed Bards or proper Druids, and satisfy them of his ability and suitability for future training.

Secondly: The would-be Druid then has to undergo seven more years of training to learn the folk medicine and sacred rituals, some of which he must undergo himself as a kind of examination. Think of them as kind of high risk mid term exams. There was only one penalty for failure and that is death, usually during the ritual in question but sometimes after as a human sacrifice. Oh, and no sex, although I suspect quite a lot of that generally went on, humanity being what it is.

Soooo.... Fourteen plus seven plus seven equals...... twenty eight.

Ah, and there aren't any real Druids left because the Romans slaughtered them all back in the first and second centuries AD. Mainly because they were a pest and source of resistance against the Roman occupation of Britain. Romano British chronicles of the time tell us that a Roman army cornered and hacked a large contingent into dogmeat back in AD 60. See the contemporary writings of Tacitus, Pliny and Agricola amongst other sources. After that, the last of the Druids were hunted to extinction over the next two decades. Ergo, no more Druids, and no more documented or otherwise sources until a Victorian 'revival' when idle people with nothing better to do dressed up as Saxons, Danes or Celts and made up huge swaths of 'ceremonies' as 'historical recreations'.

Oh, and if these guys are real Druids, how come they get the date wrong; Solstice is the 22nd to 23rd of June, not the 21st or 22nd.

Why would you want to be an adherent to an extinct sect anyway? Is it something to do with exclusivity, like it's my sect and I'll sacrifice if I want to? Poor identification within your family and the search for identity within a peer group? Hated parents, and wants a peer group surrogate but isn't tough enough to join a gang? Maybe they just hate the tyranny of wearing trousers? There are clubs for people like that. Who knows, who cares. I just hate it when people get things wrong and make stuff up to fill in the cracks.