We are developing the social individualist meta-context for the future. From the very serious to the extremely frivolous... lets see what is on the mind of the Samizdata people.
Samizdata, derived from Samizdat /n. - a system of clandestine publication of banned literature in the USSR [Russ.,= self-publishing house]
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This being Sunday, let us turn our minds towards matters otherworldly. Today’s Telegraph contains this devilishly diverting story:
Chris Cranmer, a naval technician serving on the Type 22 frigate Cumberland, has been officially recognised as a Satanist by the ship’s captain. That allows him to perform Satanic rituals aboard and permits him to have a funeral carried out by the Church of Satan should he be killed in action.
My immediate reaction was, of course: What the hell is the world coming to? But thinking about it some more, I reckon that a Satanist would be able to throw himself into a battle at least as enthusiastically as your average Christian.
A spokesman for the Royal Navy – echoing that Rowan Atkinson Church of England Bishop, who noted the forces of good, and of evil, and who said that the role of the Church of England is to strike a balance between the two – assures us that all is well:
A spokesman for the Royal Navy insisted that Mr Cranmer’s unconventional beliefs would not cause problems on board ship. “We are an equal opportunities employer and we don’t stop anybody from having their own religious values,” he said.
The report ends with this further quote from the same source:
“Nobody is suggesting there is anything at all dark about this.”
Perish the thought.
On this day when the prize for private space flight was finally won I tuned in to the Conservative Party Conference – the Conservative Party is (at least since the Liberal party was taken over by radicals like Harcourt in the 1890’s) the closest thing we have to a party of private property and free enterprise in Britain.
Dr Fox (the Chairman of the Conservative Party) made the first speech. “We must reclaim the colours of the national flag from the extremists [I believe that Dr Fox meant the BNP], we must reclaim the Red, White and Blue” said Dr Fox whilst pointing to the great board behind him.
Unlike some people, I rather like this patriotic stuff (indeed I type this in sight of my own little Union flag). However the great board to which Dr Fox pointed was not Red, White and Blue – it was a blue board with black writing on it.
Now I have nothing against blue and black, they are the colours of the Estonian flag (a nation I much admire) and, in heraldry, blue and black are the colours of loyality and constancy (steadfastness) – things that the Conservative party lost in 1989 and is now (I hope) trying to get back to.
However, to the television viewers, Dr Fox and the people who cheered him in the conference hall seemed to be either colour blind or insane. I can only assume that what was seen by the people in the conference hall was different from what was seen by the people at home.
Perhaps the great board was a screen and at a key moment the Union flag appeared on it, and the television cameras did not capture the key moment… a plot by the BBC?. But it was all very odd.
So who’s the Girlie Man now?
Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger has signed into law a bill that will ban foie gras in California by 2012, unless a “girlie man” alternative to forcefeeding can be found to produce the delicacy.
I shall open my pot of inhumanely produced goose foie gras this weekend and savour it twice as much with a fine Sauternes. Next time I go to France I shall make a point of stocking up.
Racial profiling may be too controversial too touch but just wait until somebody suggests species profiling:
An escaped pet cat created a scare on a Belgian airliner, forcing the crew to turn back to Brussels 20 minutes into its journey.
“We 100% support the decision made by the captain,” Geert Sciot, the airline’s communication vice-president, told the BBC.
Nobody, he said, could tell what an agitated cat what might do in the circumstances, scrabbling around amid the sensitive equipment in the cockpit of the Avro RJ.
An agitated domestic cat is a truly frightening thing. It could have been armed with a machine-gun or a bomb. Who knows what it could have done? Maybe it intended to overpower the crew, take over the plane and crash it into a building? Nobody would be able to stop it!! Terror in the skies!!!
“It took a long time to catch it,” he noted, describing the offending beast – said by Brussels newspaper La Derniere Heure to be a tom by the name of Gin – as “very aggressive”.
It was wielding a box-cutter and screaming ‘death to the Yankee imperialist dogs’.
This is a tragically inevitable result of the constant human meddling in the domestic affairs of cats.
Yesterday I visited Warwick (both the castle and the town) – it was an interesting trip, but an odd thing happened that may amuse some people.
I was in the crypt of St Mary’s Church Warwick and (observing my condition and the condition of the two friends who were with me) I said:
“Three bald men, gone red in the sun”
There was an odd silence from my two friends, and turning round I saw three, rather sun burnt, bald men – three thick set men, with tattoos.
I looked at them and they looked back. They smiled and I smiled and no fight resulted.
I wonder what the odds of this event were. The crypt was a small place and no other people were there.
Yesterday, I visited some friends in Cambridge. In the evening I was in no great hurry to go home, so I went for a stroll around the colleges and other attractions in the city centre.
The centre of Cambridge in August is a little strange, as most of the university students have gone home, but the town is none the less still bustling with tourists and language students. The many pubs and restaurants are full of people, but the feel of the town is entirely different to how it is at other times of year.
Wandering around the corner from Trumpington Street, I found myself passing The Eagle, described by the sign outside the door as “The most famous pub in Cambridge”. This is likely true, although these days it is not a pub frequented much by university people, as it trades on its fame, selling rather overpriced beer to visitors to the city.
This pub is famous for two things. One is that it was a favourite pub of RAF airmen based nearby during the Second World War. Much of the ceiling of the pub is covered with graffiti writen by airmen prior to dangerous missions. There are various other pictures, model aircraft and similar things in the pub commemorating this aspect of its history.
There are also pictures of assorted other famous Cambridge people (Newton, Byron, and others) on some of the walls, but there somewhat oddly there are no pictures relating to the other reason why the pub is famous. In 1954 two men had some lengthy conversations about a certain scientific matter in one of the bars. At the end of one such session they announced to the barman and fellow drinkers that “We have discovered the secret of life”.
These men were of course James Watson and Francis Crick. Oddly, the proprieters of the pub seem to lack a proper sense of the significance of all this, as the only mention of Watson and Crick anywhere in the pub is a small hand-written sign next to the bar noting that this was the bar where they made their announcement. (However, the significance is well known by others, and the role of the pub was mentioned in many of the obituaries of Francis Crick upon his death just a few weeks ago).
And it was this recent death I think that led me to walk into the pub, buy myself a beer, and raise my glass to the memory of the scientist. I was just considering the question as to whether the discovery that was announced just near where I was sitting was indeed the greatest scientific discovery of the twentieth century (on reflection quite possibly) when my mobile phone rang.
The phone did not show the number of the calling party. This usually means a business call, making it a slightly curious thing to receive at half past eight on a Saturday evening.
“This is <incomprehensible> pizza and kebabs. You ordered a ham and mushroom pizza”.
“No, I didn’t. You have a wrong number”.
“No. I am calling the number that came up on the phone when you called me.”
“In what city are you? I am in Cambridge. If you are not, it is unlikely that I ordered a pizza from you”.
“You ordered a pizza”.
“I am in Cambridge. Where are you?”
“You ordered a pizza from me”.
“No. You have a wrong number”.
“No. Your number came up on my phone. Don’t ever do this again.”
He was starting to get angry. At that point, my choices were to either get upset and start insulting him, to continue playing a game of “Where in the United Kingdom is Carmen Sandiego?” in the hope of convincing him that I could not have possibly ordered a pizza, or to just hang up, and I chose to hang up.
As it happens though, I now rather wish I had not done so, and that I had instead asked him some questions about his telephone. (At least if I could have got him to calm down). Either he manually transcribed the number that came up on his caller ID, and then made an error recording or dialing the number of his customer, in which case there was no mystery. Or, he had a system that automatically logged the number and then dialed me back without the number having to be entered manually. In this case, I do understand why he might not have believed me. This would have had to have meant that there was a bug or malfunction in his equipment or somewhere in the phone network. Which for simple things like forwarding numbers is not something we expect these days.
But as a disruption to the general karma of my day, this was a curious one. Not perhaps as curious as being stopped in the street by a teenage girl and asked if they had ice cream in Victorian times, but still curious. Somewhat sadly, it did completely destroy the solemnity of the drink I was having to the memory of a great scientist.
Senator John Kerry had one of those moments the other night.
For reasons best known to themselves, the Democrats have decided to hold their presidential nominating convention in Boston, Massachusetts. Two findings have emerged from this decision. First, that Americans outside the North-East are being reminded that the Democrats have a liberal New England candidate, with limited appeal outside his backyard. Second, that the traffic chaos caused by the Convention is very unpopular with the inhabitants of that town.
Conspiracy theorists claim that the Republican Governor of Massachusetts has deliberately botched up the arrangements.
So in front of thousands of baseball fans, Sen. John Kerry was introduced to throw the first pitch of the match between the Boston Red Socks against the New York Yankees on Sunday.
First, the fact that the Democratic Convention was happening in Boston was booed by virtually the entire 36,000 crowd. Then most of the crowd booed again (although there were cheers) when Kerry was introduced. Then the macho-man threw the ball short, and the catcher missed. Cue mirth, giggles and fun on the George W Bush blog.
Memo to politicians and actors: never work with babies, animals or baseball fans.
I followed a link from Mark Steyn‘s site to a sad story from Oklahoma.
TULSA – Blake Champlin, a Tulsa lawyer and environmental activist, died Monday at his home when a tree supporting a hammock fell and crushed him.
Obviously, hammocks must be prohibited and all trees within 500 yards of human inhabitation must be chopped down, on public safety grounds. Blake Champlin’s death must not be in vain!
“Minister rejects Bush reliance on abstinence, and backs use of generic drugs”
If I did not know this was about treating AIDS in the Third World, this would be very funny. Spotted in Salon.com.
I have a confession to make.
In May 1990, I contested a local election as a Conservative candidate for Fortune Green Ward in the London Borough of Camden. Had I won, I would have been a Borough councillor representing about 4,500 electors as a Conservative politician.
It seems a Folkestone, Kent Conservative councillor also has some confessions to make.
He said his convictions included death by dangerous driving, indecent assault, drugs possession, carrying a weapon and forgery.
Richdale, an unemployed chef, confessed to using cannabis and amphetamines to control his alcoholic cravings, saying: “I am an alcoholic and I always will be but I haven’t had a drink for 11 years.”
He admitted having sex with a girl of 14 and said: “She told me she was 15 but she was 14. She stayed at mine (home) and I woke up to find her having sex with me.
“But I am not a sex case and I am not motivated by lust. I wish everyone was like me.”
Now I should point out that the lawful age of consent in England is 16, not 15 or 14. The language used by Councillor Robert Richdale in an interview to his local newspaper does not suggest the calibre of candidate that I would vote for. I also find the last two sentences of the quote completely at odds with any sense of personal responsibility. It never had occured to me before now that the closure of the Conservative Party’s youth sections over the past 15 years might be a good idea, as a way of preventing child abuse.
So next time a Conservative complains about the ‘loony’ ideas of libertarians I will not be thinking, perhaps we go a bit too far. The more I see them, the more I like my denunciation of “an unelectable shambles comprised largely of cretins, petty crooks, pompous buffoons and in-bred yahoos. I will take no lessons in morality or “coherent political philosophy” from a Tory.
And that is before I look at the deplorable results in the by-elections tonight, where the Conservatives have made no headway whatsoever against Labour in the Midlands. The Conservatives cannot get one fifth of the vote in a Birmingham constitutency and cannot remotely challenge in Leicester, a city where three out of four MPs were Conservative during the 1980s.
I smell blood so i lie and smear chocolate lather on your bare butt after drunks lick a frantic puppy’s bitter, delicate love leg but i say he would use weak honey spray as purple breast wax & drive a smooth finger from my sausage to get juice with enormous power with a delirious boy lusting mad feet sweat through thousands of rusty and elaborate meat gardens yet easy you chant only ugly behind raw produce in their beauty ships so why not sit your shiny white apperatus and crush the tiny hairy symphony of void summer death petalness and shake your luscious tongue you repulsive mother of true peach fluff who said the milk never worshiped the pink rock as i did and my fiddle is singing to drool.
You may have wanted to know the REAL reason that ‘Friends’ has been taken off the airwaves. The ‘official’ reason is that the show’s makers wanted to quit before the show became too stale.
The truth is rather more sinister.
In Lyle, the California Court of Appeal held that creative discussions in which writers of the popular sitcom Friends developed ideas and created scripts could constitute sexual harassment of individuals listening to the sometimes bawdy banter of the writers.
So now we know.
[Thanks to Virginia Postrel for the link.]
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Who Are We? The Samizdata people are a bunch of sinister and heavily armed globalist illuminati who seek to infect the entire world with the values of personal liberty and several property. Amongst our many crimes is a sense of humour and the intermittent use of British spelling.
We are also a varied group made up of social individualists, classical liberals, whigs, libertarians, extropians, futurists, ‘Porcupines’, Karl Popper fetishists, recovering neo-conservatives, crazed Ayn Rand worshipers, over-caffeinated Virginia Postrel devotees, witty Frédéric Bastiat wannabes, cypherpunks, minarchists, kritarchists and wild-eyed anarcho-capitalists from Britain, North America, Australia and Europe.
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