Why I Don't Much Care for the London Marathon

Logo of the 2016 London Marathon (with official corporate sponsor) 

A friend, Annette, sends me a text from the London Marathon. "How wonderful", she says, "to see 40,000 people - all shapes and sizes, all creeds and colours - running in perfect harmony and raising money for good causes." 

She's German. And a vegan. So her idealism and admiration for körperkultur doesn't surprise me. But I was a bit disappointed that she should know me so badly, after so many years, that she thought I'd share her enthusiasm for this ersatz sporting event. Because I don't.

In fact, I find its mix of fun-running, charity, narcissistic athleticism, media hype, and commercial sponsorship all wrapped up in Lycra and covered in sweat, deeply offensive. It's an example of what Lawrence terms sport in the head and, like him, I loathe those individuals who parade the self-conscious mechanism of their bodies whilst reeking with smugness and self-regard.       

Baudrillard is no fan either of idiots endlessly pounding the pavements. He rightly characterizes jogging, for example, as a type of ascetic idealism born of consumerism and the Californian cult of the self; a form of socially approved masturbation, the pleasure of which has nothing to do ultimately with either sport or sex.

I can't imagine what Pheidippides - who ran with real joy and purpose and not simply to comply with an obligatory performance principle - would have made of what passes for heroism today ...

The Moon at the End of My Street

According to Lawrence, who insists on an essential and dynamic correspondence between man and the heavenly bodies, the moon is a strange, white, soft-seeming world; a great cosmic nerve centre from which we quiver forever. 

Now, as readers of this blog may know, I'm philosophically hostile to such naive vitalism and what Quentin Meillassoux terms correlationism. However, la luna continues to attract my interest and affection and I agree with Lawrence that it's a far lovelier thing than merely a dead lump of rock in the night sky. 

And so it is that - just the other evening - I took the above photo of the moon at the end of my street, which, coincidentally, happens to be the title of a new collection of poems by Isabel del Rio, who, kindly, has given me permission to reproduce the following lines from a verse entitled 'If you and I did not have the moon':

    

If we did not have the Moon,
we would not know what to call
the night, perhaps only
darkness, we would describe it
only by its colour, black,
by its lack of purpose, pointless.


Other lunar-inspired verses in Ms del Rio's new book include 'wondering moon', 'this Moon is but a quaver on the sky', and 'Moon Haiku Number 1':


Like you, the Moon is
not in the universe, but
is the universe


Obviously, as a poet, there are moments when Ms del Rio falls into the same anthropocentric idealism and affectation as Lawrence. It's not so much that either author wilfully privileges the human over other objects, but each seems unable to help thinking the latter unless they conform to the mind of a knowing subject and in this way become products of human cognition and aesthetic fancy.

Still, it's been said that I often do the same, despite my best efforts to adhere to a strict form of speculative realism and object-oriented ontology (i.e. to know that the moon and stars exist independently of Man and are not ontologically exhausted by their relation to us), so who am I to criticise ... 

Note: Isabel del Rio is a writer and linguist, born in Madrid and living in London. She writes in English and Spanish and has published fiction and poetry. Her new book is published by Friends of Alice Publishing (2016).  

(No) Sympathy for the Rich

Christian Michel

In wake of the recent publication of the so-called Panama Papers, the French libertarian writer Christian Michel advises that we resist the urge to howl with predictable moral outrage and instead express our gratitude towards those who are wealthy enough to be able to afford to significantly reduce their tax bills.

In other words, we should sympathise with the super-rich, not curse them. Michel writes:

"It's hard to be rich. I pity the billionaires who, with a bit of hard work and an immense amount of luck, have managed to offer us products and services we want to buy. The public brings billions to their coffers. Then the public unfairly blames them for amassing those billions.

Of course the rich don't pay more taxes than they are required to; they are just like you and I. Who writes a check to the NHS for a treatment that comes free? Or pays TfL full fare when one is entitled to a discount? We don’t believe in paying government bodies more than called for and it so happens, when it comes to taxes, that legal opportunities exist to minimise the burden.

Thus this is not a moral issue. When some politician admonishes corporate executives on their greed and immorality they threaten all our freedom. A government function is to produce legislation. What the legislation allows is no longer the remit of government.

Commentators may choose to debate the perfectly legal behaviour of individuals, but government officials should not do so. That’s a condition of our security. If zoning laws state that you may build a house up to ten meters high, the council’s mission is to check the highest tile is not higher than 10 meters. That’s all. It is not their business to discuss your taste in decoration, or whom you choose to share your home with.

Likewise, if the rich choose to make use of perfectly legal tax havens, that's their business and their right to do so. Some people may resent it, but the law affords protection to all - even the rich.

Cheating, of course, is a different matter. There exist so many ways to mitigate taxes legally that you wonder if it is laziness or simply stupidity that makes some cross the line that separates tax avoidance from tax evasion. (Of course, it may be the source of the funds that's the decisive issue here, but that's another question.)

Ultimately, everyone - rich or poor - wants to protect their own interests and maximise their own advantages and we should not only acknowledge this fact, but encourage it and celebrate it as fundamental to the workings of a mature, liberal society."

Now, although I'd not describe myself either as a liberal, or a libertarian, I'd pretty much agree - perhaps to Christian's surprise and the disappointment of others - with what's said here. It's not that selfishness and greed is good, but rank hypocrisy and politicised moral ressentiment is worse and arguably more dangerous in the long run.

Having said that, it would really stick in my craw having to express sympathy, gratitude, or admiration for the 1%. That's simply not going to happen. In fact, like Joe Strummer, I don't wanna hear about what the rich are doing and I don't wanna go to where, where the rich are going. For great wealth - like great poverty - deforms and makes ugly at last. And wanting to be rich is a sign of low vitality.  


Notes

Christian Michel is a London-based, political theorist and activist; un homme de lettres et un homme de la ville. He teaches courses on economics and is regularly asked to speak at international events as a leading figure within the libertarian movement. Christian also organizes a twice-monthly salon at his West London home known as the 6/20 Club and facilitates the Café Philo at the Institut français on Saturday mornings. His text, which has been slightly edited, is used with kind permission. 

Joe Strummer was the lead singer of British punk band The Clash. The lines quoted are from a song written by Strummer entitled 'Garageland' which appeared on their eponymous debut album (CBS, 1977). Click here if you want to hear it.   

Non est Consummatum

She's done it again.
My mother: Lady Lazarus.
Back from the hospital, back from the brink.

A sort of slow-walking miracle,
With skin as dry as a Nazi lampshade.
Still smiling with a full set of teeth.

If dying is an art like everything else,
Then it's one like cooking she does exceptionally badly,
Suspended in a grey twilight of forgetfulness.

Note: I have obviously sampled Sylvia Plath's magnificent poem 'Lady Lazarus', first published (posthumously) in Ariel (Faber and Faber, 1965). Although this has been done without permission, I hope it shows my affection and admiration for Plath whose writing so often provides inspiration and, indeed, solace in times of crisis.      

April is the Cruelest Month

Despite the horror of the night before, in the morning the birds still sang, the flowers still opened and the sun continued to shine regardless ... And it is this surging indifference of the world to suffering, particularly noticeable in the spring, that strikes some minds as cruel.

But, for me, it allows petty personal concerns to be placed within a wider (non-human) perspective; enabling one to see as beautiful what is necessary in things. I draw much comfort knowing there is an eternal return of the natural world the same as ever and thronging with greenness.

In fact, sitting at the hospital, I wonder how those individuals who fail to encompass their own lives within what Lawrence terms the blue of the Greater Day manage to find the courage that is needed to survive and flourish in the face of a mortal existence that brings with it an enormous quantum of pain and sorrow.

If they can't transform the undifferentiated black-nothingness of death into a line of flight and fiery resurrection, then it's no wonder they become possessed by that spirit of revenge which animates so many who slander life as it is and long for spiritual immortality and heavenly reward.

Ultimately, it's not Eliot's moral idealism but Nietzsche's perfected nihilism that makes innocent and sets free; which shows us joy in a handful of shit ...

            

In Memory of Jock Scot

Jock Scot (Photo credit: Times Newspapers, 2014)

Once upon a time in a Soho that has now almost vanished, there was a small record company called Charisma. It was home to a few old hippies, such as Genesis, and to a peculiar array of highly individual recording artists. 

This queer little label, established by a big fat geezer called Tony Stratton-Smith, not only employed the kind of eccentric characters unlikely to find work elsewhere, but, nestled away above the Marquee Club, it provided a kind of meeting place for all manner of misfits and troublemakers to hang about; including the punk, poet, and bon vivant Jock Scot who, sadly, died a few days ago, aged 63.

Although our paths crossed only very briefly in the mid-1980s and, unfortunately, I have no great anecdotes to share, I always remembered Jock with a pinch of fondness and so was genuinely sorry to hear of his passing. 

Soon, they'll be no one left alive ... 

Something About Mary

Image: Tony Sapiano / Rex 

For those of a certain generation, the name Mary Millington continues to resonate. And so I was interested to read that she - or, more accurately, one of the soft-porn comedies in which she featured - was recently commemorated with a blue plaque by English Heritage. 

Come Play With Me (1977) ran continuously for almost four years at the Moulin Cinema in Soho after its release, making it the UK's longest running film - ever!

What this astonishing fact reveals is that neither sex nor cinema is taken very seriously by the British. It's certainly difficult to imagine the French or the Americans, for example, making a blue movie that guest starred Bob Todd, Henry McGee and Irene Handl.

The former have Sylvia Kristel and the latter have Linda Lovelace. But we, for better or for worse, have Mary Millington and Suzy Mandel performing alongside Alfie Bass and Ronald Fraser in a work that is rooted more in the often grotesque and vulgar traditions of the music hall than the pornographic imagination.

Critics who fail to appreciate this and know nothing of the lost world of sleaze, showbiz and criminality that was post-War Soho - the world in which writer and director Harrison Marks made his living and was so very much at home - will never understand the queer, anarchic, almost punk character of this film.          

Thus it was entirely appropriate that Mary Millington - "fully cantilevered and gorgeous" - made her final cinematic appearance in The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (1980); a sprawling mess of a film, safety-pinned together, which is as idiosyncratic, as vaudevillian, and at times as cringeworthy as Come Play With Me.

Afterword 

Mary Millington died, depressed and heavily in debt, of a drug overdose, aged 33, in August 1979, leaving behind her several suicide notes in which she accused the police and the tax man of hounding her. A feature-length documentary chronicling her colourful if tragic life, written and directed by her biographer Simon Sheridan, premiered in London earlier this month. 

Vajankle

 The vajankle designed and sold by Sinthetics

The vajankle - as the name suggests - is a sex toy designed for podophiles; a synthetic foot that comes complete with an inbuilt vagina. And a French pedicure. Whilst I'm sure it was developed with good intentions (i.e. to give pleasure), I think it fails for two reasons. 

Firstly, due to its almost-but-not-quite natural appearance it triggers an uncanny valley response (i.e. a feeling of revulsion). Thus the vajankle is aesthetically disturbing; it makes one think of heavy-footed zombies stumbling about or corpses lying in a morgue, rather than bare-footed beauties with dainty feet and lively little toes. 

Doubtless there are necrophiles aroused by the former and by fantasies of mutilation, but most foot fetishists love the vitality and playfulness of pretty feet as they dangle on the end of lovely legs; they wish to kiss and caress the objects of their desire, not chop them off.

Secondly, the vajankle completely misses the point of a fetish for a genuine devotee; it isn't merely a substitute for something else or a type of foreplay before the real event - i.e. genital penetration. Podophiles love feet and have no interest in sexual intercourse as traditionally conceived; they're not looking to ejaculate within a vagina, be it real or otherwise. 

In other words, they subscribe to an entirely different economy of bodies and their pleasures than those who automatically insert their penises where they've been instructed to put them. Foot fetishists, like paraphiliacs in general, want to find new uses for old organs; transforming sex into an exploratory ordeal in which, as Ballard puts it, the body becomes a ripening anthology of perverse possibilities. 

Placing a fake pussy into a rubber foot is, therefore, a banal and laughably naive gesture; both unimaginative and reactionary. There's nothing depraved or deviant about it. It's an attempt to bring the fetishist back into line by reinforcing the view that nothing is more gratifying or exciting than the membrane of a vagina (an orifice designated as the only legitimate and natural place of orgasm). 

Ultimately, what makes perverts philosophically interesting is the fact that whilst they may want to masturbate at every given opportunity, they also want to build bodies without organs and to have done with the judgement of God ...   

Thoughts on the Phrase 'Black is Beautiful'

Photo: Rachel Marquez
Model: Janica @ Best Models
rachelmarquez.com

Whiteness, of course, isn't a colour, it's a normative cultural value; an ideal we are all obliged to accept and aspire to whatever our race or ethnicity. The paler the face the better the person; not only more attractive, but more noble, more spiritual. Darkness of skin betrays darkness of soul; something base and bestial.

Such thinking, of course, which has a long and ugly history, deserves to be challenged; I absolutely support those who subscribe to a political aesthetic that promotes black pride and defiantly declares in the face of white racism that black is beautiful.

However, things become problematic when those who subscribe to such and refuse to cosmetically alter their appearance start to assert their own moral superiority, sneering at those who don't sport afros and accusing them of racial treachery.

To turn a slogan conceived as a form of self-affirmation into a weapon with which to censure others is not only a form of militant asceticism and bullying, but often also betrays sexist hypocrisy on behalf of black males who, on the one hand, voice disapproval of the millions of women who do use skin lightening products and straighten their hair, whilst, on the other hand, dating light-skinned models or marrying white women.

Sometimes, when a woman of colour bleaches her skin, she's not denying her blackness due to self-hatred and internalised racism - she's not betraying her roots - rather, she's simply making a considered choice about how she wants to look and acting with a degree of realism in the world as it is rather than as it could be, should be, and hopefully one day will be.

In a miscegenated future I would like to think no one will feel pressured to wear whiteface and pass as something or someone they're not; but neither will it be any more reprehensible or controversial for a black woman to lighten up cosmetically or surgically modify her body than it is presently for a white woman to work on her tan and have lip injections.

In a world after Michael I hope that all skin tones and facial features are seen as beautiful - be they natural or artificial (human or inhuman) - and a free spectrum of colours replaces the rigid black and white binary designed (like all such binaries) to keep us in a fixed identity.

Loving the Octopus

Image taken from PZ Myers' blog Pharyngula 

The strangely beautiful and beautifully strange octopus has many attractive features and erotic properties; the silky softness of its flesh, the muscular elasticity of its body, the slimy, probing tentacles that insinuate their way into every orifice (more an exotic combination of tongue and finger rather than a phallic analogue, as the biologist PZ Myers rightly points out).

But they also have a razor sharp beak in the midst of all their soft beauty and for those men in whom the fear of castration - in either a literal or a figurative sense - is a primary concern, this abruptly brings thoughts of loving the octopus to a close.

The fiction of D. H. Lawrence, however, provides us with some interesting case material by which we might further discuss this topic ...

Always highly anxious about perceived threats to his manhood - particularly the threat posed by women - Oliver Mellors tells Connie of his past sexual experiences, including with his wife, Bertha, whom he not only found difficult to pleasure, but who would mutilate his penis with her beak-like genitalia:

"'She sort of got harder and harder to bring off, and she'd sort of tear at me down there, as if it were a beak tearing at me. By God, you think a woman's soft down there ... But I tell you the old rampers have beaks between their legs, and they tear at you with it till you're sick.'"

This male fear of emasculation and the beak-like vulva (or what we might term octopussy), is also central to Lawrence's short story 'None of That!' - a rather ugly rape fantasy that (amongst other things) badly misreads Nietzsche.

Ethel Cane is a rich, white American woman with a powerful will and a pageboy haircut, who subscribes to a philosophy based upon the idea of an imaginative transcendence of physical reality and material events:

"'She said the imagination could master everything; so long, of course, as one was not shot in the head, or had an eye put out. Talking of the Mexican atrocities, and of the famous case of the raped nuns, she said it was all nonsense that a woman was broken because she had been raped. She could rise above it.'"      

Of course, Lawrence soon has Ethel disabused of this belief by staging her violent gang rape at the instigation of a nasty-sounding, fat little bull-fighter called Cuesta, with whom she's fascinated and over whom she is determined to exert her influence and thereby prove she is stronger than he.

Cuesta, however, isn't at all interested in her - apart from her money. In fact, he despises poor Ethel: "'She is an octopus, all arms and eyes ... and a lump of jelly'". He explicitly compares her cunt to a cephalopod's rostrum and asks: "'What man would put his finger into that beak? She is all soft with cruelty towards a man's member.'"
   
It's disappointing that someone who risks his life in the bull-ring should be so cowardly when confronted by an independent woman and her deep-sea sex. If he'd been more of a man, then Cuesta would have accepted her challenge and confronted his own castration complex. Instead, he can subject her only to violence at the hands of others and find contentment with beakless native girls; docile, unimaginative, and non-threatening.        


Notes

D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, ed. Michael Squires, (Cambridge University Press, 1983). Lines quoted are on p. 202. 

D. H. Lawrence, 'None of That!', in The Woman Who Rode Away and Other Stories, ed. Dieter Mehl and Christa Jansohn, (Cambridge University Press, 1995). Lines quoted pp. 220 and 227.