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April 27 CensoredCan you imagine Moby without his Dick? Or a rose without its thorns? Would you want Dickens without his Sykes, Shakespeare without his Moor, or Hunter S. Thomson without his drugs? The Fear and loathing would be gone from Las Vegas; Oliver would be given a home with that nice Mr. Whats-his-face and the world could go on turning without the fear of any undue upset. Now wouldn't that be nice?
I heard a tale of censorship today, and the tale depressed me. Here's how it goes:
Just over a year ago my friend wrote a beautiful and moving account of a visit to Ypres. He spoke of how visitors receive a card on entry to the exhibition with a name written on it, which you use to activate screens and information throughout. He said:
'...The German names are included on these cards for a reason. The exhibition does not seek to glorify the dead of Belgium, nor of France, nor of Britain or her Empire. Indeed it does not seek glory at all.'
This was the whole point of the article, and it was moving and beautifully written. It affected me at the time and I remembered it well when he told me it had been posted on the front of a Newsletter where he worked. The problem came when a single voice complained about a later paragraph: 'Walking through the exhibition, I was minded of another, more present war, but one equally mismanaged, overseen with spectacular incompetence, with no reason or goal...'
That was the sticking point. This voice of dissent did not like this lack of full support for a current political situation. Though she had failed to notice any of what the article articulated so well - which is the endless futility of all war, and the absolute necessity of examining our role within them - based on this one voice alone, the piece was pulled, the magazine was halted. The voice was stilled.
The powers that be moved to censor and silence the voice of a writer who had done nothing but express a view he had every right to hold. We have a right to exist in our own land without having a brand stamped on our heads that says we must hold one opinion, one line, and all others must be stamped upon. If we are confident in what we do, then we do not need to fear the questioning voice. And if we are not confident - then that's the time we need to hear it most of all.
I can be on your side and not agree with you. I can be on your side and not agree because you need me, and I need you, to watch each other's backs. We need each other there in case we've taken our eye off the ball, or haven't noticed that the kettle is boiling over. I want to know that if I cease to care that they're drowning baby girls in the river, that you care, and you want to wake me up, you want to shake me. A country that has lost the ability to question itself is a country with no moral freedom. A person who cannot hear the voices of others is a person afraid to look out. A ruling body which bows to the insecurity of one person is on a slippery slope to a place you really don't want to be.
Of course, Freedom of Speech is somewhat an illusion. There are things we don't want you to say. Society as a whole has its sticking point, its no-go areas, its own limits, but when I decide that my singular view is the one that should prevail, I lose the right to be challenged, to be made to think. After all, without Goliath, David is just another uppity kid with a bag of rocks.
When I'm not afraid of my own views, I'm not afraid to hear that others don't agree with me or think I'm wrong - that they dare to disagree! Here for instance, people are even permitted to parade through the streets calling for our deaths, because that is their right of reply, it is free speech. They live here. Let's hear them. I want to know. And if they lose the right to their opinion - why should I have mine?
Censorship is the first sign that things have gone wrong. It is the hallmark of everywhere that is ruled by despots. It's the way of the unthinking mass which marches to whatever drum is beaten. We do not like it when we see it in others - we may even go to war over it - confident in the holy ordinance of our moral supremacy - yet be completely blind to its own stirring within ourselves.
When I no longer have the right to walk through London with others who hold the same views and question the Government is the day I pack my bags and look for my island. Once you silence the voices, you have lost the right to call yourself free. You have become 1984:
or worse, you run the risk of this:
This is what happens when you are no longer allowed to question. This is what happens when you silence the voices that don't agree, who question what you thought you knew - who make you feel something you don't want to even consider. Silencing them is the first step on the road.
Judge for yourself:
April 23 Happy flaming St. George's Day.Today is St. George's Day, though by the time you read this, it probaby won't be any more.
The thing that amazed me is the debate that's been going on here today, about whether we should celebrate at all! Everyone else gets to, so what's the deal here? Why should we just crawl away into a corner and pour mud on our heads in shame?
It seems that Irishmen the world over (even those whose only contact with Ireland since their distant ancestors left is a pot of Irish butter in the English Supermarket) are not only allowed, but actively encouraged to celebrate their day. You can't move for flaming leprechauns and shamrocks, and perfect strangers come up to you in the street and say stupid things like 'Aaaarrrrrrrr, to be sure, to be sure, faith and beggorah!' while decked from head to foot in green.
The Welsh are allowed to fly the flag on St. David's day and daffodils are shown after the weather news by strange people with leeks stuffed into their trousers. Even the Scots have Hogmanay and Burns night, and on their patron saint's day old men sit around saying what disgusting beasts the bloody English are, and have always been.
The English though - now that's another matter altogether. It appears that celebrating England and being English, and waving the flag, are now signs of 'Racism.' 'Jingoism.' 'skinheads.' and the BNP. - oh please - those daft buggers?
Well nuts!
Having a day when you can celebrate being English should be as fine as celebrating being Irish or Scottish or Welsh - which all together make up the British Isles - or they damn well should. I guess, as the oppressors and aggressors of every other segment of our land, the blasted English are expected to keep quiet and fly their flag at half mast while crawling along the Fleet Ditch in hair shirts and very little else. (Had to add that bit - the mental pictures just kept coming.)
Well, to hell with it I say! I want all the Brits who are proud of their particular part of this small and oddly shaped island to come out and reclaim their saint's day. All our glorious races and nationalities and heritages should grab a flag this minute and get out on the streets and declare - 'Cry England - for Harry and Saint George!'
Heck - as a half Welsh, kilt owning half-breed, I insist on being allowed to be proud - and play jingoistic You Tube videos. I insist on ignoring for just one day, everything that is wrong with my country - everything I disagree with mourn the loss of and hate the sight of - and just be glad about the good things for a change. After all - every other bugger does - And now it's our turn!
Hehe.
April 21 ultrasoundI typed this on the fifth of April and never posted it. It's old news, but if I don't post something now, I doubt I ever will again.
Today I found myself in outpatients, with a PSP that was running out of power and an old copy of Wildlife Magazine. It could have been worse - I might have had to wear one of those gowns. You know the ones - the ones where your arse hangs out the back and there is always a broken tape right where you don't want it. I think in every hospital there is a nurse who goes round cutting them. It's his or her way of revenge for the poor wages and long hours. Anyway, no gown for me. I just had to take my shirt off and sit there in my designer vest.
I was in the hospital because of my neck which has been giving me bother for a couple of months or so now. Everytime I lowered my head, there was something there on the right side, that wasn't there before. After ignoring it to see if it would go away, and walking around like a puppet trying not to bend my neck and feel that it was still with me, I decided to go to the doctor. He worried me even more by referring me to an ENT doc at the next surgery.
Here I had my throat numbed and a little fibre optic camera bunged up my shnozz and down my throat, which felt rather odd - like tiny little fingers tapping my throat as if searching for a way to retrieve my breakfast. The doctor hummed and haaaad, but said everything looked ok. However, after proceeding to manually probe my anatomy, she came to a stop and said
''Well, I'm sure this is fine, nothing seems wrong - but I'm going to send you to the hospital for an ultrasound just to be sure, ok?'
As the child of a doctor I've been something of a 'reader-into' of words. I didn't hear the first part of what she said at all. What I heard was:
'Oh, God, what's this!!? I'm going to let the hospital deal with this one. Oh the poor sod.'
Thereafter I walked around convinced I was on the way out, and when the appointment came only a week or so later that decided it. I began to consider who to give my CD collection to, and what I wanted on my tomb stone. 'Talk about a pain in the neck.' perhaps? True, but with a nicely twisted double meaning, or perhaps just 'Sorry!' in large letters. That ought to cover it.
I went on my trip to Athens trying not to think about it, which along with the other things I didn't want to think about meant I was doing a lot of thinking about nothing. Heaven knows what they made of me as I walked around with a rigid head, trying not to bend it below the horizontal, and this vacant expression on my face as I tried to practice being in 'The Now' and nowhere else.
The day of my appointment came and I skipped off work saying I had to have my head examined, which surprised no one, and there I was in the waiting room, diddling on my PSP and thinking about nothing.
The ultrasound room was dark and cosy, and I was told to make myself comfortable while the doctor was busy elsewhere (probably discovering something vile in someone else's throat). By the time she came in I was half asleep - and the ultrasound itself was rather nice - like a slow massage which I had to try not to enjoy too much - I was, after all, here to be given the worst of news wasn't I?
The massage progressed until something seemed to stop her and she took a little photo. The more she took, the worse I thought it must be and the less I enjoyed the massage. At last I sat up, covered in warm sticky stuff from chin to chest, and prepared for the worst.
'OK.' she said, 'I can't find anything there to worry about, so you can go home.' and off she went, leaving me to re-shirt and leave.
I walked out of the hospital x-ray department not sure what to think. Should I skip a bit? Should I go into the shop and buy a stale french loaf and beat myself with it? Everywhere I walked was where my dad had walked - this was the place he used to work such long hours in. I could almost hear him tut-tutting at me as I went. 'For God's sake - don't be so bloody silly.'
Well Dad, I am so bloody silly.
I exited into some late afternoon sunshine, happy to have been wrong. Really happy to have been bloody silly.
Shame there isn't a cure for that.
If I could play the fiddle, this woulda been me:
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