tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77078355993472637492024-02-22T11:42:23.222-08:00ALTERNATIVE PRESTONNews, Opinion and Debate in the Preston areaMichael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-47186299140580410092010-05-02T09:20:00.000-07:002010-08-25T07:26:03.784-07:00Supermodels, Slumdogs and Millionaires<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57XNrpoFRsV1KRw5HDCTUHfn4UwNfZs8HpaO_w2bPOYwFFSqthbV3YMd7sWYpXkqC5PT8REpuZQ3RKbZYMvfz2Hp6Lc6gFqIzM7iZIsk6FLA9vsSixFYZgJ0K7PYWOtAUwpD8Uv3BraK6/s1600/Sri+Lanka+and+India+323.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57XNrpoFRsV1KRw5HDCTUHfn4UwNfZs8HpaO_w2bPOYwFFSqthbV3YMd7sWYpXkqC5PT8REpuZQ3RKbZYMvfz2Hp6Lc6gFqIzM7iZIsk6FLA9vsSixFYZgJ0K7PYWOtAUwpD8Uv3BraK6/s320/Sri+Lanka+and+India+323.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466709829967198498" /></a><br /> <br />Life on the Streets of Calcutta <br />(Extended version of Evening Post article, July 2010)<br /><a href="http://www.lep.co.uk/lifestyle/travel_and_holidays_2_1873/travel_calcutta_1_801896">http://www.lep.co.uk/lifestyle/travel_and_holidays_2_1873/travel_calcutta_1_801896</a><br /> <br />It sounded too good to be true: earlier this year a small article in the Evening Post was advertising a free trip to India in exchange for participation in a clinical trial aimed at reducing the effects of traveller’s diarrhoea. All that was required of the subject was to wear a small patch for a few hours and record any adverse effects while on holiday. I rang the company the same afternoon to book my place. <br /> <br />Six hundred people took part in the trial and were provided with free travel and accommodation for seven days. I was getting the chance to visit a country I could otherwise never afford to see: even if I had to spend a few nervous hours on the toilet I thought it was a small price to pay. <br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5AaNL89Lx-vltaNqWarjpIszJup0IQYG6JCXYlBqgcDnzkK4XlbcucQwv7JK3CsBrP3Ox3BR9r80dUbGOJRH9c5C5hpeaFajipuKqQi4MtvuP5rnm7bLmCzCxMieoxsbdur1dQz2XheZ/s1600/DSC00139.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5AaNL89Lx-vltaNqWarjpIszJup0IQYG6JCXYlBqgcDnzkK4XlbcucQwv7JK3CsBrP3Ox3BR9r80dUbGOJRH9c5C5hpeaFajipuKqQi4MtvuP5rnm7bLmCzCxMieoxsbdur1dQz2XheZ/s320/DSC00139.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466708862760284434" /></a><br /> <br />Calcutta<br /> <br />From the Himalayas in the north, to the vast mangrove swamps prowled by man-eating Royal Bengal tigers, in the south, the East Indian region of West Bengal covers around 100,000 square kilometres, with Kolkata, a daily festival of human existence, at its nexus. <br /> <br />Simultaneously desolate and chaotic, dynamic and depraved, Kolkata (as it has been officially recognised since 2001) is a city full of intriguing contradictions: immaculately dressed women negotiate sleeping corpses in the slums; Tibetan monks in maroon robes sit texting by the roadside; prayer flags protrude alongside satellite dishes; and the smells of incense, peeled guava, pressed sugar cane, cut marigold blossoms, urine and diesel fumes compete for your attention as they mingle in the air.<br /> <br />On the flight to Kolkata airbrushed airhostesses handed us warm, scented towels to cool our necks and chilled lime juice to drink. So the impact was doubly intense when, stepping off the plane into the mid-afternoon frenzy, we were bombarded with a whirlwind of heat, colour and noise that was unlike anything we had ever witnessed. <br /> <br />If you’ve never visited India the first things that becomes apparent are the incomprehensible extremes of pace at which its cities operate: millions upon millions of people lie or crouch in small patches of shade, their dusty shacks made of cardboard, branches, bits of corrugated iron and strips of cloth, form a motionless backdrop to the yellow and grey blur of speeding taxis and boisterous business men. The traffic, you learn very early on, is a perilous, steel river of horns, mayhem and near-misses. Despite this the drivers’ expressions have hardened over the years into unflinching masks of silent concentration. <br /> <br />It is difficult to talk about Kolkata without constantly referring to its slums, much to the distain of many Kolkatans. Around half of its five million residents live in roadside slums, that stretch for miles in every direction. The residents fashion their existence out of whatever they can pull from the garbage each morning to stay alive. Their resolve is characterised by a permanent state of polite indifference. And their poverty is by no means a detriment to their pride; in fact it seems only to increase it. Their few possessions and humble surroundings are cleaned and swept every morning and there is a sense of order amid what we might call debris. It appears to be true that human nature often shows itself at its best in the face of hardship.<br /> <br />The discrepancies between rich and poor are stark and offensive. Huge white government buildings guarded by sleeping officials with AK-47s and dark sunglasses tower above crumbling, makeshift shrines and ramshackle wooden boxes that are home to entire families. <br /> <br />These configurations of poverty and colour, speed and heat, imprint themselves with absurd clarity on the western mind. But just as our bodies gradually adjusted to the searing heat, so too our brains subtly adapted to the intricate workings of life, and it didn’t seem strange after a while when we saw yet another family of five speeding along on a single Yamaha motorbike or a young child carrying a load the size of an armchair on his head or an old man shaving chickens in the middle of the road. <br /> <br />In foreign countries you communicate with more of yourself and see a different aspect of the world or, rather, see the world again for the first time. Where no one knows your face or your name, and your existence is governed by unfamiliar rhythms and habits, you often feel more at home on the earth. Perhaps this is why we choose to travel thousands of miles in order to find what is already there within ourselves.<br /> <br />Traffic lights are so rare in Kolkata that, when you stop, they stay on red for an eternity and every driver in a half-a-mile radius turns their engine off. When this happens a strange quiet falls over everything and the world momentarily becomes another place. You realise that there are birds in the city and you can feel time crawling over everything. Everyone listens to the absence of sound from behind a blank stare, before the whole cacophony of horns and chaos starts up again and you are plunged back into surround sound Wacky Races.<br /> <br />At night the city becomes quieter but no less strange. The streets and pavements are littered with shadows that your sinking heart realises are hundreds of human beings, asleep on the concrete. Many own only the rags they happen to be wearing. A few others have a mat or a box to lie on. The lucky ones have a small stretch of pavement they call their own. <br /> <br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidPsdsVSqyDuZrj3zKlryZG6v0BqEYpkNcnClFWZPZ4X_KjB8liqs9cbVVdSD66P8dXMrhOqiIvOSWx3u1Bwa9mrPxKpcS1T7D7L-RNUiVtKvVDXRWGRcZO3E6LVJ5rCCfcC5wiVyJLaiH/s1600/DSC00159.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidPsdsVSqyDuZrj3zKlryZG6v0BqEYpkNcnClFWZPZ4X_KjB8liqs9cbVVdSD66P8dXMrhOqiIvOSWx3u1Bwa9mrPxKpcS1T7D7L-RNUiVtKvVDXRWGRcZO3E6LVJ5rCCfcC5wiVyJLaiH/s320/DSC00159.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466709020038533746" /></a><br />Shantiniketan (Abode of Peace) <br /> <br />Just as the magnitude and strangeness of the slums remains hard to comprehend, so too does that of the rich green plains and clay and straw townships that stretch for miles between our train and the horizon. Small girls dressed in bright colours glinting in the sun, stand beside huge black bulls in the open fields; women carrying impossible loads on long bamboo stems walk the dust paths while their children bathe on the banks of the river in the rising sun. <br /> <br />We were on our way to Shantiniketan – the once hometown of Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore – situated among shaded palm groves and quiet chalk paths. Other than air-conditioned restaurants, it was the first place of peace we had come across. Tagore had been a notable influence on W.B. Yates, who wrote the preface to the English translation of his Gitanjali. We were taxied around the poet’s village by bicycle rickshaw, taking in the open-air classrooms, sun-dappled avenues, Bengali Bowel Poets and, what had become a pleasantly familiar sight, cattle walking alongside beautiful girls on the road. <br /> <br />The skill and daring of the taxi and rickshaw drivers is unsurpassable. Though the streets are permanently swelled with vehicles, no gap is too narrow, no speed too ferocious and no oncoming vehicle too much to worry about. After a while we stopped hearing the sound of car horns, they became their own kind of silence. Amazingly we didn’t see a single scrape or bump (other than the bamboo-cane thrashing the police guard gave our taxi to speed the driver along). Although the Indians are tremendously placid, and sometimes friendly, when it comes to matters of money there is nothing they won’t do to squeeze an extra fifty rupees out of you. My goodwill eventually wore thin; though my guilt on encountering the beggars did not. <br /> <br />Despite the time of day and the open windows, the night train back from Shantiniketan to Kolkata was interminably stuffy; clouded with dust and heat and a dull feeling of oppression. It was nearly impossible to breathe or think or sleep for the three hour duration. When my friend Jamie and I took out some paper to play Hangman, over half the carriage gathered round to watch us, leaning in and smiling with unabashed curiosity. In the more rural villages the people we pass stare at Jamie’s red hair with an unrestrained look of terror and amazement. I still don’t know if they thought he was a big Hollywood actor or a Hindu devil. <br /> <br />When we arrived home just before midnight the sleeping shadows of the slums had become animated. Dressed in pink and yellow robes they took to the streets chanting and drumming in celebration of “Pohela Boishakh” the Bengali New Year’s Eve. The smell of incense filled the air which, at 11pm, was still above thirty degrees.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63VSi84rcMKoAe2Y49VXRQTU4R4X8_TCARWlobpHz-tgV6iWMs18YJ6hj9abgUfBCX7AFuLfxENKjwR9C1vn3mqmQR3PEtCX3jioCGrEHemMAVDKPL4gNUIgtl99lKrqLsRF6eMwf7I0-/s1600/Image0047+(1).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63VSi84rcMKoAe2Y49VXRQTU4R4X8_TCARWlobpHz-tgV6iWMs18YJ6hj9abgUfBCX7AFuLfxENKjwR9C1vn3mqmQR3PEtCX3jioCGrEHemMAVDKPL4gNUIgtl99lKrqLsRF6eMwf7I0-/s320/Image0047+(1).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466709234945551010" /></a><br /> <br />Darjeeling <br /> <br />We had desperately wanted to travel to Darjeeling but couldn’t fit it into our plans. But fate sometimes plays funny tricks. Thanks to the Icelandic volcano eruption we were left stranded in Bengal for an extra week and, after the initial rush of thoughts about what the boss back home would say, we took the first rickshaw to the train station and bought tickets to the hilltop where the British have been escaping the heat of the plains for over a hundred years.<br /> <br />As the evening sun glistened from the leaves of palm trees, the polished chrome of yellow taxis, the ankle bracelets of supermodels and the cutthroat razors of roadside barbers, we jostled our way through the swirling masses outside Howrah station to the waiting Darjeeling sleeper train. By the morning we would reach our destination and, as we stepped off the train above the cloud-line, watch the sun rise over the Himalayan foothills.<br /> <br />The incessant chattering of cicadas and Indian men, the warm balmy winds and the rumbling of the tracks beneath our feet made it impossible to sleep. The misleadingly named ‘sleeper’ train was peopled with chai wallahs (tea vendors) bellowing “chai, coffee, chai” throughout the night – more as an order than a question – souvenir sellers and shoe shiners, with sacks of rice and mail filling and remaining space. For breakfast we bought four somosas for 10 rupees (15p).<br /> <br />There can be few better places to watch the sun rise than from the open door of an over-spilling, mile-long mail train, gazing out over endless green plains, a few ghosts already making their way through the tall grass to pick tea or flowers or to simply squat in the shade of a tree.<br /> <br />When we arrived in the cloud-hugged 3000m high village of Darjeeling, we looked out over the valleys to see tea plantations and leafy groves stretch for miles in every direction, teaming with mist and shafts of light. Tiny Tibetan women resembling immense snails walked for miles, their banks bent beneath enormous loads of tea or rice that were strapped to their weathered foreheads with belts and bits of old rope. When Mark Twain visited Darjeeling at the turn of the nineteenth century he was astonished to hear of the young women who would carry pianos to the tops of mountains with the air of people “out for a holiday”. <br /><br /><br />The Darjeeling locals possess the Indian resolve along with the irrepressible Nepalese cheer, so it’s no wonder they are often said to be found sitting in dense fog watching entire football matches without knowing what is happening on the field!<br /> <br />That night I was awoken at 3am to find my friend standing over me, his face glowing with enthusiasm in the candlelight. He told me there was something I had to see and I could tell he meant it. We wrapped ourselves up in blankets and I followed him up the creaky wooden steps to the roof of the monastery where we were staying. The night sky was lit up like a huge diamond: the stars brighter and more numerous than I had ever seen. In the blinking of an eye our humble Tibetan wood-hut had become a million star hotel. There were no lights anywhere around us, just the distant silhouettes of the mountains and a few prayer flags fluttering in the wind. The silence became sublime. A few subtle sounds emerged from beneath us: the beating of our hearts, the chirping of a few cicadas, the flowing of a nearby stream. Then, on the eastern horizon, about two miles out, a powerful lightning storm struck up which lasted for over an hour and sent flashes into the sky every 5 seconds, lighting up the edges of the mountains with tremendous flashbulb-like explosions of light.<br /> <br />We also visited the Japanese Buddhist temple and took a ride on the Himalayan Mountain Railway, which is now a World Heritage Site. As it ascends from the plains, the temperature drops dramatically and you crawl past tea gardens and teak forests with spectacular views of the Himalayas and the world’s third ¬highest peak of Kanchenjunga. You can travel 2nd class for around 50p for the five hour journey. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJ12XMBztQX3fAbP_34cAtBPaTz8yGCK44UPmmJ1Q4dYR2zYtbY0-SNczLSsMeSuteutYSG9VqjolSjlRgmnwfORaYLzCrogyv9T28AFNBHFczNAdhM93C2AFsRbEbF5yvafF-VY3e_Tc/s1600/Image0065+(1).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJ12XMBztQX3fAbP_34cAtBPaTz8yGCK44UPmmJ1Q4dYR2zYtbY0-SNczLSsMeSuteutYSG9VqjolSjlRgmnwfORaYLzCrogyv9T28AFNBHFczNAdhM93C2AFsRbEbF5yvafF-VY3e_Tc/s320/Image0065+(1).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466709416923078306" /></a><br /><br />The Saint Disguised As A Banker<br /><br />My story would be incomplete without mentioning Patrick, an I.T. technician from Kolkata who I’d asked for directions. He told me he was going my way anyway and knew a shortcut. Tightening my grip on my wallet I followed him down a few quiet backstreets towards the marketplace when he asked me where I was from. This either meant he was curious and friendly or that his brother owned a shop somewhere nearby and wanted me to go. <br /><br />As we talked more it became clear that Patrick was a gentleman like no other: one of the nicest men I have ever encountered on this earth. He was a pure natured, polite and principled man – think Gandhi in a Lloyds bank uniform – and when I told him about my suspicions of Indian sellers he mused about the pointless of cheating when in fact you’re only cheating yourself in the end. He bought me some water, saying I was a guest in his country and, when I tried to pay for it, he said he was happy to, because good deeds always come back round. He had a remarkably ordinary way of speaking but a dazzling honesty and genuineness shone through his eyes. I found simply being in his presence very inspiring. In fact, I haven’t been able to speak of him to others without a knot of tears rising up in my throat. He was the only man in the whole of Calcutta to move aside and let others pass. He gave me advice on bathing, buying goods, places to visit, simple rules to live by – smiling widely and graciously throughout. I have no hesitation in calling him a saint.<br /><br />As for the medical trial, I assume the vaccine was a success as neither my friend nor I ever encountered the infamous Delhi Belly on our trip. The vaccine patch left a vague mark on my arm but nothing compared to the lasting mark that India left on me as a person.<br /><br />The company who ran the study is trialing the vaccine again in Mexico later this year. For more information you can visit: http://www.trekstudy.com/Europe/index.html<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFbYC_SPpaeSksQko4vRK1nnmJqJ49s9VaEVAC4ltoFopxllogthIZLYgH281aDX1sn8mYwEm2srAds1LoPuFLWTj7GW6E-zRPViyEciq5-wZKAU0Y58P7YTbkp74V8WFzmZKNDcJTfSZ/s1600/Image0404.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFbYC_SPpaeSksQko4vRK1nnmJqJ49s9VaEVAC4ltoFopxllogthIZLYgH281aDX1sn8mYwEm2srAds1LoPuFLWTj7GW6E-zRPViyEciq5-wZKAU0Y58P7YTbkp74V8WFzmZKNDcJTfSZ/s320/Image0404.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466709607225926370" /></a>Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-22448179685686252702010-03-14T13:05:00.000-07:002010-03-14T13:11:44.792-07:00Has the Avenham Park Restoration Project gone too far?This week, as part of Avenham Park's £2.5m 'restoration' project, large swathes of woodland were felled. Instead of the sun-dappled groves that once massaged the imagination and cooled the senses, now the park is filled with a striking absence of height, an unfamiliar prominence of sky, and stubbly tree-stump graveyards. <br /> <br /><br />Is this mass clearing a necessary measure, designed to encourage new growth and secure the long-term well-being of ailing flora? Or is it part of a wider, cosmetic trend of compulsive ecological “tidying-up”?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh76n1UlqLcbq1MMSt0lsEXes-QqCC5HDDamBi618nSuIHfQ944NDyHZQNONe842NEmYXKE9I2vhyB9BJABDNoOQSKShGfvnqvstd5B4Hlhh6b5UJh6Ig7mkoHeLQR-9Jhgku5q92C0AQcA/s1600-h/fell2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh76n1UlqLcbq1MMSt0lsEXes-QqCC5HDDamBi618nSuIHfQ944NDyHZQNONe842NEmYXKE9I2vhyB9BJABDNoOQSKShGfvnqvstd5B4Hlhh6b5UJh6Ig7mkoHeLQR-9Jhgku5q92C0AQcA/s320/fell2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448584271159148418" /></a><br /><br /><br />Let’s consider the facts. The historic avenue of trees on Riverside Walk has been completely removed. This was done in the interest of public safety. Many of the trees along the route had become infected with a disease known as Bleeding Canker, which restricts water transportation to the crown of the trees and, as a result, can lead to some parts collapsing.<br /><br /> <br />But hundreds of other trees and shrubs were also felled in an attempt to “smarten up” the park’s appearance. The council intends to plant hundreds of new plants and trees later in the year, but their tangled grandeur will take at least a generation to rival that previously known there. So why was the park altered so severely? <br /><br /> <br /><br />It seems that neatness and regularity are thought of by park development officers as being synonymous with beauty. Perhaps the new 'designer parks' will attract more visitors (though the evidence for this is far from conclusive), but there are several other important environmental issues for us to consider; such as loss of habitat, carbon release and soil erosion. These issues are largely unaccounted for in the Council’s plans to shake up the tree and plant life, home to countless species that contribute towards overall biodiversity and environmental well-being.<br /><br /> <br /><br />As public green spaces and wilderness areas continue to be swallowed up by a seemingly interminable tide of urbanisation, it might be useful to question the modern understanding of "wild places". <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8qgPajhByblE6lJzts6V-2AG8DdFVHoZBkTl8rHcBi5MM0Px_GtTzdYlqejEMT9wlj3fMzeLwAz4glaHNh16IOR7MfyYC41VcLA1fwzwHhDu3vVyiyAihijENAU_5UTBzOgj_cZbdcDG/s1600-h/fell.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8qgPajhByblE6lJzts6V-2AG8DdFVHoZBkTl8rHcBi5MM0Px_GtTzdYlqejEMT9wlj3fMzeLwAz4glaHNh16IOR7MfyYC41VcLA1fwzwHhDu3vVyiyAihijENAU_5UTBzOgj_cZbdcDG/s320/fell.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448584554459102018" /></a><br /> <br /><br />It is only very recently that philosophers and scientists have turned their attention towards the well-being of the natural world and given serious consideration to the notion that our moral obligations might extend beyond our own anthropocentric concerns (be they related to resources, beauty or recreation). Whilst the modern age is dominated by slick gadgetry, online networks and quick fix solutions, it is becoming increasingly apparent that we are losing touch with the experience of amersion in the natural world and, instead, tend to view reality in a much more compartmentalised fashion, ignoring the wider context. So what does this have to do with the felling of a few trees? <br /><br /> <br /><br />The type of changes we are seeing in local parks such as Avenham Park seem to be symptomatic of this shift in consciousness. We too often disguise exploitation behind a banner of ‘conservation’. And, in so doing, not only do we exploit the countless numbers of organisms whose quality of life we destroy but we debase ourselves by debasing being itself.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The public were invited to share their views with the council during a one-off (scantily publicised) meeting last month. One angry resident told me that she resents the way the council "keep talking about maintaining the park’s Victorian appearance, when in actual fact they are turning it into a modernist nightmare. The hideous restaurant is a clear example of that. And now they’ve started cutting down all the trees. It’s really terrible.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />So, whilst measured interventions are required for natural spaces to flourish, it should be remembered that nature is not only a resource to serve the needs of man, but is endowed with its own intrinsic value and, as such, can be thought of as silently imploring us to recognise our responsibility towards its needs.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-78146784024767704442009-12-16T13:38:00.001-08:002009-12-16T13:38:21.290-08:00Country lanesThe birdsongs, the grandeur of the mountains, the moonlit clouds, the smell of log wood burning, the leaves in the wind - no matter how long i've been away, these things still feel like my closest companionsMichael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-11761432508069165912009-11-19T04:14:00.000-08:002009-11-19T04:42:48.766-08:00Thought For The Day!Twentieth century French phenomenologist Edmund Husserl famously said that "consciousness is always consciousness <span style="font-style: italic;">of</span>". But with careful practice can consciousness not become totally focused on nothing but the body in which it is anchored, with which it co-exists: in other words, itself?<br />Although the body would still be its 'object', it would only be so in the same way that two mirrors facing one another are each others object.<br />And the sudden moments of clarity we experience occasionally, at strange or dull moments in the day, remind us of the possibility of this other manner of being . Distant as it may be.<br />Philosophers (as opposed to, say, monks) have too much to say about the mind, too much to say about the inadequacies of language! How many have taken the time to actually sit there, with their eyes closed, and simply observe what is there?<br />The trick, it seems, is to constantly keep everything new. Like when in a foreign country and your senses are keener and you see the world as though for the first time because it is strange. The act of speech rather than its content becomes apparent. The ordinary becomes interesting, even sublime. We must try to incorporate this way of looking at things, this way of being, into our daily lives.<br />After all, who needs art galleries, concert halls and weighty tomes when the world is full of landscapes of cloud, elegant women, birdsongs. If we learn to see whatever is already before our eyes (and likewise a part of them) we will learn to appreciate the world anew.<br />To write (like) this, I must be failing...Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-12228650494000222622009-09-29T00:56:00.000-07:002009-11-19T04:13:46.736-08:00The Mystery of Death Descends Upon Rolf HarrisOne of Australia's most vivacious and aimiable comedians, Rolf Harris is best known for his whacky, tongue-in-cheek songs and cartoon antics.<br />It came as quite a shock, then, when I heard him breaking down on the radio, unable to speak for crying.<br />He was <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/programmes/people/VGVmL25hbWUvaGFycmlzLCByb2xmIChtZWRpYSBwZXJzb25hbGl0eSk">speaking to radio 4</a> about the time he met his hero, the Welsh artist Kyffin William, who recently died. Relating the story, his friend's absence seemed to become all too real for Mr Harris. He couldn't control himself and, each time he tried to speak through the knot of tears lodged in his throat, his sorrow only deepened. His tears conveyed not only a deep pain, but a very visceral realisation of the fleetingness of life. Perhaps this is what also happens at funerals: people are crying at the sudden realisation of their own fate; not only crying for the person they have lost but that which they have lost them to. And perhaps by the same token memorials also serve to reinforce our own sense of immortality.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-392571559173290902009-09-29T00:44:00.000-07:002009-09-29T01:10:10.937-07:00People You MeetIt's true: you don't have to go to meditation guru's in India to receive spiritual inspiration or advice for living, often the person sat next to you on the bus will be just as inspiring.<br />And such was the case last night when I was sat on a train to Chorley. The lady sat opposite told me she wakes up at 4am every morning and goes downstairs to be greeted by hundreds of pairs of pleading eyes belonging to the injured hedgehogs she rescues and re-habilitates, before releasing back into the wild.<br />What's more, she's done this for almost twenty years and without a single day off, a holiday or any kind of payment.<br />In her arms is a tiny, 6 inch black kitten that had been left on her doorstep recently. Her "patients", she told the couple who had sat down opposite her, go through one thousand tins of pet food every month.<br />Incidentally, she is also considering entering next year's X-Factor, having once sang in front of the Queen Mother. And apparently John Thaw used to write to her, having been touched by the work she does for the injured animals.<br />The young couple sat listening were so amazed they didn't take a single sip of the can of lager they were sharing.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-88371164243201811972009-09-01T00:45:00.001-07:002009-09-02T04:58:02.095-07:00NOTES FROM AN EVEN SMALLER ISLAND<p style="border: medium none ; padding: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Half asleep on a deserted strip of shore, the glimmering sky-blue seas send me, in a reverie, to the tropics – until I hear the faint bleating of a sheep and the rusty drone of the ferry coming into port. I awaken again to the tiny, Hebridean island of Iona - a <span style="font-family:serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;">place ful</span></span></span>l of enticing contradictions: industrious fishermen passing contemplative monks on the road, placid cattle dangerously close to the tempestuous Atlantic seas, and the smell of sea-salt, lavender and the ferry's chain oil, carried eastward on the pre</span></span><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">vailing winds.</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI0IKcyrF_xo8MPREHREsOwQ99UwnRIZcYEEZxClobyrb7o-gVvH7ismBIjOY-Uw8mN_JvpfYy53P8Uo02L6qnfkU-4-I7t6Lq0dF5x3YfhiVAPcIVcEWBwEFmn20Y8Fnw1E58c8iV_ez3/s1600-h/Iona+map.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI0IKcyrF_xo8MPREHREsOwQ99UwnRIZcYEEZxClobyrb7o-gVvH7ismBIjOY-Uw8mN_JvpfYy53P8Uo02L6qnfkU-4-I7t6Lq0dF5x3YfhiVAPcIVcEWBwEFmn20Y8Fnw1E58c8iV_ez3/s320/Iona+map.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376784792184244578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Looking out in any direction, the blue immensity of the sea is interrupted only by distant islands, silhouetted on the horizon. Among them, Staffa, with its columnar basalt an<span style="font-family:serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;">d volc</span></span></span>anic caves that inspired Mendelssohn to write the “Fingal’s Cave Overture”. Weather-expo<span style="font-family:serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;">sed peni</span></span></span>nsulas branch out, laced with quartz, gneiss and marble that were fused together by ancient, volcanic streams and have been polished by the waves, wind and moonlight ever since. Less than a mile in width, Iona served as a stepping stone for Christianity in the 1<sup>st</sup> century AD, when the Celtic church spread from Ireland into mainland UK and eventually throughout mainland Europe. But today stillness pervades: the sound of the waves slips into </span></span><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">silence; moored fishing boats lazily rise and fall in their own sad rhythm; nets of tiny birds, no bigger than butterflies, flit by as one; and huge cumulus clouds languorously shift across a sky of flawless blue. </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKCjYt_APbdAGAirJIkIvzPQ_iRo14-U1u0mY2Y0S6TrUhOCUO0253OdLaYHinYFf8oUPo9vVHKOW4Eqs-fv_u97pPK-BQipz31y84VFfYQ3TDL_f9AClKGv8Mr9mFjQa8dD8CsIE_Vn9V/s1600-h/Traigh+an+t-Suidhe+%28Beach+of+the+Seat%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKCjYt_APbdAGAirJIkIvzPQ_iRo14-U1u0mY2Y0S6TrUhOCUO0253OdLaYHinYFf8oUPo9vVHKOW4Eqs-fv_u97pPK-BQipz31y84VFfYQ3TDL_f9AClKGv8Mr9mFjQa8dD8CsIE_Vn9V/s320/Traigh+an+t-Suidhe+%28Beach+of+the+Seat%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376784801551320194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Iona had one more blessing for us. A gasp of excitement as we waited for the ferry; looking round, we saw a crowd pointing out to a huge Minke whale breaching the water, a mid-air trail of sea-spray arcing in its wake. For around thirty minutes the island stood still, awestruck. Even the locals stopped what they were doing and smiled helplessly in amazement. </span></span> </p>Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-36614421556228996122009-06-02T05:19:00.000-07:002009-09-30T10:39:23.828-07:00Fear and Loathing in Morecambe Bay<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJaJ9rfb_Ec3rm-SPUy_ZBgcRDeEpw-5dEFAVseXhVcTewSGoc2hKXAaTH2Nh5OPod2P8TzXnH3LP3FyTJlosXhFAkQVj9iGQDkm7pfVOifgvZPagVhjNSMvN7Xx0Sqoba41C3zNc61VdO/s1600-h/Lowry_HiddenManRedEyes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJaJ9rfb_Ec3rm-SPUy_ZBgcRDeEpw-5dEFAVseXhVcTewSGoc2hKXAaTH2Nh5OPod2P8TzXnH3LP3FyTJlosXhFAkQVj9iGQDkm7pfVOifgvZPagVhjNSMvN7Xx0Sqoba41C3zNc61VdO/s320/Lowry_HiddenManRedEyes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343130588664374466" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fear and Loathing in Morecambe Bay</span><br /><br />It was the kind of strange and twisted scene it was impossible to leave in any kind of normal, human state. The previous night had been a long one: heavy drinking and the kind of depraved and sinister places that, mentally or physically, no human should ever be expected to endure. I’d been vomiting all morning and it wasn’t long before I became a vicious cocktail of claustrophobia, sickness and paranoia. My only recollections of reality were the obtuse, hypnotic monologues - the tedious mantras - that were ringing around my head.<br /><br />Morecambe Bay: Either I had stepped back several decades or the toy shops and grocery stores hadn’t been painted or re-stocked or visited for 25 years. Boarded up cafes and derelict amusement arcades on every corner. Elderly women who’d been that way for as long as anyone, including themselves, could remember. And the wide open sea, sighing for centuries at the sheer gaudiness of it all. The town was filled with walking contradictions: low-eyed drunks in denim wandering penniless from one indifferent slot machine to the next, exchanging looks with old ladies in beach-front shop-windows, hidden, but for their red, bloated cheeks, behind huge trays of cream cakes.<br /><br />The day was hot and windless. I stepped off the platform into the interminably stuffy and slow-moving carriage. Every pair of eyes reminded me I was trapped; that the wood for my coffin had already been chopped, and lay drying somewhere in the sun. The only act that could have brought any kind of redemption was stripping away my clothes and threadbare soul and diving into the huge, open ocean - drowning in its coolness forever. But no - the malevolent gods had other plans for me.<br /><br />The train appeared to be composed entirely of the silhouettes of its own proportions. I felt like the lifeless husk of some terrible animal, with the undertones of a miserable and atavistic rage. And to make matters worse, the smug, young ticket collector, perfectly ironed, was trying to make small talk with me through his pearly grin which was no more than two inches away from my face. (I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone all day, so I had no way of knowing what would come out of my mouth when I tried to speak: Terrible whooping shrieks? Vomit? Inappropriate truths? I remained silent, nodding amiably towards his inane ramblings).<br /><br />But the thing that bothered me most wasn’t that the train was seemingly infected with the strange smell of death, or that my face had become a grinning mirror of the conductor’s own. What bothered me most was the small tribe of androgynous, French gypsy-children who were spread throughout the carriage. They wore black cloth turbans, empty, indoctrinated stares and what appeared to be old curtains for robes. They reminded me of the kind of half-drugged slave-labourers that Indiana Jones might rescue from the grip of some terrible voodoo underworld. Their faces were painted white and each wore a large silver earring in their right ear. I watched them kissing miniature prayer books and smiling like only the dumb products of generations of incestuous copulation could.<br /><br />I noticed all the other passengers were either reading fashion magazines or subtely eyeing one another darkly and grinning like cheatahs, like a pack of sex-crazed beasts in the dirty heat.<br /><br />Hunched over and shivering, I stepped out from the train and onto solid ground, a half-crazed walking monument to devastation and confusion. Every terrified glance that watched me in disgust was a kind of strange filter for reality, a death rattle, some kind of warning. I was posing as a human.<br /><br />My legs followed me home. I removed my clothes. I opened all the windows. And I dreamt for hours about the sound of the wind.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-17420404321053016572009-04-05T07:24:00.000-07:002009-04-05T07:25:28.526-07:00The Beautiful Game...The sun had persuaded me stop by the 7-a-side pitch to watch the game instead of get on with my work. The birdsongs confirmed I'd made the right choice. The game was about to start when someone shouted over to me. One team was a man short and I was asked to play. Wearing my leather shoes, heavy sweater and smart trousers I left my bags and the afternoon behind and took to the pitch. Almost all the players were Italian and didn’t speak much English. It couldn't have been more stereotypical… Shouting, swearing in Italian to saints and mothers, gesturing elaborately and making pleas with their hands to an imaginary referee who, for some reason, they kept calling 'Madonna'… The bosses shouted at the kitchen staff whenever they didn't pass the ball, every bad tackle resulted in endless rolling on the ground and, at one point, there was a frantic, fifteen minute debacle because someone apparently took the free-kick too quickly (only the English chefs didn’t' take part in the discussion, they sat down and got comfortable as soon as the familiar drama began to unfold.) <br /><br />And the English talk of “the beautiful game”! Never before have I seen everyone so involved, so engaged with every kick and mis-kick of the ball, every header and every attempted pass. I was drenched with sweat and admiration by the time I left. I walked home alone, eating a pie. The Italians no doubt congregated together at one of their restaurants to continue deliberating the free-kick decision and argue with their hands about how long it's taken to pass the salt...Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-14398169531028313042009-03-27T03:12:00.000-07:002009-03-29T03:26:02.612-07:00Simon Kelner and the Hunger for News<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQaJPrva7-NXxtVQsy5QTuhsj8M9mIFxxid_PfrpH_skybv-6cvLro7LVDp1YEGkxMubhox5bAj-C0j6ZsVNhnl1GGeGF-rWdyzgzySsRRHyAsbcTiPQ5ZRC3lDcLVgdln4QkluHKnE0F5/s1600-h/Simon_Kelner_rdax_150x200.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQaJPrva7-NXxtVQsy5QTuhsj8M9mIFxxid_PfrpH_skybv-6cvLro7LVDp1YEGkxMubhox5bAj-C0j6ZsVNhnl1GGeGF-rWdyzgzySsRRHyAsbcTiPQ5ZRC3lDcLVgdln4QkluHKnE0F5/s320/Simon_Kelner_rdax_150x200.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317865022140316034" border="0" /></a>He reminded me of The Apprentice's Alan Sugar: commanding, well built, self-assured. But the Independent's Editor-in-chief, Simon Kelner, was a much more refined orator and sported a stylish little beard more patiently sculpted than Sir Alan’s imperial stubble.<br /><br />When he strutted calmly into the lecture hall, holding a single sheet of white paper, it took a moment for Kelner's broad-shoulders and smile-accustomed-to-luxury to replace the tweed jacket and wire-rimmed spectacles I had seemingly come to expect from the editor of the Independent: the closest the UK has to a ‘leftist’ or 'environmental' newspaper.<br /><br />As he made his way down the steps towards the lectern, his strut became a measured half-jog and his smile stiffened into a mask of concentration as he absorbed the praise of his introduction.<br /><br />Simon Kelner's was to be the final talk in the Harris Lectures series, which celebrated the then-Lancashire Polytechnic’s groundbreaking journalism course - the first of its kind in the country - one which only thirty students enrolled (including Kelner).<br /><br />He used his 60-minute slot to provide ‘real-life insights’ into the life of a national newspaper editor and share some amusing and informative anecdotes taken from his lengthy career as a reporter (including the escaped bear in south Wales that his heyday-rival actually witnessed but failed to report, missing out on a national scoop).<br /><br />…………………………………………<br /><br />Kelner explained how, like most other newspapers, the Independent had stayed up all night to devote 30-pages of the following day's content to the US presidential elections, only to later learn that circulation figures fell dramatically that day. The reason, he told us, was simple. People wanted to access unfolding and nail-biting stories <span style="font-style: italic;">quickly</span>, as they unfolded and became more nail biting, and so they turned to the television and the internet instead of newspapers.<br /><br />But when it came to analysing the elections the following day, the paper's sales jumped by around 1/3. And this, according to Kelner, was an indication of the future survival techniques that the ailing newspaper industry would have to employ to remain above water. With regard to the survival of a newspaper's electronic offering, he believes that specialist ‘niche’ publications will have to be provided on a ‘pay-per-view’-type basis.<br /><br />He told the eager-eared audience that the single most important quality for a journalist to possess was Hunger: a desire and a love for accessing and delivering news, an innate curiosity for what was going on in the world.<br /><br />His message was simple yet inspiring: you must continually question authority's ‘official’ version of events and seek out new ways to get ‘behind the scenes’ in order to perform the essential task of a journalist: to monitor and scrutinize the centres of power – be they local, national or global.<br /><br />These weren’t the words of someone who ‘once made it big’ or professed to ‘know all the angles’; they were the passions of a man who was still deeply driven by the hunger about which he spoke.<br /><br />Another interesting, if questionable, defence of newspapers: they were a ‘genre’ rather than a ‘format’. In other words, a newspaper, for Kelner, is not a <span style="font-style: italic;">means of delivering news</span>; it is a distinct style or <span style="font-style: italic;">mode of news</span> in its own right. Its unique role being to challenge and inform the reader and to engage us in discussion. Whereas the BBC, for example, is a format among others, simply pumping out the facts as and when they arrived. Each has its respective place but only the printed press is able, according to Kelner, to meet the demands of “serious journalism”.<br /><br />I have no doubt that there is some truth behind this assertion – but, as I listened, I could also see a devoted oil painter, eyeing with distain and a little envy, the print-maker’s big new house.<br /><br />……………………………………………<br /><br />Although he “never really liked the look of Nicolas Sarkosy” he thought that the French president's decision to offer every 18-year-old a free subscription to a newspaper of their choice was one of the most forward thinking ideas tabled by a nation’s leader in some time. The idea being that the percentage of youngsters who would go on to develop a serious interest in the news would greatly increase.<br /><br />He ended he talk, however, on a slightly sour note. Whilst expressing an opinion which was probably shared by most other ‘serious journalists’ in the room, he expressed it with such malice and pique as to cause them to totally reconsider their views.<br /><br />He had not read a single line about the recent Jade Goody “freak show”. And, although he accepted that a newspaper's ideals sometimes had to be compromised for the sake of public interest, for him Jade Goody was one step to far. He could neither believe nor stomach the fact that the Guardian had actually <span style="font-style: italic;">lead </span>with the story of her death. He found it all “totally distasteful”.<br /><br />..........................................................<br /><br />It was approaching tea-time and my hunger had been suitably stirred. I left Sir Alan answering questions about 'the future of the industry' and occasionally over-emphasising swear-words in an attempt to connect with the predominantly young audience (and, a la Sir Alan, partly because he was just 'a bit of a lad'.) He wasn't the James Lovelock-figure I had come to imagine or naively hope for, but at least his dynamic speech-making skills would, over the years, save a few trees-worth of paper.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-33097689941128027112009-03-04T01:10:00.000-08:002009-03-04T01:11:17.733-08:00Channel 4 News presenter at UCLanThe Jon Snow Lecture has been rescheduled for Monday 9th March at 10pm<br />Hopefully we will get the right kind of snow this time!Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-11339996298092528102009-02-25T09:09:00.000-08:002009-02-25T09:12:53.606-08:00Inside Radio 4A Discussion about the media in the digital age<br /><br />Lead by Adam Shaw of the Today Programme<br /><br />1pm Wednesday 4th March<br /><br />Darwin Lecture TheatreMichael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-86175755254270229502009-02-24T07:20:00.000-08:002009-02-24T07:21:59.293-08:00The Insidious Economics of Climate Change• Whilst it may be true that a change in our perspective of the world is a necessary prerequisite for a change in our behaviour in relation to it, it is worth remembering that human beings do not construct the world ONLY in this metaphysical sense. The intricate physical composition of the biosphere is dependent not only on the ‘environment’ - the ‘earth-as-stage’ - but on the creatures that animate and are an extension of it.<br /><br />James Lovelock, the originator of the Gaia hypothesis (a theory that suggests the world is a self-regulating and interconnected living system) states the following:<br /><br />“The atmosphere on earth may seem to us like the most natural thing, but its composition - 21% oxygen and 79% nitrogen - is very odd. These gases were generated, and are maintained at an equable level for life's processes, by living organisms themselves; if the biosphere died, oxygen and nitrogen would disappear with it, leaving a greenhouse atmosphere similar to that of Mars and Venus (around 95% carbon dioxide and hundreds of degrees hot).”<br /><br />If we learn to understand our place and functionality within the world, we may come learn to (re)value the earth itself. Both these processes, it seems, like countless others, are intimately bound up together and mutually constructive. <br /><br /><br />• Carbon Capture and Storage (CCS) technologies, now thought by many environmental economists to be the panacea for global warming, are, instead, another short-term fix designed to stave off the negative effects of pollution for another generation or two. <br /><br />Rather than systematically rooting out the disease that underlies the symptoms of climate change, technologies such as CCS deal in the same ‘problem-solution’ rhetoric that has prolonged the failure of current governments to address the environmental crisis in a substantial and enduring way: in ways that recognise and respect the intrinsic value of the earth and not its value in terms of the future of human beings (e.g. the highly influential Stern Review).<br /><br />CCS involves trapping industrial carbon emissions and then burying them, thereby preventing the escape of CO2 into the atmosphere and limiting its contribution to global warming. <br /><br />Once the waste is swept under the carpet (i.e. old oil and gas fields, such as those in the North Sea), then what? Try to forget it is there because we can’t see it? <br /><br />The lasting solution is to focus on low carbon manufacturing, sustainable development and to change our lasting perspective on a world which we still understand, experientially and intellectually, so little about. <br /><br /><br />• Simon Hoggart, writing in the Guardian last week, explains that instead of making green gestures such as switching your mobile phone off (doing so for a year would save the equivalent amount of energy that is used to run a hot bath) we need to think in terms of more substantive action, and on a broader scale:<br /><br />“Much environmentalism is fundamentally religious, the equivalent of taking a tin of beans to Harvest Festival in the hope of ending world hunger or, as David Mackay puts it in his new book Sustainable Energy Without the Hot Air, like baling out the Titanic with a teaspoon.”<br /><br /><br />• I would like to say a word in defence of the ‘fat cat bankers’ who we all (myself included) despise so much. The said financiers, especially those who have been at the centre of our spiralling economic crisis, are simply, in my view, successful capitalists – just as are those who employ slave labourers. Why should we blame them for mastering a same socio-economic system that we all support and aspire to succeed in without worrying too much about the welfare of others, at home or aboard?<br /><br />(To set a precedent, animal rights philosopher Peter Singer donates a quarter of his wage to charity). <br /><br />We should focus instead on fundamental, systematic changes that address the motives and values that underpin our culture as a whole, its institutions and prolonged direction, not merely on those who become TOO greedy.<br /><br />Similarly, natural disasters (an inherently contradictory, humanly-biased term) are only indicators of a more serious environmental crisis, which is itself a consequence of a still wider, human crisis: a crisis of mind (which may itself prove to be a consequence of the homelessness we experience, living in a heavily industrialised world.)<br /><br /><br />• We cannot expect urban economies to suddenly become wholly organic systems, or even sustainable ones. But there is no reason why this utopian ideal shouldn’t be the goal which world leaders set in their sights. <br /><br />Writing in the Guardian today, Suzanne Goldenberg reports that over two thirds of South Korea’s multi-billion dollar stimulus package will be spent on ‘green’ investments. The UK is investing just 7% of IT’S stimulus package in this way. <br /><br />Given that wind and (in the UK) solar energy are inefficient energy sources, other than recycling our waste, what form can these ‘green measures’ take? <br /><br />The U.S. package, recently passed by congress, includes: insulating buildings, investing in a new electric grid and improving public transport. Such action is vastly progressive for a country that, only a year ago, “was still in denial on issues of energy conservation” (Earl Blumenauer, a Congressman from Oregon and a champion of the environment.)<br /><br />But until there is a cap on carbon emissions the inverted logic that ‘by saving the economy will hopefully also save the planet’ will continue to prevail and lead politicians and the public into a dark, carbon-sensitive alley.<br /><br /><br />• An assessment of the ‘green stimuli’ that should be put in place in order to help the economy and the climate, rated CCS as the ‘least good’ measure for triggering immediate fiscal growth, it was revealed today. The report, whose authors include Lord Stern, focused on ECONOMIC stimuli as those most urgently in need of attention, but also took into consideration the need to “lay the foundations” for low-carbon growth. <br /><br />Although the report cited the need to increase “efficiency” and “make cuts” that might prove favourable for the environment, these and similar measures were discussed as a secondary concern, one that was considered predominantly in terms of its economic gain. <br /><br />Green measures, said the report, would be a “useful” public investment in the current economic climate; not for their intrinsic value but because they are less financially risky than they previously have been, since they are “less likely to displace private spending in a recession”. <br /><br />So whilst the growth of “green” technologies and “green” strategies is welcome news for environmental lobbyists, the same people may also, quite rightly, feel that the environment is not being rescued or respected but that it is being exploited in order to bolster economic growth. Any environmental gains will merely be a favourable by-product of economic ones. <br /><br />Lord Stern’s report just confirms fears that the environment must still await its proper time and, when, or rather IF, that time comes, its advances will be charted with the subsequent economical benefits at its helm.<br /><br />If energy resources such as coal and oil were not running out (as a result they become more expensive) and if the economy could thrive indefinitely, would these “green measures” even get a look in?<br /><br /><br />• By treating the natural world as a set of resources to be utilized for human use, we are simply disguising exploitation with the banner of ‘preservation’. And, by so doing, not only do we exploit the countless numbers of organisms whose quality of, and right to, life we destroy, but we are “debasing ourselves by debasing being itself” (Oscar Wilde).<br /><br />Radical idealism should not stand in the way of practical changes in global industries - but, equally, it should not allow itself to become buried under a hollow heap of figures and arbitrary targets.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-78431735705907593422009-02-20T00:45:00.000-08:002009-02-20T03:06:19.011-08:00Match Report: A Short Paean to Diversity in a Local English Pub"Dear Mother, Dear Mother, the church is cold,<br />But the ale house is healthy and pleasant and warm"<br /><br />- William Blake<br /><br />I was sat in Greyfriars last weekend, watching rugby in the late afternoon. The place was getting busier and the low din of conversation was beginning to buzz. Sat near me were two couples: one, a brightly dressed bi-sexual couple (one male, one female) and the other, a 60-year-old couple from Yorkshire, dressed in Sunday bests, washing down their Sunday roasts with pints of ale.<br /><br />Mildly intoxicated with their first drinks and the knowledge that it was Saturday, the two couples had exchanged pleasantries and casual greetings, but little more - when I overheard the two women discussing the younger man’s naked form and his sexual tendencies. The Rugby commentary faded into the background. The older lady, the most drunk of them all - a large, energetic woman, dressed in pearls and high heels - had begun letting out long, sporadic screeches of laughter and talking enthusiastically about her own sexual interests, oblivious to the amused and disgusted stares of everyone around her.<br /><br />The older Yorkshireman had remained silent and disinterested throughout, his gaze transfixed on the screen (that I now was only watching to conceal my new interest). He wore an old brown suit and had obviously hardened to his wife’s outbursts over the years. He seemed patient, but not liberal. So when his wife suddenly blurted out “and <span style="font-style: italic;">this </span>one’s a <span style="font-style: italic;">gay</span>”, the older man’s concentration broke and re-situated itself coldly in the direction of the younger man - I thought the whole thing might turn nasty and everyone would go home upset or shouting, or both…<br /><br />The older couple were the type who would only talk to other English couples abroad (and by ‘only’ I mean do nothing else besides) - the type who would complain endlessly about the hostesses on the flight and then wake everyone up at the hotel with their wild cries of theatrical, drunken copulation which, the lady was eager to point out, “usually took place on a table”…<br /><br />The husband nodded his approval. His eyes, long since receded into the depths of apathy, were an enticing contradiction compared with the occasional smile that emerged out of the corner of his lips, betraying his buxom, hidden passions.<br /><br />When I looked around, the four of them had pulled their tables together and the conversation and laughter were in full flow. The old man extended his nonjudgemental lack of concern (punctured by the odd upwards glance of recognition and intrigue) to the younger couple’s confusing 'arrangement'. Whiskies went flying, laughter pervaded and the gossip was endless: sexual anecdotes, tattoos, Edif Piaf, gynaecologists, ferrets and lemurs and god knows what else were the baffling and wondrous subjects discussed with the same spirit of carefree joviality and ludicrous zeal that had somehow brought these disparate souls together, as one, on a cold Saturday afternoon in a warm English pub.<br /><br />(Ireland 30 - 21 France)Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-71791993528407221532009-02-18T02:16:00.000-08:002009-02-18T02:19:11.423-08:00LECTURES AND FREEBIES IN PRESTON!Lecture: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Thinking Like Darwin</span><br />24th February, 7pm Darwin Lecture Theatre<br /><br />UCLAN's Darwin Day lecture for this year will feature Prof Armand Leroi, the evo-devo biologist from ICL whose TV documentary "What Darwin Didn't Know" was on BBC4 earlier this week (if you missed it, you still have until 4th Feb to catch it on the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/">BBC iPlayer</a>).<br /><br /><br /><br />Lecture: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Rock Guitar in 11 dimensions</span><br />13th March, 6pm UCLAN<br /><br />What causes the revolutionary, history-changing sound of rock guitar, and how does it help us to understand the nature of the stuff we’re made of? Dr Mark Lewney explains the physics of rock using riffs from Vivaldi to AC/DC and demonstrates how string vibrations might answer Big Questions about our Universe.<br />This introduction to Superstring Theory explores cutting edge physics and maths, through the medium of rock guitar. Prepare to think in 4-, 5- or even 11 dimensions!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Free theatre tickets</span> if you're under 26: <a href="http://www.anightlessordinary.org.uk/">http://www.anightlessordinary.org.uk/</a>Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-35992739923882680942009-02-16T07:35:00.000-08:002009-02-16T09:16:17.387-08:00Goodbye to Planet Earth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKuGQ78Cgjz8CeswKJaTk5KONJlQWPOHg1wPnjGaePAARH6w5-4y1Z09aj-lYipq8qZZcerG1zK2Bk2eKOM161k-f7OsdRts64ZSuX22jRcll0TTgNBAly-vRbNtWwi8dhQyvX99NurOF/s1600-h/greenearth2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKuGQ78Cgjz8CeswKJaTk5KONJlQWPOHg1wPnjGaePAARH6w5-4y1Z09aj-lYipq8qZZcerG1zK2Bk2eKOM161k-f7OsdRts64ZSuX22jRcll0TTgNBAly-vRbNtWwi8dhQyvX99NurOF/s320/greenearth2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303422307758739538" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Now that “environmentalism” has become “mainstream” [‘<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/feb/14/activism-green-politics">Welcome to Planet Earth</a>’ published in The Guardian, 14 February] its activists and the general public must fully embrace political debate.<br /><br />In order to do so we must first come to terms with the scope and foundation of ecological thinking that is often subsumed beneath the hot air headlines. “Environmentalism”, a distinctly general and somewhat ‘twee’ designation, must become “Ecology”, emphasising the idea of collective residence and responsibility – originating from the Greek word oikos meaning ‘house’.<br /><br />“Environmentalism” has enjoyed a surge in popularity in recent years and has found its way onto most western political agendas and firmly into the backs of people’s minds across the world (whether as a pertinent topic of discussion or, already, in the form of tangible changes in the natural environment).<br /><br />However, the subject will continue to provide a <span style="font-style: italic;">misguided </span>offensive in the fight against climate change and the depletion of finite resources if it continues to seek solutions based on human-centred perspectives. “Our futures” and “the branch upon which we sit” should no longer be considered in terms of Homo sapiens alone and must be extended or, rather, deepened to include the earth and its countless organisms, seen as a complex and interconnected whole.<br /><br />The fact that many basic (energy) resources are under increasing threat is worrying for many people. Millions of us rely on them daily for survival. But to only see as far as the <span style="font-style: italic;">human </span>cost of human action is to remain entrenched in a way of thinking that contributed to the crisis in the first place; namely, anthropocentrism.<br /><br />It may seem like a flippant question to ask but it is one which may be worth considering: is a change in the world’s climate necessarily a bad thing? Whilst it is surely indicative of deeper problems harboured by the ecosystem, the climate has been shifting for millennia and the world’s flora and fauna have adapted to the changes. It is only when the biodiversity of the planet is affected that this change becomes problematic.<br /><br />The cognitive and behavioural shift that is required for a non-anthropocentric worldview to prevail will be successfully brought under ever closer scrutiny as a result of continuing media coverage and the subsequent public awareness. But the more objective and the less dramatic this exposure is, the quicker we will be able to understand the world in its own, myriad terms. Environmentalism needs to be made publicly appealing but must not become diluted as a consequence.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-42759436732576902892009-02-16T07:19:00.000-08:002009-02-16T07:41:43.021-08:00Etymological Back-Peddling<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AtpaLYbUZQfqXh7TRKa9ZToSVbWvlUxk1X6FnHEeLRg7ysq_LHMWvOIcrWL2yz8sZVQ8V-HeDgpxf5Pr6DFz-q5KIeRwiIxn2TxAN825ZpwyinAwjwZlr2WC6_8KviQxBbdPUgM8u-13/s1600-h/gensisgetty-_123523t.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AtpaLYbUZQfqXh7TRKa9ZToSVbWvlUxk1X6FnHEeLRg7ysq_LHMWvOIcrWL2yz8sZVQ8V-HeDgpxf5Pr6DFz-q5KIeRwiIxn2TxAN825ZpwyinAwjwZlr2WC6_8KviQxBbdPUgM8u-13/s320/gensisgetty-_123523t.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303420818491155954" border="0" /></a><br />The “intended” scriptural meaning of the word 'dominion' cannot be used to account for Christianity’s prolonged contribution to the current environmental crisis [‘<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/attenborough-genesis-it-can-go-forth-and-multiply-1521668.html">Sir David has Misunderstood the Scriptures</a>’ published in The Independent, 31 January]. Christianity, however, can; in so far as it has perpetuated the negative interpretations of such words and has done little to counteract the actions that such (continuing) interpretations have lead to [Lynn White’s article The Historical Roots of Our Environmental Crisis, first published back in 1967, is probably still the most noteworthy study in this field].<br /><br /><br />The etymology of the word 'dominion' is of little importance when considered in relation to the rest of the Book of Genesis. Consider the word “subdue” for example: I doubt that it has many positive connotations. Scripture alone cannot be held to blame for the blindly hubristic actions of man (a term which I use here purposefully). It is simply a good excuse.<br /><br /><br />But, of course, it is not only Christianity that is responsible for disseminating the (predominately western) idea of man's superiority in relation to the non-human world. In proclaiming “I think, therefore I am” not only did Rene Descartes succeed in denying the non-human world an equal existence to man; he denied it any existence whatsoever!<br /><br /><br />By championing the rational intellect as the sole source of Truth, Descartes and other dualistic philosophers have, for centuries, stifled and misinterpreted the value of personal experience in conviviality with the non-human world.<br />Perhaps it is time we began to redress this balance in the most appropriate way possible: by making small but significant changes in our own lives, instead of indulging in repetitive and fruitless discussions about phraseology, policy-making and blame.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7707835599347263749.post-87340150452033500472009-02-16T04:36:00.000-08:002009-02-16T09:11:38.772-08:00FOOFTOP PROTEST AT PRESTON UNIVERSITY – A BOLD GESTURE AND A MISSED OPPURTUNITY 11.02.09<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZPNSLk2oZl-iLjE4VLUjFcHTOui4M7ypfXYpAUlnUBTPyW6IHROrUxygzOtspXM4EhpgZDyFX1wyGVfg0q2YQs02RQwoT72QqitjoBvOQOdOMdbe6YMzL5JN2azkCS4qFOxJlU0rDsfT/s1600-h/Protest5.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZPNSLk2oZl-iLjE4VLUjFcHTOui4M7ypfXYpAUlnUBTPyW6IHROrUxygzOtspXM4EhpgZDyFX1wyGVfg0q2YQs02RQwoT72QqitjoBvOQOdOMdbe6YMzL5JN2azkCS4qFOxJlU0rDsfT/s320/Protest5.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303421607260982098" border="0" /></a><br />A group of anti-war campaigners were arrested today after staging a dramatic protest on the 50ft-high rooftop of the University of Central Lancashire.<br /><br />The three protesters were perched precariously on the edge of the university's main building near the Adelphi roundabout, dressed in high-visibility jackets and carrying a megaphone and a 10ft banner, which flapped illegibly in the wind.<br /><br />Within minutes of the protest breaking out, several police vans were on the scene along with 15 uniformed officers and several of the university’s security staff. Hundreds of onlookers, wondering how they might get to their next class, gathered to witness the spectacle unfold.<br /><br />Rather than attempt to scale the roof themselves, like a strange collective magician the police produced a set of step-ladders from their armoured vehicle and asked the protesters to kindly come down - which, after around half an hour of walking around, they did.<br /><br />Other than the occasional isolated cheer, the demonstration was greeted with puzzled smirks, a parade of uplifted mobile phone cameras and shouts of “sort your sign out” and “speak up a bit”, comments which roused a greater response than the campaigners' own.<br /><br />The message concealed behind the largely inaudible ramblings from the megaphone was undermined throughout by the garbled delivery and listless, sweeping mentions of various (unconnected) wars and ‘causes’ currently ongoing around the world.<br /><br />The protest by the Preston campaign group ‘Disobey’ was organised in response to the university’s affiliation with arms production company BAE Systems. The university owns over £20,000-worth of shares in BAE Systems and is involved in research projects linked to the company.<br /><br />A day earlier the campaign group had assembled outside BAE’s Warton site to read out the names of children and young people who had died in Gaza.<br /><br />The issue of arms development and the universities link therewith are clearly significant issues of public interest. But rather than bringing them to our attention by using unreadable cloth banners, dramatic stunts and megaphoned gibberish, surely organised and intelligent public debate is a more affective route to pursue, for both parties concerned.<br /><br />Whilst there is no substitute, in terms of force-of-delivery, for a good-old-fashioned protest; in order to straighten out the facts and their implications in this matter, the debate chambers, rather than a windy rooftop on a Wednesday afternoon, is surely the most appropriate and constructive arena to provoke any serious or lasting change.Michael Molyneuxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14601014798669354007noreply@blogger.com4