Holy shit father

Thanks to We Goats for the image

Fascinating.  A comment on a Metafilter thread about the latest reports of paedophilia in the Catholic Church (as is often the case) really really made me think:
 
“I'm in agreement with those who see the Catholic orders as a refuge for homosexuals in cultures that were hostile to them. In fact, I suspect that "the calling" was, for the most part, a metaphor for homosexuality. Priests would take confession from boys who admitted to homosexual desires and recruit them into the secret brotherhood. This was a structure that worked well at perpetuating itself up until homosexuality became socially acceptable.

" One of the side effects of adult priests recruiting teen-aged boys into the fold was that it also provided a safe place for paedophiles to operate. I suspect that they formed a deeper secret cabal within or parallel to the homosexual secret society that was the backbone of the priesthood. With the reduction of the stigma against homosexuality, paedophiles became the major source of "the called," and the evidence of how the church's hierarchy has not just protected paedophiles but facilitated them leads to the conclusion that there is a strong, perhaps even dominant, paedophilic presence within that hierarchy. Benedict's homophobic pronouncements are natural from the leader of an organization that depended on homophobia in order to perpetuate itself. He is fighting the tide, but I doubt that he can see any other path. The only population that is really suited to the overt life of a priest are asexuals, and they are not common, nor are they likely to reveal themselves in confession. Neither are they likely to be racked with the guilt that is such a central component of Catholic life, and so they are entirely unsuitable.

" It strikes me that the whole structure built on concealed sexuality and secret corruption is no longer tenable in the modern world. The only possible way to rebuild the Catholic Church would be for it to honestly become what it has portrayed itself as, a spiritual cloister in a sinful world. But that is the kind of thing that will take generations to achieve, and the church probably does not have generations left to it.”

The gist of the comment, as you can see, is that the Catholic Church – historically – was at least partly a haven for homosexuals.  The celibacy provided adequate cover for the frowned-upon (to say the least!) behaviours of gay love and enabled (through the Confessional) the recruitment of younger men into its ranks.  As homosexuality has gradually become less stigmatised (though not necessarily in Oswestry) the new secret society is all about paedophilia, with the same secret structures being used to cover up this new perversion.  Now, I am a little uncomfortable with the homophobic undertones of some of the argument – especially when the Church itself has used the defence that paedos are in some ways analogous to homos – and would like to distance myself from that.

I am however, intrigued by the Derridean (no such word, I’m sure, but I like the cut of its jib) element that the evil (of the sexual abuse of children) is somehow contained within the good (of the belief in Christ) and that the one is entirely dependent on the other.  See my bold highlight of ‘Jimmy Havok’s’ comment above for clarification.

Baby

By chance (nothing new there) I ended up where I am 9 months ago. One could say that the gestation period is over now and it's time for me to pop.

A feather in my cap - potentially - following a personal recommendation which seems to have taken off at work. Some years ago, whilst in the employ of the Mouse, I was fortunate enough to receive some management coaching sessions, which came off the back of some workshops for the 'team' I was with at the time (I feel a bit of a pseud using the word team sometimes) In my current post, I thought it might be useful for this trainer to come in and lead some sessions to help us all approach a forthcoming time of enormous change in a more positive frame of mind.

After several discussions, and about 4 different iterations of the programme, it was finally agreed that he would be engaged to work with around 80 people across the country in my organisation. It is of course possible that if it all goes tits-up (though I don't for a moment believe it will) that I will be the one who carries the can, and if it all goes well (which I am absolutely sure it will) that my name will magically be forgotten, but I'm doing all I can to ensure that that doesn't happen.

The sessions have been fascinating so far (though I do object to somehow being saddled with the logistics of the damn thing) and needless to say have already identified a deep-seated management sickness within the organisation. Hardly surprising in the public sector, you might say, resulting largely from a perception of people as 'things' and a tendency to forget that they are after all human. All wrapped up in a total failure to communicate.

It has started me thinking about myself. As I have been organising the sessions, and emailing invitations, some people have naturally assumed that I am the sponsor. One of the key points raised so far is that there is a 'leadership vacuum in the change management programme' (there I go again) and that there could as a result be an opportunity for me to take it on. Ever since this was said on Friday, I have been mulling it over. At the moment, I cannot claim ownership of the coaching programme, although I am doing most of the hard work, because the official sponsor is some way up the chain from me, even if she hasn't met the guy or (probably) read his proposal in any depth. If I were so inclined, I might push this and see where it got me. I have, after all, little to lose and potentially quite a bit to gain.

I think the 6 goals we put past Pompey yesterday have got to be a good omen. Oh yes!

Where will you end up?

Following the lukewarm reception to my previous fascinating post about statistics, I thought I had better try to pen something a little more interesting. Before I start however, I would like to make a couple of points.

What follows is not intended to be a morose moribund maudlin moan. I will be musing on a purely hypothetical subject. In the past, I have been accused of just such depressing character traits (beginning with m) when I have raised this in the pub (along with the choice of music for my funeral, which includes - incidentally and for the moment - I Don't Want To Grow Up by The Ramones) I am none of the above, believe me, but I do occasionally ponder on life and death. So sue me.

Additionally, I am aware that the reality of what will happen is very likely to be totally different from what I am about to suggest, so this is just an imagining. It has no bearing on my life as it is now, or the manner and location of my passing from it, as it will be. Now that that's clear, on with the show.

There have been some news stories recently about second generation immigrants returning to their countries of origin. I can also verify from people I know that this is a definite and real phenomenon. Who can blame them? Lying in a hammock on a beach in Mauritius, for example, is an attractive prospect. People I have spoken to are tired of London (I'm still undecided as to whether I agree that this means they are also tired of life, but that's maybe a debate for another day) and are yearning for a different vibe - a place and a way of living which is less aggressive and enervating. The general demeanour of the city has changed, they say, and it is not a pleasant place in which to live. People are rude, there is no conversation and no human contact, just a headlong rush to grab as much money as possible in as short a time as they can.

For myself, though London still (mostly) excites me more than it depresses me, I have thought often of where I would like to end up. It's important for me to make the distinction between the twilight years, the peaceful wind-down of older age, and the actual final 15 minutes, the time of life's fading.

Shropshire is my ancestral home, the place where I grew into adulthood, but I have no pressing urge to return there as yet - even if it were to be an economically viable option. In any case, Shropshire is deficient in the one thing I would find important in a life of relaxation, and that is: the sea. The only seas in Shropshire are seas of wheat, beet, maize and oilseed rape, and I would dearly love to be able to take a dip each day in salt water - though I wouldn't wish for a tropical climate - being fully prepared to endure a cooler winter. I don't see myself as a Daily Mail and sangria ex-pat type, but more of a Graham Greene type - reading, writing, sipping a carajillo, chugging on a cohiba and chatting to friends while knee deep in warm Mediterranean water. Maybe later, a game of backgammon and some tapas at a street cafe.

As to the crux of the matter - the sticking point if you will - I see myself on a grassy bank, staring up at a clear blue sky on a spring morning. If I turn my head, I can see the branches of trees moving in the wind and the long stems of grass gently brush and tickle my cheek. There is a skylark's song, insistent and ascending to the heavens. And I am gone.

Jouissance

On the flip side of the concept of jouissance within Lacanian philosophy (and of course contained within it. Or is that Saussure?) is the idea that every moment of ecstasy contains an equal and opposite slather of tedium, or perhaps... absence of emotion. Regardless of the fact that I might spend long hours researching my point, painstakingly backing up my slender arguments with cleverly crafted links, there is a certainty that no fucker will bother reading them.

There we have it. Man City versus West Ham United. Again. All I would add is that, every offside decision contains within it, by definition, the opposite of that decision. QED. ZZZZ.