A small victory for decency

I do love travelling by train, truly the best form of transport man has yet invented (and I suspect ever will). So I am always particularly angry when the experience is spoiled, whether because of government policy, poor management, or, as is most frequently the problem, fellow passengers. There are several such species of locomotive pest: drunkard, leaking-earphone-wearer, threatening male youth, phone babbler, selfish-git-with-his-feet-on-the-seat-opposite. And then of course there is the most common pest of them all: teenager. The teenager will usually be found in groups of three or more. It will invariably be slouching, and in its hands will be a phone towards which all its attention is directed. It seldom converses with its fellow teenagers, except to snicker or exclaim (usually by swearing), which is done in reaction to something asinine they have seen on their phone, and which they may or may not share. However, often the asinine thing in question is automatically shared with the entire carriage because the teenager, being a solipsistic and selfish creature, always has its phone speaker on maximum volume.

I had an encounter with a group of them the other day while travelling home. They were perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, with elaborate hairstyles and costumed in ludicrous tracksuits (the well-kept, expensive sort; ones their parents probably iron). Their demeanour was of a kind common around here: middle class, spoilt and unpleasant, clearly adherents of rap and other menacing subcultures, but not themselves thuggish. They had with them a portable speaker (always an ominous sign; the amplifier has surely been one of the most culturally and environmentally damaging inventions). Inevitably, they began to play something through it -- it was only the violent beat which suggested it might be music. At first the 'music' was relatively quiet (of course such music is never truly quiet). It was, nevertheless, loud enough that one could make out its extraordinarily ugly lyrics: everything up to and including the c word. 

(I would be mildly annoyed if someone was amplifying a Haydn string quartet on a train. It would still be a rude and inconsiderate intrusion. But to play such foul music makes the offence a thousand times worse.)

After a few minutes one of them said to turn up the volume. Suddenly it became loud. At the time I was trying to immerse myself in my book and block out the grisly aural discharge coming from the speaker. I was already failing, and with the sudden lurch in volume I lost all patience. I stood up and said, very abruptly: 'Turn it off. It's extremely annoying -- not to mention rude.'

I was fortunate. They were clearly incredulous that anyone would challenge their stupid behaviour, but nevertheless switched off their speaker. After a few moments, they began to ridicule me among themselves. And there was the odd seething remark directed to me, said with great sarcasm -- 'sorry to have stopped you reading your book', that sort of thing -- but I could not care: I had already won my victory. I returned happily to The Tempest (a delightful old Cassell edition which I had just bought, replete with those remarkable 19th century adverts for 'Mellin's Food for Infants and Invalids' and 'Shirley's Neuralgic Crystal: Invaluable to Clergymen and others who suffer from Headache caused by overwork and study'). Of course, one line from that play instantly came to mind: 'O brave new world, that has such people in it!'

I do not recommend anyone follows my example. It was foolish, not some courageous act but a moment of spontaneous anger which could have ended very badly for me. People do get attacked, even killed, for such confrontations. If those boys had the will they could have easily beaten me up -- or worse. Ideally there would be police (or conductors on the train) who would deter or stop such antisocial behaviour. It is amazing to think that police used to be able to this, alone and armed only with a truncheon and a whistle. Now they (including the transport police) have machine guns, body armour, tasers, sprays, and goodness knows what else, and yet one almost never sees them patrolling -- and if one does, they will be in pairs or groups, probably discussing sport or playing on their phones. They hardly deter crime, or indeed stop crime. I have seen groups of transport police, standing at the platform gates trying to detain people who do not present a train ticket; those without tickets just run away and jeer and swear at the police. A few guilty but somewhat admirable people stay behind, dutifully giving the police their details. But they are not the ones who are most deserving and in need of punishment.

Of course there should be no need for police to have to stop such antisocial behaviour. A healthy society should have some degree of self-regulation. Boys should be frightened of adults, not adults of boys. People generally should be self-aware enough to realise that other people might not enjoy their aural perversions. But if people will not regulate themselves, if decent people are powerless against the indecent, then it is quite justified to look to the police. People should be removed from trains if they misbehave. Why not make particularly egregious offenders spend a night in jail, when persuasion and warning is ineffective? The police will say they do not have the staff, time or resources. Yet they seem to be able to find the staff, time and resources to patrol social media in search of the silly things people say. Or to facilitate drug use at music festivals (in the name of 'safety testing'). They have the money to hire seemingly greater numbers of non-uniformed staff. And indeed, I believe the number of police officers per head has gone up decade after decade. Yet they hardly investigate, say, fraud or theft. They are seldom patrolling, except when whizzing by in cars. So why is it exactly that they cannot find the time and means to police antisocial behaviour?

All the Latest Synthetic Religion

I first heard Monteverdi's Vespers and Bach's Matthew Passion in Norwich Cathedral. Hearing the Vespers was one of the greatest experiences of my life. There really is no better word than 'transcendent' to describe how it felt. Come the 'Gloria Patri' the last decaying vestiges of atheism finally fell from me. I may not have become a believer, but I became open to belief. I found myself, at the very least -- though many believers doubtless (and justifiably) sigh upon hearing this phrase -- becoming a 'cultural Christian'.

This great 12th century Cathedral, where I once sat in quiet ecstasy listening to Monteverdi and Bach, has now installed in its nave a lurid helter skelter:

It is a sad image. It reminds one of that passage in Brave New World, when Henry and Lenina are walking past Westminster Abbey in 26th century Britain. It has become Westminster Abbey Cabaret, and

from the façade of the new Abbey the giant letters invitingly glared. 'LONDON'S FINEST SCENT AND COLOUR ORGAN. ALL THE LATEST SYNTHETIC MUSIC.'

The Bishop of Lynn, the Rt Revd Jonathan Meyrick, delivering his sermon from the ride, told his congregation that 'God is a tourist attraction'. I'd like to know what he means by that astonishing statement. It stinks of crowd-pleasing right-on sentiment. It is certainly true that cathedrals are now little more than tourist attractions, more important historically than culturally, let alone religiously. To install a helter skelter in one only emphasises their cultural and religious unimportance.

Even the most hardened atheists like Richard Dawkins, A.C. Grayling and the late Christopher Hitchens, being men with a sense of goodness and beauty, would surely disapprove of what Norwich Cathedral has done. One gets the impression, correct or not, that the clergy dislike their church and want to see it debased even more than Dawkins et al.

From the BBC:

The Reverend Canon Andy Bryant, from Norwich Cathedral, said he could see why people would be surprised to see the helter-skelter. 

But in addition to showcasing the roof, he said it was "part of the cathedral's mission to share the story of the Bible" and was a "creative and innovative way to do that".

'Creative' and 'innovative' are surely two of the most abused words in 21st century English. They are always used to justify cheap pleasure, sensationalism, self-indulgence, ugliness, prurience, novelty of the worst sort -- pretending that these are profound and penetrating qualities. We live in a society where merely to deviate from tradition is a virtue -- and the more one deviates the better. It does not have to have any greater purpose than to 'challenge' (whatever that means). Such 'deviance' should be considered at best conceited and pretentious.

Growing a Beard

No, this is not a post about how to grow some tidy, hedge-like, fashionable beard. It is not about the alchemy of oils, supplements, conditioners and other horrid products that will guarantee you a full luscious beard in no time, as the marketing would go. There are few greater abominations than the modern 'hipster' beard, usually accompanied with skinny jeans and tattoos and scooters. Fye upon them all!

In fact, this post is not really about 'growing a beard', contrary to the title. The word 'growing' implies some sort of cultivation on my part; rather, I have simply neglected to shave. And what has resulted from this inactivity -- a sort of sprouting of many hairs on various parts of my face -- cannot with all honesty be called a 'beard'.

I have more 'coverage' on my face than many people my age. I have enough to form a moustache (though not, sadly, one of those marvellously fulsome Lord Kitchener moustaches), light and sparse hairs on my upper cheeks which just about join the moustache, fairly decent sideburns, a goatee but two large hairless gaps to either side, and enormous amounts on the neck and chinline.

Of course, they (the ominscient they) say that most men's beards never stop growing, and that many do not get full 'coverage' until well into their middle age. Not that I necessarily want such a beard.

Naturally, I have done extensive research to see the possible results if I were to let my beard grow out. All these roughly share my 'growth pattern' (oh, to be able to unlearn all this beard jargon):

Dostoevsky

Shaw

Shakespeare

Thoreau

The Thoreau neckbeard is certainly the most peculiar, made worse by his rather doleful, absent look. However, the neckbeard was not so freakish a style at the time, with at least one other great man, Richard Wagner, adopting the look. But however antiquated and unfashionable I may enjoy being, not even I could suffer the embarrassment that such a beard would cause.

The Shakepeare is of course the most agreeable and shapely beard, but I am rather partial to the wilder Dostoevsky and Shaw. I think one looks more interesting and important the longer one's beard. Particularly if the beard shows no obvious signs of grooming. The Trollopian beard exemplifies this:

Or perhaps Tolstoy:

What fine beards!

Darkly Watching

Dexter Morgan is among the greatest 'lonely' characters in fiction, up there with Don Fabrizio, Robinson Crusoe and Miss Havisham. Each is lonely in a different way, of course. Crusoe is shipwrecked on a desert island, and so is forced into loneliness; but it is through his solitude that he becomes the most virtuous of the three. Miss Havisham, as a consequence of trauma, becomes a horribly lonely figure who nevertheless has found the means to inflict much harm. Don Fabrizio is most often in company; as a prince, his life is by necessity a social one. But the moments he seems to most cherish are when he indulges his own fancy. When he lies on death bed, he reflects that most of his life was wasted on the tedium of his social role. He very much embodies the cliche of feeling 'lonely in a crowd'.

Dexter is most like Don Fabrizio in that he is someone whose life is a something of mirage, who feels his real self, as it were, exists in another life hidden to nearly everyone. Except Dexter's other life does not involve activities as mild as astronomy, shooting game or even (for the most part) copulating with mistresses. Dexter is a serial killer. Like Miss Havisham, a single traumatic event infected him with a 'darkness' (his term), and he has since then lived his life in the unending shadow of that moment.

The thing about Dexter, though, is that one always feels ambiguous about him. He even feels ambiguous about himself. He describes a need to kill, a 'dark passenger'. But it matters to him that only kills the 'right' people. His father, who quickly became aware of his son's psychopathy, taught him a code: Dexter will only kill those who deserve it. That is, he only kills (other) serial killers. All the while he maintains an ostensibly normal life working as a forensic expert at Miami Metro. He has a sister, for whom he genuinely seems to have affection. He wonders whether his affection is selfish in origin -- but this is something many of us wonder ourselves, to what extent our love is selfless. He also marries; the marriage was initially a cover, a normal life to help conceal his murders, but soon both we and he start to wonder if it is more than that. Eventually he has a child, whom it is clear he unambiguously loves. Later on, after the death of his wife, he even finds a woman who really is, for good or ill, the perfect woman for him. Indeed, over the course of the eight series of the programme one becomes conflicted about this most prolific of serial killers. After all, the only people he kills thoroughly deserve it, right? And isn't he such a caring father, brother and spouse? Isn't he clearly trying to overcome his own 'darkness'?

The programme tests one's morality. There is no doubt in my mind, intellectually at least, that Dexter deserved to face a court of law and be sentenced to death. Yet were I acquainted with Dexter and aware of his activities I would have hesitated to turn him in. My unwillingness would not be out of fear; I would not be able to do it because I rather like him. And not merely do I like him but I even 'relate' to him. I suspect many honest, thoughtful viewers do too. We all have a darkness, hidden evils, which we sometimes desperately struggle with. I certainly struggle with a melancholy, which can turn into devastating weakness and apathy, which I'm sure, in certain circumstances, would have the power to drag other people down to hellish levels. We all adopt external lives that are in part merely to get along. And we introverts (as psychobabblers call us) know how much life can feel like an act, and how much we can exist in our head, feeling misunderstood. Dangerously we ask ourselves, are we really that different from Dexter?

What does it mean that we empathise with Dexter? He is a monster, yet at the same time he is so human, capable of such love, but whose good instincts seem to be all perverted towards the wrong end. (This I think explains the universally hated ending, which I won't spoil, in which Dexter tries to do the right thing, but does it in entirely the wrong way and with the worst possible outcome.) I fear that one reason why audiences are so taken with him is because the modern doctrine of 'embrace who you are' features so strongly in our morality. He can't help it, we say to ourselves -- or more radically, he is merely 'different' -- and so we empathise with him.

It is an immoral TV series. Some people watching it could easily believe that the morality of Dexter is true. The one moment when Dexter seems to change, when he has someone tied up ready to be killed, he realises that he does not need to kill and so leaves the victim for the police to arrest. The victim certainly, following Dexter's code, deserves death, but Dexter, it then appears, transcends the pseudo-morality of the code. He tries instead to do the right thing by turning him over to the police. But all goes wrong: the victim manages to escape and kills someone close to Dexter. Doing the right thing does not necessarily result in better outcomes than doing the wrong thing. This is the problem with utilitarianism -- it is also the problem with Dexter's code. Maybe, if added it up on a spreadsheet, the world would be a better place with a handful of Dexters in it, but spreadsheets, calculations and studies are not adequate methods for determining values of morality and justice.

I somewhat worry that a programme like this is watched by so many, and as entertainment -- a thrill, a dark fantasy. Ideas and stories are dangerous. The show makes you fond of murderers. It does so in an intelligent and I believe useful way. But the idea that fourteen year-olds are watching this, or even just people without the necessary philosophical or moral backbone is rather unnerving. In a society of such relativism, where we are able to turn genuinely sinister freaks into virtuous dissidents, I worry that Dexter, the 'misunderstood' sociopathic outcast, is an all-too sympathetic -- even admirable -- figure for many.