Per Aspera ad Astra; or, Musings on Perfection; or, Off-the-Chain Crazy

Perfection. It is our destiny, as a species, to be always striving for it yet never reach it. We toil, sweat and strive - per aspera ad astra - yet are doomed to an eternal state of not quite getting there; a perpetual Salieri syndrome. The preconditions of our existence forbid the concept of perfection to exist except as an imaginary ideal. Plato helps us to come to terms with the impossibility of perfection by inviting us to view the world as made up of eide, perfect forms or ideas, which however are unavailable to us; what our senses perceive is but a copy of the perfect form, crude and imperfect.  Even if we were to achieve perfection, the ancients tell us, we cannot hold onto it, for everything is in flux. In a universe defined by entropy, the attainment of perfection can only ever be an illusion; a fleeting phenomenon; a bird in flight glimpsed for a moment in the flickering light of a longhouse hearth. Panta, as Heraclitus would have it, rei. The quest for perfection is bound to cause frustration and, if not actual weeping, certainly the gnashing of teeth.

Or, as Oscar Wilde philosophised: We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. In other words, the world's a mess, there are rampant slugs voraciously eating everything we've carefully planted, and we've ground and gnashed our teeth to the point where our dentist feels compelled to ask some very unsettling and weirdly personal questions: Perfection is indeed a fleeting, unattainable ideal. However, if we follow the example of our favourite Irish poet and raise our eyes from the sewer, drain, or gully in which we are ensconced, we may contemplate, if only for a moment, the celestial spheres planted in the sky for our delight and edification. The stars here represent, as our alert and intelligent readers have already gleaned, the unattainable ideal of perfection: the eidos. We are here going to make a rather bold claim, namely that we have identified three such celestial spheres that, contrary to the claims of that ass Plato, exist in our actual physical world. The contemplation of these stellar phenomena make life, we would argue, bearable. 

It is very rarely that one agrees fully with anything one reads or hears. Whether because of ideological differences; cold, rational reasoning; or unrestrained delusions of grandeur; one is sure to get hung up on some statement, claim or supposition and present counter-arguments which may or may not be unbearably pedantic. (Hell, we don't even agree with everything Our Mum says, though we defer to her on most issues.) There are, however, as mentioned above, three exceptions to what we may term the Rule of Perpetual Disagreement; three reachable stars of, if you will, earthly perfection. 

The first star of earthly perfection is this podcast episode about the correct approach to Christmas decorations, by Swedish intellectuals Ann Heberlein and Anna-Karin Wyndhamn. This cerebral and aesthetical oeuvre is a masterpiece of logic and sanity, and frankly comes as close as possible to perfection as it is possible to get in this flawed, imperfect world. Tust us: you may take every word as gospel. 

The second celestial sphere of impeccable exquisiteness is George Orwell's essay on how to make tea. Though the gods of Olympus toy with our fates for their own amusement, manipulating us and forcing us to navigate such hellish phenomena as hangovers, slugs, and corporate trust exercises, they have granted us a panacea: Camellia sinensis and boiling water. No-one understands the divine properties of tea, or expresses the correct method of wielding it, better than Orwell. Consider, for instance, his first point:

First of all, one should use Indian or Ceylonese tea. China tea has virtues which are not to be despised nowadays—it is economical, and one can drink it without milk—but there is not much stimulation in it. One does not feel wiser, braver or more optimistic after drinking it. 

Aah. Read it, and let yourself be soothed by wisdom, wit, and hot water. 

The third heavenly phenomenon which makes life bearable is of course equestrian statues. Time, however, is fleeting; more on this another time.

Let us quickly move on to something else which surely approaches the status of a celestial sphere of perfection that we may glimpse through the imperfect prism of this mortal coil: Bog pics from Jonny! That handsome rascal has been to Wales, and what he has been up to we had better not divulge for fear of shocking sensitive readers. You may be sure of this, however: If George Orwell's instructions regarding tea represent the sublime, then Jonny's bog pics from Wales symbolise the chaos of the human condition. Having sent us pictures of some very beautiful and intriguing hygiene facilities, Jonny then writes: 

I have a less beautiful one.

Wondering where that room on the left leads?

Here.

 

 

Since it is our custom to post a toilet selfie from Jonny, in order to boost morale along our readers, here's one from earlier this year. 

The poet Nashe claims - and who are we to contradict him? - that,

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king,

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-wo!

 

Doubtless he is not only right but would have chosen, if given the option, to illustrate his poem with this picture of Jonny.

This post's Festive Video represents, if you ask Shewee Fiend Friend, perfection. Permit us, if you will, to disagree. If it makes you feel better, the message that preceded Shewee Fiend Friend sending us the link to this piece of music read:

What was the terrible but amusing song we listened to immediately before getting drunk in the hipster pub where we had poutine?

Life. You only get one.

Festive Video: Fucking Werewolf Asso, Alphonse Laurencic

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The Secret to Happiness: Double Toilet Roll, Flowers, and A White Tiled Floor.

We tend not to read a lot of challenging literature here at the Privy Counsel, having come to the comfortable conclusion that we know what we like, and we like what we know. Why bother reading anything other than P G Wodehouse, if the result is that you end up depressed and horrified? Well, quite. 

Depression and horror, of course, are part of life whether you like it or not. We endured, for example, a seminar recently where talking about one's personal life was encouraged, and people took this as a signal to start sharing information about their cats. As you may imagine, it took quite a lot of wine and ranting to get over this particular trauma, and we're not entirely sure that we ever fully will. There are, however, techniques for facilitating relative sanity. 

The trick, or so the evolutionary psychologists tell us, is to not focus on the horror. The human brain is engineered to anticipate danger, preferably seeing it everywhere, not excluding that other seminar you nearly had to go to, about sustainability. By making you permanently anxious your brain is, to put it crudely, promoting its own survival by ensuring that you don't forget to worry about snakes, bears, and whether the acquaintance you just made is likely to send you pictures of lasagna in the future. This is all fine. The problems emerge when life becomes so safe that, although there is no lack of sociopaths who will insist on talking at length about their grey cat Jasper and their brown cat Molly and these animals' respective feeding habits and individual peculiarities, there are very few actual life-threatening dangers, like snakes and bears, around. The brain, however, doesn't know the difference between grizzly-bears and cat-fanciers, responding with reasonable horror and panic when confronted with either phenomenon, and ensuring that you dwell on the memory, thus continuing your state of panic. The most effective measure against this constant state of angst is to focus on whatever good things happen to float by, in the polluted mess of a river we call life. Let go of the metaphorical mangled bike tyre, and grasp for the attractively weathered and potentially useful piece of flotsam wood.

There are many different methods for focusing on the good stuff and trying to forget about that weird photo of layered pasta. Some people meditate, others, for reasons unfathomable to us, knit things. Personally, our preferred method of dropping ice-cubes down the vest of fear is to open a bottle of wine and let nature take its course. Whatever you do, do not read modern literature.

Jonny, that splendid piece of manhood, is a philosopher in the true sense of the word: a lover of wisdom. Not for Jonny the convoluted conversations about whether Foucault's fuck-ups in the realm of historical accuracy mean that he can be discarded as a credible academic (yes), or the anguished political contortions on the subject of interest-rates (nobody understands this; let it go). Jonny went to a restaurant in Leeds, and it was nice. This hunky sage writes:

Chaophraya, Thai restaurant in Leeds.

Double toilet roll. Ample.

Flowers. Lovely.

White tiled floor. Nice.

Even a place as nice as this is not immune to graffiti though it seems.

Reader, there you have it. Go to a nice restaurant. (Take photos, if you want. Maybe send them to us.) Have some wine. Spend time with people whose company you enjoy. Develop the skill of telling complicated but plausible-sounding lies to get out of having to hang out with people who are prone to talking about cats, or sending photos of lasagna. Chill the fuck out. Personally, we're off to drink vast quantities of champagne. Vale!

 

Festive Video: Whitney Rose, Chivalry Is Dead

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Delusions of Grandeur, Also Christmas

Do you also get bored when cooped up with strange people you're related to, and nothing to do? What better way to start Christmas than with a dispute! One fruitful gateway into a lusty debate, we find, is to propose a frivolous alternative to something that people take very seriously. Hear us out.

Christmas is a time laden with traditions whose authenticity is continuously being contested. Since these traditions - whether they involve a literal belief in virgin birth or the correct way to make rice porridge on an induction cooker - have profound emotional significance, people are inclined to absolutely lose their marbles if their particular delusions should be questioned. Try, for instance, suggesting that the N'Sync version of O, Holy Night is better than the Jussi Björling one, or that vegan pickled herring is a serious culinary option for adults. As long as the subject is not one that you personally care about, you can happily pit your friends and relatives against one another and, in the heat and dust of the melée, or what Tolstoy would call "that smoke, those shining bayonets, that movement, and those sounds", grab the remote control. 

If you can execute this strategy with even a moderate amount of skill, a restful time enjoying quality TV and eating the good pralines (everyone else will be too busy arguing, and throwing crockery, to care about the confectionery) is guaranteed. Beware, however: this method is fraught with danger. Most likely there are aspects of other people's interpretation of Christmas that you, Machiavellian strategist though you may be, find contentious - wrong, even. Thus an adroit - or even just reasonably perceptive - opponent can easily suck you into this game with the result that you find yourself, like Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, falling with the flagstaff in your hand on the Pratzen heights, bleeding profusely and unconsciously uttering a gentle, piteous and childlike moan. Good luck!

Whatever happens, we have a Christmas gift for you. Are you ready? It's A WET T-SHIRT PICTURE OF JONNY!

Ok no it isn't, strictly, a wet t-shirt picture of Jonny. But it's the nearest thing we could find - like a telescopic tree-like object made of plastic in China instead of a mighty Scots pine filling the house with its majestic scent, or the Ballycastle cream liqueur which tastes quite a lot like Bailey's. (By the way, you can make - if you're short on cash or sanity - your own Bailey's. It's fine. It tastes fine. However, the hangover lasts for 48 hours and it's not the pretty kind where you're just pale and interesting with a headache, it's the kind with chunks.) Anyway, long story short, Jonny writes:

Just been out to a park full of lights and got very wet
Thought these toilets would have a mirror so I could do a wet photo for the fans
They didn't but I got a #selfie

 

You're welcome.

We have written before about the absurd hipster insistence on installing sinks that resemble cattle troughs. This one however, a) is clearly not inspired by anything resembling hipster sentiments, and b) if it were, it would be in line with Christmas traditions and therefore fine. (Or would it? Here's your chance to hone your debating skills by bringing this up at Christmas lunch.)

The abundance of urinals here is in line with the Oriental largesse of the Three Magi. (Or is it? Etc. Also, is the concept of the Three Kings racist? Have at it!)

Jonny's literary rollercoaster continues:

They did have a tap on the wall though
Maybe just to hose the place down?
It stank of piss
And the toilet doors had gaps at the top and bottom which I hate
But I got to pee which I guess is the main aim.

 

What a very merry door! (Or is it in fact adverse to inclusion?)

HO-HO-HO-HOLY NIGHT!

Merry Christmas!

Since 'tis the season of the RS virus, whatever the hell that is, and will soon be the season of the norovirus, we would argue that the NHS Gangnam Style handwashing video is the most relevant video for what is sometimes termed the festive season.

Festive Video: NHS Northamptonshire, Handwashing Gangnam Style

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