Death of a genius

Watching Ronnie O'Sullivan lose 11-13 last night to Peter Ebdon after being 8-2 up was something of a depressing spectacle, particularly when Ronnie's frustration became so much he dragged his nails across his forehead so deep that there was a bright red mark there for the last hour or so of the match.

Ebdon - tenacious, but not a natural talent - had slowed down to a snail's pace (5 minutes to make a break of 12) and it got to Ronnie more and more. At one point he could be seen sitting slumped in his chair with his hand entirely covering his face: "Is there no relief from the sheer pain of existence?" I doubt it, Ronnie, but I'm right there with you.

Signifying nothing

An article by Terry Eagleton on why artists are fascinated by Wittgenstein.

Because, so it turns out, I'm not and probably never really was interested in anything other than fiction, the only book by Terry Eagleton that I've read is a novel called Saints and Scholars, in which Wittgenstein, James Connolly, Leopold Bloom, and Nikolai Bakhtin (brother of the more famous Mikhail) somewhat fortuitously meet in an remote cottage on the west coast of Ireland in 1916, and proceed to pass the time of day. It's not the best novel I've ever read. I bought it in Boston and there is a card from the Brattle Book Shop which I stuck in one of the pages, to remind me of a bit I found interesting, and which I reproduce now for your reading pleasure:
( Read more... )

Why I won't be voting tactically

Meanwhile, in the present, the rough beast of the election slouches on - apparently the fate of the nation lies solely in the hands of a few lunatic tactical voters in Royston Vasey, or perhaps it was a Daschund called Colin, I forget now. Every other piece of political propaganda popping through my letterbox earnestly exhorts me to cast a tactical vote in order to keep out whoever.

Back, back, ye demons of cynicism! I shall not make my already meagre contribution to democracy even more pointless! I shall cast a vote that roughly approximates to my beliefs! The BBC as ever provides: here I may compare and contrast the relative merits of arsenic, strychnine, and hemlock. And on May 5th I shall take my poison, secure in the knowledge that I may have only cried out in the wilderness, but at least it was for something I nearly believe in.

Turn it off, it's no good for me

I didn't get where I am today by switching off the television, ( Rant continues within )