Vade retro, empiricism

One of the few areas in which fundamentalist Islam seemed to offer a less obscurantist view of the world than fundamentalist Christianity was that of evolution. Alas, no longer. An article in today’s Independent reveals that a bunch of Turkish nutters calling itself, without intentional irony, the Science Research Foundation (BAV) is spearheading creationist claptrap in the Middle East. Not content with that, the group recently mass-mailed its Atlas of Creation (never mind the evidence, feel the weight: 6 kg of lavishly illustrated tosh) to schools and scientists in Western Europe. They’re also building creationist theme parks museums, along the lines of the one in the States. Who knows where all the money is coming from? Even more worrying is the fact that Turkey’s education minister publicly supports ‘intelligent design’. What price EU accession now?

It will be fun to see if the ID cranks in the States and, increasingly, in the faith-friendly Britain created by Middle East envoy and peacemaker to the stars, Tony Blair, will jump into bed with their new Islamic brothers-in-codswallop.

The price of Eggs

I got it wrong in my earlier post. Eggs Benedict’s jaunt with Georg in the Dolomites – because clearly his lakeside retreat at Castel Gandolfo just isn’t sufficiently close to God – isn’t costing the Italian government €40,000 at all. It’s costing the Veneto region something like €345,000.

Sorry.

What’s in a name? The same old cop-out

Forget PACS (What do you mean, you already have?) Forget DICO (Eat more fish!). The latest acronym to tantalise and tease us, as Dame Shirley Bassey might have put it, is CUS. It stands for Contratto di Unione Solidale (Solid Union Contract) and it’s supposed to be the answer to every unmarried couple’s prayer for legal recognition.

Well, it ain’t. It makes no provision for tax relief, is downright evasive about pension rights, postpones inheritance rights until the ninth year of the contract and even then allots the surviving partner no more than a quarter of what’s left if a brother or sister of the deceased is still alive. It doesn’t allow for leave when the partner’s sick. Basically, it’s a cock-up.

On the other hand, it’s so gutless and bland it will be interesting to see what the homophobes of the centre-left come up with to attack it. The centre-right is already calling the CUS a do-it-yourself marriage, so let’s all grab a hammer and a handful of nails and knock one up.

It’s also an unfortunate acronym, unlike DICO, which had a nice ambiguity, and ring, to it. CUS stands for University Sports Centre in Italian, so expect some fun there as chest-heaving hearties defend their sexual integrity. What’s more, it rhymes with only two words in Italian: pus and bus. Is this really the image we need? Unpunctual, overcrowded, and er, yellow?

Fuoco, fuoco

The day has been punctuated by an intermittent mechanical rumbling as helicopters pass backwards and forwards over the house. Great scoops of water dangle beneath them like the thoraxes of those hornets found round here, called mule-killers for the potency of their sting. The helicopters, and the odd seaplane equipped with a tank for water and known in Italy as a Canadair, are trying to douse the first real fire to get this near to the town since last year.

The rough grass and other scrub vegetation on this side – the southern side – of Passignano, the hill behind Fondi, has been burning off slowly but steadily since this morning and now there’s a large patch of grey-black stubble the shape of Africa, extending from the peak of the hill, over 400 metres above sea level, to the highest house on the slope, a derelict stone building I’ve often coveted, maybe a third up from the foot. The fire’s not out yet; as the light begins to fade the scurries of flame around its edges are more evident than before and almost beautiful. It’s almost certainly someone’s handiwork.

The land isn’t cultivated and is too steep for building, so the culprits are unlikely to be farmers or developers. The only people who stand to benefit are the part time forestry workers who wait to be called, each summer, to deal with fires of this kind. It’s a closed circuit, and as long as no one dies and no famous beauty spots are touched no one seems to care that much, although dogs don’t like the low, rather throaty noise of the helicopters. Maybe, to them, it sounds like a growl.

A place for everything and everything in its place

Ever thought you’d like to insert George W. somewhere dark and warm and moist? Well now, thanks to Celebrity Butt Plugs, you can. And if you’d rather have Paris Hilton (with assquake battery effect!), or L. Ron Hubbard (with hypno eyes!) thrust snugly up your nether regions, the choice is yours. (Mel Gibson, oddly, has already sold out.) They don’t look that comfortable, but comfort isn’t everything. Think of the karma. Clench down.

By the way, don’t miss the testimonials…

I wonder how long they’ll keep us waiting for Eggs. Hey, maybe it’ll double up as a holy water douche bag.

McCourtesy, or Egg’s Revenge

I got to Rome station yesterday morning an hour earlier than I needed, slightly hungover and hungry, with five hours of exam invigilation ahead of me. A McMuffin seemed just the thing. I went to the McDonalds by the Ricordi music shop and joined the queue.

The conversation went like this (but in Italian).
– A McMuffin and orange juice, please.
– That’s €4.15.
– But it’s only €3.90 if I have a menu with hash browns.
– So?
– So why should I pay more for less?
– You should have ordered a menu.
– I didn’t want any hash browns. I didn’t expect to pay more without them.
– You should learn to read.
– You should learn to be polite, signorina.
– Yeah, right.

After this exchange, the girl gave me change for a menu and stalked off into the rear of the place. A moment later, my McMuffin slid down the chute, the girl reappeared with a smug little grin, picked the thing up and gave it to me. I walked away, still fuming, sat down and ate it.

It wasn’t until I’d finished that it occurred to me she’d spit on it.

Cole Porter Tribute

I can’t seem to embed youtube stuff any longer, so I’ll post this as a link. It’s wonderful. Don’t ask. Click.

1965. Judy. Let’s do it.

Butchery

Of the 93 protesters beaten to a pulp, pissed on, verbally abused and then framed by the Italian police after being woken from their sleep at the Genoa G8 summit in 2001, at least 59 were foreign. It’s well known that none of these foreigners contacted their embassies. Apparently, they didn’t want to. They even signed forms in which they claimed to have no fear for their physical safety and no desire to speak to their countries’ representatives.

The problem is that all 59 forms have now been revealed by investigating magistrates to be photocopied, completed by the same two hands, and bearing illegible signatures. Many of the forms don’t even have the birth dates of the people who are supposed to have signed them.

Genoa’s deputy police chief, now being tried for the events of the night following the death of protester Carlo Giuliani at the hands of the police, has called the attack on the sleeping demonstrators ‘an act of Mexican butchery’. It’s salutary to remember that butchery of this kind can take place in any country in which it’s tacitly, and explicitly, condoned by the government, as this was. While the public Berlusconi was flower arranging in Genoa’s prettier squares, his less savoury doppelgänger was putting the boot in at one remove.

The smiler with the knife under the cloak, as Chaucer put it.

The Emperor’s Old/New Clothes

From today’s Independent, by Peter Popham:

The magnificent papal wardrobe has been steadily modified since Vatican II. Pope Paul VI symbolically laid his splendid tiara on the altar of St Peter’s at the end of the council; it was sold and the proceeds donated to charity. Benedict has yet to buy it back, but he has repeatedly stunned Vaticanologists with the variety of archaic hats, capes and other adornments he chooses to sport. In his first winter as Pope he donned the snug, Santa Claus-like “camauro” hat, red velvet with a border of white ermine (see right), which had not been worn since John XXIII, who died in 1963. He also affected the “galero”, a cowboy-like number in red, and the “greca”, the ankle-length cashmere overcoat last worn by Pope Pius XII. He has also moved to restore some of the dignity of the Pope sacrificed by his predecessors in the interests of humility and conciliation. Benedict has been photographed seated in the little-used golden throne in the Vatican’s Sala Paolina, where Pius XII used to receive important visitors on their knees.

I wonder what he’s wearing on his holidays, devoted to walking, the thinking of deep religious thoughts and the gathering of woodland fruit, according to an ever-fawning Italian press. Something light and cool, I suppose, silk camiknickers, perhaps, last honoured by a papal arse three centuries ago; as flimsy as the vain old slapper’s moral authority.

Nobody’s bothered to tell us whether the lovely Georg is a-nutting and a-berrying with him.

(Update: On tonight’s TV news, Georg was three paces behind as Eggs walked, and thought, and walked, in his simple monastic way, surrounded by other befrocked old men and, obviously, security. Security which is costing the Italian government over €40,000. Enjoy the break, Eggs! We’ll pay for the omelette.)

Going, going, gone….

Encouraging news today, as Eggs Benedict goes all Latin. No, we’re not talking Ricky Martin (Calm down, Eggs!), but the opportunity given the faithful to return to the Latin mass, thrown out at the modernising Second Vatican Council. Now Eggs claims that the old rite was never abrogated, and he’s the pope so he ought to know. So if you’ve been excommunicated for rambling on in a dead language now’s your chance to squeeze back in and do it with papal approval.

The encouraging news is that while 97% of Italy’s population is baptised, 86% declares itself catholic and 57% practising, only 21.4% is actually prepared to shift its arse from couch to pew on a regular basis. And the arses that so inadequately line the peninsula’s places of worship tend to be old, poor and southern. Not at all the human resources that old Prada-wearing Eggs is after.

The reasons ‘practising’ catholics give for not actually practising include boredom (33.7%), banal sermons (7.8%) and a lack of spirituality (11%). I’m sure a little Latin, Gregorian chants and the priest’s back turned to the congregation will push up viewing figures no end.