So here's a difficult decision for a rationalist, philanthropic, scientifically-minded cycnic: I have been invited to share all my medical records with strangers, at the BIOBANK.
To help science.
On the one hand: the scientist in me whole-heartedly approves of long-term longitudinal studies, and applauds the sheer scale and ambition of this one.
But on the other hand I am of a school that says: be wary of divulging to the government any information you are not absolutely required to.
I wondered what was in it for me. "Well", said Mrs Botogol, "think about it: if they do notice something wrong with you - something else I mean - then they'll tell you, and then at least you'll know"
Oddly enough, when I found out that actually they wouldn't tell me, I was reassured.
Showing posts with label morality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label morality. Show all posts
27 July 2009
06 May 2009
Trust
When I went out to buy my lunch I had it with me; but when I got back to my desk and unwrapped my sandwich .... it had gone.
My phone.
Oops. Cue lots of slapping of pockets, checking inside sandwich bags, and let-me-see-now-when-did-I-last use-it? Until I had a more sensible idea: I called my own number, and was strangely nonplussed when it was answered immediately.
She had found it in Canary Wharf, she said, in a strong Italian accent (or was it Polish?). No she was no longer in the Wharf, but she would be back later this afternoon, could I meet her at 4? I could.
It was 12.45; three hours. How much, I wondered, would three hours on the phone to Rome cost me? Or Warsaw. I thought of phoning Orange and having the SIM disabled... but it occured to me that if I did that then I wouldn't be able to contact her again. Reluctantly, I went with the trust thing.
Three hours later I turned up, not entirely confidently, to find my limited faith in human nature boosted: there standing patiently in Cabot Square was an attractive and elegant woman clutching my phone. I was smug that I had thought of turning up with bunch of palest and pinkest perfect tulips for her, and she accepted them gracefully with a smile, handing me, in return, my precious Nokia. She was Italian; there was a brief moment when I nearly kissed her, and an even briefer one where she seemed to expect me to. But it passed and we went our separate ways.
"Thanks again", I called to her as she left, "muchas gracias!", I yelled, for I am an oaf.
My phone.
Oops. Cue lots of slapping of pockets, checking inside sandwich bags, and let-me-see-now-when-did-I-last use-it? Until I had a more sensible idea: I called my own number, and was strangely nonplussed when it was answered immediately.
She had found it in Canary Wharf, she said, in a strong Italian accent (or was it Polish?). No she was no longer in the Wharf, but she would be back later this afternoon, could I meet her at 4? I could.
It was 12.45; three hours. How much, I wondered, would three hours on the phone to Rome cost me? Or Warsaw. I thought of phoning Orange and having the SIM disabled... but it occured to me that if I did that then I wouldn't be able to contact her again. Reluctantly, I went with the trust thing.
Three hours later I turned up, not entirely confidently, to find my limited faith in human nature boosted: there standing patiently in Cabot Square was an attractive and elegant woman clutching my phone. I was smug that I had thought of turning up with bunch of palest and pinkest perfect tulips for her, and she accepted them gracefully with a smile, handing me, in return, my precious Nokia. She was Italian; there was a brief moment when I nearly kissed her, and an even briefer one where she seemed to expect me to. But it passed and we went our separate ways.
"Thanks again", I called to her as she left, "muchas gracias!", I yelled, for I am an oaf.
13 April 2009
Sunk Boat
A wet Bank Holiday weekend in England.
I didn't get where I am today without spending wet Bank Holiday afternoons in the cinema, so I asked Mrs Botogol to accompany me to see The Boat that Rocked , the latest offering in Richard Curtis' increasingly misogynistic oeuvre.
It's billed as a "light-hearted ensemble comedy". I can't recommend it.
The reviews criticised it mainly for its length and its incoherent plot. I didn't mind either of those: the thing that spoiled it for me, rather, was the light-hearted, ensemble attempted-rape scene. Laugh? It made my skin crawl.
So, what was going on? Is Curtis constructing some kind of triple-layered, post modern, ironic point that is almost too obscure for words? Is he engaged in some kind of cinematographic Stanford prison experiment: seeing exactly how far his cheeky-chappy, blackadder image can be employed to to push his actors, his production teams and his audiences before someone stops laughingm stands up and actually objects, his nihilistic point justified by foolish, uncomfortably-giggling cinema audiences and a general imperception of what is before our eyes? Really, does no one even notice, other than an obscure blogger or two?
Or am I a dinosaur?
I didn't get where I am today without spending wet Bank Holiday afternoons in the cinema, so I asked Mrs Botogol to accompany me to see The Boat that Rocked , the latest offering in Richard Curtis' increasingly misogynistic oeuvre.
It's billed as a "light-hearted ensemble comedy". I can't recommend it.
The reviews criticised it mainly for its length and its incoherent plot. I didn't mind either of those: the thing that spoiled it for me, rather, was the light-hearted, ensemble attempted-rape scene. Laugh? It made my skin crawl.
So, what was going on? Is Curtis constructing some kind of triple-layered, post modern, ironic point that is almost too obscure for words? Is he engaged in some kind of cinematographic Stanford prison experiment: seeing exactly how far his cheeky-chappy, blackadder image can be employed to to push his actors, his production teams and his audiences before someone stops laughingm stands up and actually objects, his nihilistic point justified by foolish, uncomfortably-giggling cinema audiences and a general imperception of what is before our eyes? Really, does no one even notice, other than an obscure blogger or two?
Or am I a dinosaur?
04 December 2008
Paradise Lost last night
Yes, the performance was in a church, yes, a real live vicar introduced it enthusiastically [ "I just know this is going to be excellent. Unfortunately I can't stay to hear it myself. Bye" Why do people do that?]
Yes, the subject matter is theological, and yes God, Satan, Adam and Eve all have speaking parts and yes it was written by a devout man - but still, but still. . .I reckon Paradise Lost is a deeply irreligious work.
And that's probably why I like it so much.
Perhaps, like any great work, there are so many threads, so many levels in Paradise Lost that every reader can find in it the narrative they want, and no doubt the other members of the audience in St Giles in the Field last night (the retired and aged, the rapper off the street for the free wine, the young earnest muslim, and the half-dozen assorted A-Level Students) no doubt they all heard, through the prisms of their conventions, something else entirely; but for me Milton is a subversive: Milton believes in a god, of course, but he believes in a god that no one could possibly worship: A god that is cruel and humourless. A god that is sentimental and yet pitiless. A god of entrapment and condescension. I can't believe that Milton worshipped this god.
Whatever: he certainly didn't manage to justify His ways to this man.
The vastly likeable and entertaining, but slightly cheesy, Lance Pierson performed Book IX, in an assured and compelling piece of theatre, and it was excellent, but dispiriting: a young married couple, idealistic and naive, commit a foolish deed in the pursuit of an illusory goal, and the roof simply falls in on their world, destroying the contentment they had.
But they were suckered, taken for a ride, and manipulated; as defenceless as the poor snake that Satan enslaves and are as badly treated. They have been advanced a loan they can't possibly pay back and suddenly it's the mother of all credit crunches.
It all ends in tears and, worse, mutual recriminations, Eve and Adam momentarily forgetting that they are on the same side.
It was an abridged version - of course it was - and naturally some of my favourite passages, it turned out, were not Lance Pierson's favourite passages and they were omitted. So in case any of the other forty people present are blog-searching for reviews tomorrow morning (yeah, right) - here's two they missed:
Satan's state of mind as he approaches Eden.
And here's Eve's defiance in the face of danger.
And so out she goes to face down whatever is out there. Doesn't everyone wish they were brave enough to feel like that?
Lance Pierson ended as Milton ended, and if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me. Here's Adam and Eve as they leave paradise (It's kind of like being made redundant but being sent to a good outplacement consultant)
Yes, the subject matter is theological, and yes God, Satan, Adam and Eve all have speaking parts and yes it was written by a devout man - but still, but still. . .I reckon Paradise Lost is a deeply irreligious work.
And that's probably why I like it so much.
Perhaps, like any great work, there are so many threads, so many levels in Paradise Lost that every reader can find in it the narrative they want, and no doubt the other members of the audience in St Giles in the Field last night (the retired and aged, the rapper off the street for the free wine, the young earnest muslim, and the half-dozen assorted A-Level Students) no doubt they all heard, through the prisms of their conventions, something else entirely; but for me Milton is a subversive: Milton believes in a god, of course, but he believes in a god that no one could possibly worship: A god that is cruel and humourless. A god that is sentimental and yet pitiless. A god of entrapment and condescension. I can't believe that Milton worshipped this god.
Whatever: he certainly didn't manage to justify His ways to this man.
The vastly likeable and entertaining, but slightly cheesy, Lance Pierson performed Book IX, in an assured and compelling piece of theatre, and it was excellent, but dispiriting: a young married couple, idealistic and naive, commit a foolish deed in the pursuit of an illusory goal, and the roof simply falls in on their world, destroying the contentment they had.
But they were suckered, taken for a ride, and manipulated; as defenceless as the poor snake that Satan enslaves and are as badly treated. They have been advanced a loan they can't possibly pay back and suddenly it's the mother of all credit crunches.
It all ends in tears and, worse, mutual recriminations, Eve and Adam momentarily forgetting that they are on the same side.
It was an abridged version - of course it was - and naturally some of my favourite passages, it turned out, were not Lance Pierson's favourite passages and they were omitted. So in case any of the other forty people present are blog-searching for reviews tomorrow morning (yeah, right) - here's two they missed:
Satan's state of mind as he approaches Eden.
the more I seehasn't everyone felt like that. Doesn't everybody hurt, sometimes?
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries; all good to me becomes
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
To dwell, unless by mastering Heavens Supreme;
Nor hope to be my self less miserable
By what I seek, but others to make such
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
For only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts
And here's Eve's defiance in the face of danger.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a Foe,
Subtle or violent, we not endued
Single with like defence, wherever met,
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
And so out she goes to face down whatever is out there. Doesn't everyone wish they were brave enough to feel like that?
Lance Pierson ended as Milton ended, and if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me. Here's Adam and Eve as they leave paradise (It's kind of like being made redundant but being sent to a good outplacement consultant)
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;
The World was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:
They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.
17 July 2008
GAFCON or Not?
A fascinating consequence of the looming schism in the Church of England is the rare window it opens into my religious friends' souls.
In polite conversation one isn't supposed to do God so while I know perfectly well that my three cycling buddies all rush off to worship at three different churches after our Sunday morning rides, I've never been able to discern whether it is differences theological, ontological or even musical that draw them to their different altars.
Indeed I couldn't begin to describe what it is, actually, that they believe in - for they are all Anglicans.
For instance do they believe in the Garden of Eden? in Noah and the flood? In the water-boarding of Job? What's their opinion of the Filioque Controversy and was Jesus unbegotten? Do they believe in the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary? or in the secret marriage of Jesus to Mary Magdalan with a resulting bloodline protected through the centuries by the Knights Templar?
I have simply no idea. Their religion, they will tell you, is central to their lives, and I acknowledge that, but about the details its simply not polite to ask. (I do know that they don't all of them count the Catholics as properly Christian but that hardly sheds any light)
So, when I bumped into one of my three God-fearing friends at the station last week, and he and I travelled up to town together chatting about the weather, the credit crunch and the stories in our morning newspapers, the front page schism spread gave me the a rare and unexpected opportunity to delve a little deeper.
I asked whether he was thinking of joining the GAFCON cell that's formed in Twickenham (apparently they have booked the church hall under the disguise of being of a harmless Yoga group and, having fallen out with the St Margaret's GAFCON, must communicate directly with Richmond GAFCON Command via double-blind dead letter drops)
Well, he said, smiling, no he hasn't "After all, we have a woman vicar at our church, and I'm perfectly comfortable with her"
"But this is all about women bishops isn't it?", I asked, "What about them?"
"No", he said, "I don't agree with women bishops but I wouldn't leave my church over it"
"And what about gay priests? Would you leave your church over them?"
"Well now that is different - Yes, if my church had an openly gay vicar, I think I would have to leave and go somewhere else"
A little silence, as tumbleweed drifted down the aisle.
"The lad Mark Cavendish did good on Wednesday didn't he!" and then we were at Waterloo and we separated.
My friend works at a large and very successful global firm (you will have heard of it) which firmly - and I believe sincerely - champions values of inclusion and diversity. They have plenty of women partners and an active LBGT network, and no doubt gay partners as well.
I thought back to the Ken Costa, and his campaign to bring God to the workplace; and I couldn't but help a little shudder.
In polite conversation one isn't supposed to do God so while I know perfectly well that my three cycling buddies all rush off to worship at three different churches after our Sunday morning rides, I've never been able to discern whether it is differences theological, ontological or even musical that draw them to their different altars.
Indeed I couldn't begin to describe what it is, actually, that they believe in - for they are all Anglicans.
For instance do they believe in the Garden of Eden? in Noah and the flood? In the water-boarding of Job? What's their opinion of the Filioque Controversy and was Jesus unbegotten? Do they believe in the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary? or in the secret marriage of Jesus to Mary Magdalan with a resulting bloodline protected through the centuries by the Knights Templar?
I have simply no idea. Their religion, they will tell you, is central to their lives, and I acknowledge that, but about the details its simply not polite to ask. (I do know that they don't all of them count the Catholics as properly Christian but that hardly sheds any light)
So, when I bumped into one of my three God-fearing friends at the station last week, and he and I travelled up to town together chatting about the weather, the credit crunch and the stories in our morning newspapers, the front page schism spread gave me the a rare and unexpected opportunity to delve a little deeper.
I asked whether he was thinking of joining the GAFCON cell that's formed in Twickenham (apparently they have booked the church hall under the disguise of being of a harmless Yoga group and, having fallen out with the St Margaret's GAFCON, must communicate directly with Richmond GAFCON Command via double-blind dead letter drops)
Well, he said, smiling, no he hasn't "After all, we have a woman vicar at our church, and I'm perfectly comfortable with her"
"But this is all about women bishops isn't it?", I asked, "What about them?"
"No", he said, "I don't agree with women bishops but I wouldn't leave my church over it"
"And what about gay priests? Would you leave your church over them?"
"Well now that is different - Yes, if my church had an openly gay vicar, I think I would have to leave and go somewhere else"
A little silence, as tumbleweed drifted down the aisle.
"The lad Mark Cavendish did good on Wednesday didn't he!" and then we were at Waterloo and we separated.
My friend works at a large and very successful global firm (you will have heard of it) which firmly - and I believe sincerely - champions values of inclusion and diversity. They have plenty of women partners and an active LBGT network, and no doubt gay partners as well.
I thought back to the Ken Costa, and his campaign to bring God to the workplace; and I couldn't but help a little shudder.
06 April 2008
Free Tibet!
It was a very English demonstration. At Westminster tube station a half dozen or so demonstrators had gathered."You can't do that here, love", plaintively, "you need to go up on the street"
"But I'm waiting to meet a friend"
"Oh....Well... all right then"
My daughters and I hurried on up Whitehall where we had a very satisfactory morning: What do we want? "FREE TIBET!", When do we want it? "NOW!"
The procession was shambles, the torch bearers completely obscured by rings of goons and policeman, every inch of Whitehall lined with protesters. The Olympic torch disappeared into Downing Street, and faced with chanting and derision, it left ignominiously by the back exit. Police sweated, demonstrators broke through and we chanted and sang. China, China, China: OUT! OUT! OUT! Stop the killing... IN TIBET!.... Stop the torture... IN TIBET!
"Well, really", opined the man next to me, who had changed into a dragon costume extracted from his ruck sack when the torch was in sight, "we should attempt to prevent torture everywhere"
I was too busy videoing to answer:
22 July 2007
Speed
On Friday I took the day off work and drove all the way to Hampshire where I forked out £60 to receive a three-hour telling off.
I was one of eleven poor feckless saps with felt-pen name-labels humiliatingly stickered to our chests all crammed up in a small room in a 1970s office block on the UK Atomic Energy site in Winfrith, near Bournemouth.
Commensurate with our delinquent status, we had been forced into stress positions: peculiar old-fashioned chairs with those little folding tables under your elbow on which to rest your pad on. Every single chair in the room was right-handed
The room was hospital-grey and very hot. Behind yellowing curtains there were floor to ceiling cross-wired windows and a certain tension filled the air; it was half Edge of Darkness, half Gregory's Girl.
Just forty-five minutes previously, having arrived an hour early for my scheduled remonstration, and with the unaccustomed freedom of not a soul in the world knowing or caring where I was, I had rested in a cool, dark pub for traditional ham-egg-and-chips and a pint of foaming English ale (£9.45). Now I was at the mercy of an earnest and enthusiastic pair of professional chastisers: two middle-aged driving instructors from the West Country.
It was a Driver Awareness Course.
What I actually need, of course, is a speed camera awareness course; sadly the Dorset Constabulary don't offer those, and anyway the horse had bolted: I was caught back in May, and this seemed a better option than three points on my license. It never crossed my mind that the course would be led by a Reg Hollis and David Brent tribute band. Next time I'll take the points.
The course mainly consisted of DVD nasties: photos of crashes, videos of crashes, dummies being run over, dummies being crushed. Far and away the worst was when they produced the speed-camera pictures of our own convictions to humiliate us. As the first one flashed up my flesh crawled; I alone knew what was coming. I accepted that my fellow participants would be shocked, but I hoped those instructors - men of the world - would seen it all before. But it turns out I am the only person these fifteen years caught speeding in Christchurch dressed in a pirate suit. With a parrot.
"So, Mr Botogol", asked Reg, fixing me with a piercing look, "why were you travelling at 38mph that fateful day?" Everyone else had already related their narrative, their desperate excuses, their sick children, their sparkling, highly polished anecdotes, and they all leaned forward expectantly, "Well", I said, "well, I was wearing this eye-patch, right..."
At the end of the course, the participants were effusive in their praise for our two instructors. "I'll never break the limit again" choked Jackie, from Poole, and our instructors beamed.
"We're not on this earth for long" opined Reg "No, not for long" chimed in Brenty, "So therefore we all of us", Reg continued, "need to live a happy and a safe life".
It was worth a day of my precious holiday, just for that.
COAST
- concentration
- observation
- anticipation
- space-giving (sic)
- time to plan
I was one of eleven poor feckless saps with felt-pen name-labels humiliatingly stickered to our chests all crammed up in a small room in a 1970s office block on the UK Atomic Energy site in Winfrith, near Bournemouth.
Commensurate with our delinquent status, we had been forced into stress positions: peculiar old-fashioned chairs with those little folding tables under your elbow on which to rest your pad on. Every single chair in the room was right-handed
The room was hospital-grey and very hot. Behind yellowing curtains there were floor to ceiling cross-wired windows and a certain tension filled the air; it was half Edge of Darkness, half Gregory's Girl.
Just forty-five minutes previously, having arrived an hour early for my scheduled remonstration, and with the unaccustomed freedom of not a soul in the world knowing or caring where I was, I had rested in a cool, dark pub for traditional ham-egg-and-chips and a pint of foaming English ale (£9.45). Now I was at the mercy of an earnest and enthusiastic pair of professional chastisers: two middle-aged driving instructors from the West Country.
It was a Driver Awareness Course.
What I actually need, of course, is a speed camera awareness course; sadly the Dorset Constabulary don't offer those, and anyway the horse had bolted: I was caught back in May, and this seemed a better option than three points on my license. It never crossed my mind that the course would be led by a Reg Hollis and David Brent tribute band. Next time I'll take the points.
The course mainly consisted of DVD nasties: photos of crashes, videos of crashes, dummies being run over, dummies being crushed. Far and away the worst was when they produced the speed-camera pictures of our own convictions to humiliate us. As the first one flashed up my flesh crawled; I alone knew what was coming. I accepted that my fellow participants would be shocked, but I hoped those instructors - men of the world - would seen it all before. But it turns out I am the only person these fifteen years caught speeding in Christchurch dressed in a pirate suit. With a parrot.
"So, Mr Botogol", asked Reg, fixing me with a piercing look, "why were you travelling at 38mph that fateful day?" Everyone else had already related their narrative, their desperate excuses, their sick children, their sparkling, highly polished anecdotes, and they all leaned forward expectantly, "Well", I said, "well, I was wearing this eye-patch, right..."
At the end of the course, the participants were effusive in their praise for our two instructors. "I'll never break the limit again" choked Jackie, from Poole, and our instructors beamed.
"We're not on this earth for long" opined Reg "No, not for long" chimed in Brenty, "So therefore we all of us", Reg continued, "need to live a happy and a safe life".
It was worth a day of my precious holiday, just for that.
COAST
- concentration
- observation
- anticipation
- space-giving (sic)
- time to plan
09 January 2007
Immoral Goods
Five products - intrinsically morally neutral - but which have become unreasonably saddled with negative moral connotations:
- 4-wheel drive vehicles - regardless of actual size, petrol consumption, carbon footprint, a car that is driven by all four wheels necessarily connotes an irresponsible attitude to the environment and to pedestrians.
- Sliced bread - in all its forms: clearly denotes a slovenly laziness
- Television - moral turpitude and lack of creativity. When was the last time you heard someone say 'I won't have a book in the house' or, proudly, 'No, my children certainly don't go to the theatre very much at all' So, why is that attitude OK with TV? (and why is radio virtuous?)
- Fur - Fur (even if humanely sourced from a non-endangered farmed animal) is foul, but leather is lovely. How does that work?
- Tickets - (when sold for more than face value). Buy a china bowl for £10, sell it on eBay for £100, your mates will think you're well canny. Try doing the same with a ticket.
Remember when mobile phones were a sign of self-importance and self-indulgence?
Now they are just phones.
Are there any other things I could have mentioned? (hint: this post invites comments) :-)
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