Jeremy Clarkson's Crash Course in the Law of Attraction

He also heard that women have been laughing at his indiscriminate groping antics.

So, Jeremy Clarkson has decided that “Britain is a nation of 62 million complete and utter bastards.” Why? Well, he thought that it would be a good idea to announce via Twitter that his dog had died, and was then surprised when his 503,861 followers made jokes about it. 

I’m not going to be a real meanie and say “Well, he deserves it because he’s such a horrible, horrible person.” (But he is.) I will, however, make the point that Twitter serves as a mirror. It’s not as if the people who saw his tweets about a dead dog were picked at random. They were all people who had chosen to follow him. And if you were the kind of person who says stupid things all the time in the hopes of getting a reaction, what would you expect?

If Oprah wrote about a sad event on Twitter, she would probably get a number of weirdo replies, because she’s famous and freaks go with the territory. However, I suspect most of her followers would probably react with sympathy, because dog-hating thugs don’t often subscribe to tweets such as "I'm ready to be an instrument. Thank you for an inspiring, spirit filled, blessed #SuperSoulSunday."

So Mr Clarkson, time for a long hard look at the kind of person YOU are?

I am the Captain of my Soul – Unless I Can't Move...

On the 16^th August, Tony Nicklinson lost his “right to die” case at the High Court. Yesterday, he died of pneumonia – exacerbated by his refusal to eat in the days since his defeat. 

Since his stroke 7 years ago, Mr Nicklinson had suffered from “locked in syndrome” – being fully alert and conscious on the inside, but unable to move beyond some facial expressions, the most heartbreaking being his face when he learned that he would not be allowed to die. The judges on his case decided that "voluntary euthanasia is murder, however understandable the motives may be". Because of his inability to move independently, he would have had to enlist help from a family member in order to end his life.

Euthanasia is one of those subjects I’ve always been fairly neutral about – nobody wants to think of people suffering, but equally, when is it ok to turn off the life support? Even people who appear to be braindead have occasionally snapped out of their comas, none the worse for it. And how can you trust that the person making the decision really has the patient’s best interests at heart? People can be very odd when wills are in the equation.... 

However, it still makes sense to judge cases on an individual basis. Would the judges have changed their mind about Tony Nicklinson’s fate if they had experienced just one day in his body, communicating through blinks and having to give up every shred of dignity? Mr Nicklinson pointed out; "Judges, like politicians, are happiest when they can avoid confronting the real issues and this judgement is no exception to the rule.” He admitted that his biggest regret was summoning help at the hotel when he collapsed; “If I knew then what I know now, I would have let nature take its course.” 

Jean-Dominique Bauby was the editor of French ELLE when he suffered a stroke and became a victim of locked-in syndrome. He painstakingly spelled out every letter of every word of a short book about the experience, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, before he died (also from pneumonia). He describes correspondence from his friends; “Other letters simply relate the small events that punctuate the passage of time: roses picked at dusk, the laziness of a rainy Sunday, a child crying himself to sleep. Capturing the moment, these small slices of life, these small gusts of happiness, move me more deeply than all the rest.” One could argue that as long as you’re alive, it is still possible to find some value in every moment. 

But how long can someone go on living in purgatory? Mr Nicklinson’s response to his high court defeat was: “I am crestfallen, totally devastated and very frightened. I fear for the future and the misery it is bound to bring.” His daughter Lauren told the press “He would rather have three months of the physical and mental anguish of starving himself than 30 years living locked-in.” It’s an understandable stance; not only would 30 years of living mean more years of ‘dull, miserable, demeaning, undignified and intolerable’ life for you, but also for the family who would have to sacrifice their own lives to take care of you, adding guilt to the list of daily pains. 

So what was the court’s problem with Mr Nicklinson’s “right to die”? As he was extremely keen to end his life, it seems irrelevant that the actual drugs would need to be placed in his mouth by someone else. So it appears that the actual debate isn’t about whether it’s ok to “help” someone die – it’s a debate about the moral rights and wrongs of suicide. The judges decided that Tony Nicklinson had to stick it out rather than end his suffering. 

But like it or not, every human being has the right to kill themselves, if they so choose. If someone is physically incapable of doing so, why is it suddenly someone else’s choice to make?

I ❤ London

I admit it, I'm not a sports fan. I've always thought that watching people cycle is dullsville, and will never understand how a marathon (it's people WALKING! In bunny costumes!) is considered a television event. I was even one of those people who resented the Olympics for the hassle it would cause to public transport and how much it would cost. (Montreal took 30 years to pay off  the debt from their 1976 hosting duties...)

From the very start, it seemed that everything about our hosting would be tarnished with the crappy, incompetent bungling that we're used to from our government. The "Lisa Simpson committing a lewd act" logo caused public outcry; it cost us £400,000 but it turned out that running a contest in a newspaper (see above) would have found better results. Where's Blue Peter when you need them? (I think the one in the top left-hand corner, incorporating "2012" into "London" is particularly ingenious, so I'm just going to pretend to myself that this was the official logo.)

                    BUT THAT WAS BEFORE!!!

Yes, I got sucked into every second of it, from the opening ceremony onwards. I found myself musing on ways we could “improve” the show next time. For instance, we could dress up the shot putters like Roman gladiators. (What? I think it would be fun, and really add something to the atmosphere!) Even better, why not have a fun “sports day” after the real events have finished, when there is no pressure to win? (This is the flipside of getting into the games; I can’t bear to see their little faces fall when they miss out by 0.10 of a second). Wouldn’t we all like to see our sporting heroes compete in a sack race or the egg and spoon race? And just have FUN?

It’s been an amazing three weeks, Britain has probably never been happier, and don’t you just love it when the worst news you can find in the papers is that your country only got silver, not gold? I think we need to have a big rousing chorus of “We are the champions!” to celebrate. Not the Queen song – this one.

Women shouldn't be allowed in comedy clubs, anyway.

Wassup? Did somebody point out that comedians only resort 
to shock tactics when they don't have anything funny to say?

So, this week the internet has been debating about Daniel Tosh. No, I hadn’t heard of him either. He calls himself a “comedian” and last week he found himself in a spot of bother as a story about his rape jokes went viral. 

A Tumblr user provided the platform for her friend to describe her experience at a comedy club. When Tosh went into a repetitive “rape jokes are funny” spiel she told him unequivocally that they are not, and he suggested it would be amusing if she got raped right then and there. 

It was re-blogged and re-tweeted around the world and gave Tosh the kid of publicity that greater men can only dream of. There isn’t much for me to say, since other people have already covered the bases much better than I could: Lindy West of Jezebel makes the point that actually, rape jokes CAN be acceptable and funny, depending on whether they are on the side of rapists or humanity in general. (Examples of the times when it works and IS edgy and clever don’t involve Tosh.)

Meghan O’Keefe of the Huffington Post makes a similarly impassioned plea to remember that humour cannot be censored: (Tosh) “can say and do what he wants. If he needs to say things like "rape jokes are always funny" on stage in order to cope with whatever's in his life, he totally has that right. Sometimes we laugh at tragedy because we can't physically  – or psychologically – do anything else.” 

Jamie Masada, the owner of the club, attempted some damage limitation by claiming that Tosh hadn’t been aiming wisecracks at the woman at all. Apparently when he asked the audience "What do you guys want to talk about?" someone said "rape" (maybe comedy clubs should have resident therapists?) and the woman in question said "No, rape is painful, don’t talk about it." So Tosh responded “Well it sounds like she’s been raped by five guys”. Now, am I crazy, or is this WORSE than the original story? Responding to a heckler with the first desperate retort that pops into your head is one thing – and there are many teenage boys who would have made a similar comeback – but just randomly commenting that someone was probably raped? That’s WEIRD. 

Whatever actually went on, Daniel Tosh isn’t the worst part of the story. The worst part is the response from the internet, which I can only assume is a pretty fair representation of the world at large. Many, many people have offered the opinion “What did she expect, going to a comedy club? That’s what happens when you heckle!” which makes me wonder what their response would have been if she had actually been raped. “What did she expect, going out at night? That’s what happens when you go to a place that serves alcohol to men!” Even the Huff ran a story which ended “Did Tosh go too far? Was the audience member asking for trouble by heckling him?” Yes folks, she was asking for it. (Can we hear what she was wearing, too? I’m sure that will shed some valuable light on the story.)

The fail-safe riposte that’s ALWAYS used when offensive jokes come up is: “Where’s your sense of humour?” Nothing shuts people down faster. (We’d rather keep quiet about our opinions than risk being seen as a humourless bore.) Comedians use it, bullies use it, every passive aggressive nitwit uses it. It’s the perfect disclaimer when you want to say something insulting without inviting any retribution; adding “I’m joking!” makes even the most obnoxious sentence acceptable. Jackson Katz also made this point brilliantly in his appraisal of Eminem; you can be as misogynistic as you like if you dismiss any critics as people who “don’t get it”.

Next time somebody uses this defense to claim that making jokes about rape is funny and you really shouldn't be taking it all so seriously, don't try to convince them otherwise.  That's what they want you to do, because there's no way to win that argument. Just point this out:

We’re onto you. We know that saying “You have no sense of humour” is bullshit. We know that it’s what people say when they have absolutely no other defence and are hoping you will back off before you realise that. It is NULL AND VOID and you’re going to have to do a lot better than that. So there.

But the prize for best response to Tosh  goes to Curtis Luciani,  a comedian who “gets it.” 

Please read it.

Why aren't there any ghost dinosaurs?

As you may have gathered, I'm interested in sprituality and I've read more than my fair share of likeably nutty books about nature sprites and communicative trees. However, when it comes to Pets Have Souls Too, I must advise that it would be best shredded into hamster bedding.  

After reading some positive Amazon reviews, I thought this book looked interesting. So when I saw it in a charity shop, I snapped it up. This is one time where it might have paid to read the back cover more closely, for then I would have learned that author Jenny Smedley is a columnist for magazines such as Love It! Now, I don't want to be snobby about such publications... but I can't help it. Reading this book was essentially like reading a bumper issue of "spiritual pets" in a trashy magazine; all presented with absolutely no scepticism or questioning.

I'm sure some people might enjoy Jenny Smedley's conversational style of writing, but I found all the comments of "you know" and "don't get me wrong" etc made my brain hurt. It was like having a conversation about spirituality with your extremely suggestible next door neighbour over the garden fence. Many stories were rounded off with a "There, you see! That PROVES it!" footnote.

She does attempt to get a bit scientific by addressing sceptics' concerns, saying that they would argue that animals don't have souls because, "if you show an animal a reflection of itself in the mirror, it won't recognise what it's looking at." But, she explains, "people look in a mirror for two reasons – to admire themselves or to try and change the way they look... animals simply never consider how they look and they're not curious about it, so generally there's no point in them recognising themselves in a mirror. "

So, I says to Mabel, I says......

Well, that's that sorted then. For a self-proclaimed animal lover, you'd have thought she might have seen some of those youtube videos of puppies or kittens attempting to play with their reflections, or peeking behind the mirror to find the other animal. I may not be the most scientific type, but even I know that recognising your reflection is something that only happens at a certain stage of development – which is why babies and MOST animals can't do it. However, I don't think anyone is using this as an example of why infants don't have souls. Incidentally, as Jenny later points out, chimpanzees do pass the mirror test. With a quick google search, she would have discovered that bottlenose dolphins, orcas, elephants and magpies can also recognise themselves. (By the way, this isn't even the whole list – and I imagine there are many animals which have not yet been tested.)

The book is divided into chapters such as "spirit pets" (those which have died and return to comfort their owners) "guardian pets" (such as the dead horse who whinnied in order to warn his owners that the barn was on fire) and "pets that return" – the writer herself has a dog which she believes is the reincarnation of one of her former dogs.

Helpfully, the final chapter explains how to communicate with your own pet, presumably so they can miaow from beyond the grave to let you know the winning lottery numbers. (FYI, it boils down to relaxing and then asking your pet questions, such as "What is your favourite food?" in the hope that the answer will psychically pop into your head. Jenny points out that animals gaze at us intently, "almost willing us to understand them". This is true, although I'm pretty sure that the message your pooch is trying to convey is "Give me some of that delicious smelling grub," not "let's discuss some philosophy, old chap."

I am about 50% sceptical and 50% willing to go along with the ideas in this book – I see no reason to disbelieve stories of spiritual animals if we're willing to accept similar stories about human beings. I've always found it somewhat bizarre that people can happily believe that people "go to Heaven" but automatically assume that animals don't. So if this subject ever comes up in church, try them with this: If I love my cat, then either God loves her too, or I have a greater capacity for love than God does – which is impossible. See, it's simple. (Or as Jenny Smedley would say, THAT PROVES IT!)

And let's not forget the talking donkey featured in the Bible - Numbers 28, baby!

Some of the tales described here are genuinely sweet and moving. However, the dreadful writing style and occasional ridiculous story makes the book as a whole unintentionally hilarious.

For instance, one owner of a ghostly mutt mentioned "the dogs were never allowed upstairs in the bedrooms, but now she is in spirit she has no boundaries". (Well, good luck in keeping an apparition off the sofa.)

Jenny also describes the theory of "soul configuration" – that souls begin as a huge number of "sparks" – they may start as a million blades of grass, then as they gather experience, graduate to 2.000 tadpoles, working their way up to mammals (perhaps four sheep souls), before finally becoming one human. (Am I the only person who thinks this theory is kind of insulting to animals?) She also describes flocks of birds as having a "collective soul," meaning that they have "a fragment of a soul and need the others of its group to function as a whole". I'm fairly sure anyone who has loved a pet bird would dispute this idea. (And judging by what we now know of the intelligence of birds, it seems unlikely....)

She uses the collective soul to answer that age old question "whoever heard of a ghost ant or dinosaur?" Apparently because "an ant contains only a fraction of a soul, and therefore doesn't hang around after death, it's immediately absorbed back into the whole," and "the same would apply to early life forms such as dinosaurs". Why? It seems odd to me that the world should be awash with spectral dogs, cats and horses, while no spooky dinosaurs have ever appeared in Times Square.

This prejudice for pets is apparent again in her introduction to one anecdote: "When I got this following letter from Mimi about her tortoise, I was amazed. It just goes to show that just because an animal isn't fluffy and cuddly, that doesn't mean they don't have some soul inside." Well, that's a relief.

There are some genuinely interesting stories – we've all heard about pets who "know" when their beloved owner is coming home, but some stories can be explained by their super-sensitive hearing. Not so the story of Moxy the dog, who will only relax when her master is safely home – at his university digs 50 miles away. (As he ruefully points out, this made it impossible to stay out all night without his mum knowing.) Another dog reacted oddly at the exact time his human daddy was boarding a homebound plane.

But for every fascinating story, there is one which makes you groan – such as the man who was afraid of cats – but accepted one which he believed to be the reincarnation of his dog. He describes the way this cat would growl and spit at other felines – "It was really strange, and to this day Cilla still won't tolerate another cat near me." Protective reincarnated dog, or averagely feisty kitty?

In the "About the author" section, much is made of her TV career, with one description of Jenny being introduced to a pen of semi-wild foxes "and they gathered close around her, one fox even scented on Jenny's hair to welcome her to the pack". Now, the picture in my mind may not be accurate, but it is funny.

If you're looking for books on animal spirituality, a better choice might be When Elephants Weep by Jeffrey Masson and Susan McCarthy, or any of the animal-related Chicken Soup for the Soul books. If you do want to read this book, check your local Oxfam – it's where my copy is going.

Would jubileeve it?

"Our lovely young queen" as Paul McCartney once wrote in a school essay.

I've written before about the joyous realisation that Britain is secretly quite patriotic, contrary to our outward appearance of being a bit grumpy and cynical. And while this weekend's celebrations are an excuse for a four-day booze up, there has been a feeling of genuine pride and happiness about the Queen's jubilee.

Not many 86 year olds would willingly spend hours standing in the cold and rain with nothing to do but wave, but HRH does it all with her characteristic stoicism. I don't suppose she was too keen on the pop concert either, but she put on a brave face. She looked about as impressed as I was with Kylie (seriously! We know she sounds like a chipmunk, accentuating this by putting her on straight after Shirley Bassey was just cruel). And I'm afraid I am completely underwhelmed by Gary Barlow's famous contribution – it's tuneless and insipid and dull. (A bit like The Voice, a programme I was excited about until I'd watched the first episode and discovered it had just as many sob stories and image obsessions as the X factor. (Danny: "It's really hard to judge, because you can't see them....") I didn't watch it again until the final, which was won by a lovely girl whose vocals reminded me of a runaway bus, with her clinging tenuously to the tune with no idea where she was going to go next.)

I fear I am becoming as bitchy as Amanda Platell (a tall order, admittedly. But I think I could get there if you took away my chocolate supply and made me look at Kylie's face and listen to her say she's never had Botox). But I will point out to Mandy that Kate Middleton looked lovely and NOT showy-off in her red outfit, that the Royal group were beautifully co-ordinated and really, is there any doubt that they would have had all their wardrobe choices organised and approved well in advance? (Although I'm not entirely sure about the Queen's cream coat being paired with black shoes and handbag...) Does Platell seriously think that the Duchess just turned up in the first eye-catching scarlet outfit she found on her bedroom floor? Durrrr!

Red, white and blue. Perfect.

The crowd cheered and waved their little Union Jack flags for all they were worth. (Small rant here: My local shops ran out of bunting weeks ago. I'm not a supermarket manager, but I could have told you that it would sell out fast. Why can't these people stock-take properly? Get more in next time you imbeciles.)

Cliff sang Congratulations!, the BBC filled in time with inane chatter in the manner of breakfast time DJs, and so far I think we have had only one runaway horse (or "horse streaker" as he was dubbed). We may complain about the weather, but I bet all those in bearskins were heartily grateful for the lack of sun. As mayor Boris pointed out, it wouldn't have been a proper British occasion without a bit of rain.

All in all, it's great time to be British. You'd have to be particularly heartless not to have a little lump in your throat as the crowd sang as much of God save the Queen as anyone could remember, Charles called her Majesty "Mummy" and the spectacular fireworks lit up the London sky. Elizabeth II will be long remembered as one of the best monarchs Britain has ever had – which is why I am perplexed by the people who claim she "sits on her arse" all year round. Um, do you have ANY IDEA of her schedule? It's would make Beyoncé balk. (And Liz is about 55 years older.) Also bizarre is the idea that she's completely out of touch with the rest of the world; yes, she lives in a palace, but she travels more and speaks to more people than YOU will in a year. Who has the bigger world view?

Not only that, but 60 years on, she's still a style icon.

Three cheers, for the Queen, indeed. Hip hip hooray!