Wrong is right

The first ever gig I went to was a band called Accept, whom some of you may recall, or more than recall. German heavy metal. Pretty good stuff, if you're into that kind of thing, which I was. I wouldn't turn my nose up at it now, either, depending on what I'm doing that evening. Anyway, this band had a song called Wrong is Right. I kind of knew what they meant. It made sense in a nonsensical kind of way. Looking back on it, I find that pretention comes easy to me now, and I can say that the song reminds me of Winston Smith's assertion, in Nineteen Eighty-Four, that he hated virtue and goodness. Sentiments that I can dig.

Now, I have never had that much confidence in my intellectual ability (strangely? someone please say 'yes'). I suppose this is strange, because I did do very well at school, at first, and also at last, though the middle bit was a bit dodgy. I remember graduating from Peter and Jane books ahead of my class (I'd read all of the Peter and Jane series, probably many times over). My teacher said, in that case, I should go to the bookshelf and choose a book that I wanted to read. This filled me with awe. Was I really ready for this? Anyway, I did it. The book that I chose was in the Littlenose series that some of you may know. I had a record of Littlenose stories being read by (I think I'm right in sayin) Bernard Cribbins, who also did a very good Winnie the Pooh. Although perhaps it wasn't Bernard Cribbins. It definitely wasn't Wendy Craig, anyway. There were many parts of the Littlenose record that terrified me, such as the tyrannosaurus rex frozen in ice, extinct for thousands upon thousands of years. Thinking back on that now, I want to shake the hand of the author. Anyway, naturally, being terrified, I wanted more. And I chose the Littlenose book, and to my surprise, found I could read it, and I've never looked back.

So, I think that part of this position I have of believing myself to be wrong (but only part?) comes from a sense of intellectual inferiority. But also, I suppose, I'm just pissed-off with people who are always right, especially if they 'know' it.

However, it does occasionally surprise me to discover that I am right about some things. For instance, I was talking to someone very lovely recently about Unilever, and I said, "I'm sure there's something nasty and dodgy about them, though." I looked them up on Wikipedia, which assured me that they have prizes or whatever for being really ethical bastards. So, to misquote Tom Baker, suddenly I lost confidence. A few days later I saw a story about Unilever. There are protests being made against them for their exploitation of palm oil. Palm oil! I knew it. I fucking knew it was palm oil. That's why I didn't buy Unilever soap last time, stupid!

Anyway, so…

Richard Dawkins.

Now, I have recently, on this very blog, skilfully applied two c-words to this man, which I won't repeat here. I hope he doesn't mind me mentioning his name (it's here on my blog in the comments section), but Robin Davies, perhaps rightly, pulled me up on this. Now, this is where my 'I'm wrong and I 'know' it' policy comes in. Part of this policy (but only part) is a kind of disclaimer, like that at the very beginning of the Tao Te Ching – if I say I'm wrong now, and accept a moment's discomfort and embarrassment, it won't be quite so embarrassing if I change my mind later. And it's good to change your mind. My sociology teacher once told me that's why women have such clean minds – they change them so often. There's a lot of wisdom there.

I'm not saying that I've changed my mind, but maybe I've slightly genetically modified it. I'm not about to apologise for my outburst, for two reasons. Part of me suspects I was right, and also, I'm pretty damned sure I'm just going to do it again anyway, during my next symphony of tourettes (a phrase introduced to me by Justin Isis), so I think if I'm going to apologise, I should at least be economical and save it all up for one big apology on my death bed or something, when my last words, will, I am positive, be, "I'm actually really, really sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry about that. I just, err…. Sorry. [Then dies.]"

Let me put it this way, anyone who's scored with Lalla Ward can't be all bad.

However, let me go on to salvage my pride.

I was talking to someone (and I shan't say who, just in order to protect the innocent), about the whole pink unicorn thing (for those who've just tuned in, Richard Dawkins thinks they don't exist). I'm going to paraphrase, I'm afraid, but I met with this sudden and startling reply to my reference that I'd made a reference to pink unicorns in a story I've written recently (about Annette Funicello, peace be upon her soul)…. er this reply:

"If Richard Dawkins doesn't believe in pink unicorns he should burn all his books."

"What?"

Yes, even I, the anti-Dawkins and pro-pink unicorn was taken aback. "Pardon?" I stuttered.

"It's mind-stuff. That's all that Dawkins's books are, mind-stuff, like pink unicorns. The unicorn meme has been around for, I don't know, thousands of years, and will outlive Richard Dawkins. It is alive, in all of us. And that's exactly the same sense (and the only sense) in which Richard Dawkins's books are also real."

So, actually, I'm really behind this campaign. If Richard Dawkins doesn't believe that pink unicorns exist, he really should burn all his books, you know, just to show how committed he is.

My pro-unicorn ally went on:

"Richard Dawkins is doing important work in a very specific field of human endeavour. It's good that there are people like Dawkins out there who are specialists who can concentrate strongly on something, a peel it back, and keep unfolding it. We need that unfolding. But for him then to dismiss everyone who's concentrating on other fields, and unfolding them in different ways, is ridiculous."

So, I suppose that's pretty much my last word on the subject, for this blog entry at least.

Also, I suppose I should add that, although Robin Davies must actually be my alter ego, I have never actually met him. For acting as my super-ego he should be commended. Through the mysterious workings of the universe that have brought you, too, specifically to my blog, where you can bask in the gloriousness of Quentin S. Crisp, Robin Davies also has been brought to me, and perhaps those mysterious workings shall also conspire in such a way that, one day, as I am hacking my way through hordes of Harold Bloom fans with a machete (who have also been sent to me by divine providence), in some Twickenham pub, there will be a very inaccurately tall person in a paisley shirt standing by the 'Who Wants to be A Millionaire?' machine, who, on the urgings of an uncommon impulse, strides through the gore and the grue, and makes himself known to me as none-other-than, and I shall buy him a nice GandT on the rocks, or whatever his choice of medicine might be. Or failing that, a vegetarian pizza.

Okay. I'm spent. Now I'm going to go off and make myself feel good in unspeakable ways.

(PS, as someone in Hard Times and Richard Dawkins would both probably agree, it's certainly in very good taste of me not to have any silly pictures in this blog post.)