I have wanted to visit the Pantheon in Rome ever since I saw some slides of the place in an archaeology lecture in 1985. Remember slides? As domes go—proper domes, that is, not silly tents in Greenwich—the Pantheon's is the daddy. I am delighted to report that it was every bit as fantastic as I'd hoped it would be. The Romans knew a thing or two about domes—and about concrete, from which it is made.
The Romans also knew a thing or two about ecumenism and diversity: as its name implies, the Pantheon was originally a temple to all the gods. Then the Christians came along, nailed up a few crosses, and converted the place into a church. Don't you just hate it when they do stuff like that?
As an atheist, I have rejected all gods as being a silly idea. Compare this with Christians, Moslems and Jews, who have rejected all gods except one. It's that last step that's the hardest, apparently. Come on in, chaps, the water's lovely!
But it seems to me that, if we aren't all going to see the light and become atheists, pantheism has got quite a lot going for it. If you accept, as the Romans did before Constantine sold out, that there are literally hundreds of gods, all of which/whom/whatever deserve some element of respect, then you are far less likely to cause a ruckus by claiming that your particular favourite god is the one true god. Panthism is bound to make you a tad more tolerant. Even more tolerant than us liberal atheists, who think everyone else is totally fucking nuts, but fully respect their right to be stupid.
When they invaded Britain, for example, the Romans heard about the local goddess Sul who was supposed to inhabit a water spring in the South West. Rather than say pish and tush, they adopted Sul, saying she sounded a bit like Minerva to them, and named the spring Aquae Sulis in her honour. We now call the city that grew up around the spring Bath. The Romans were particularly good at assimilating other religions into their theology.
The Christian/Moslem/Jewish god (if He is indeed the same chap), on the other hand, is a jealous god: "Thou shalt have no other gods before me," He said. But note the implication of the one true god's Commandment Numero Uno to Moses: no other gods… The Lord in His infinite wisdom was clearly acknowledging that other gods did exist. Furthermore, He was not saying that you shouldn't respect other gods; just that you shouldn't rate them higher than Him.
Which kind of makes you wonder why on earth people make such a big deal about monotheism.
To win, all you need to do is engage some Americans in polite conversation, then ask them which part of Canada they're from before they ask you if you're from Australia.
Sounds dead simple, but I'm 3–0 down at the moment.
OK, even I'm starting to get bored of all this Italy stuff now. But, before I finish, I must explain my theory that Jesus was a carrot-top:
When you've traipsed through as many medieval art galleries and churches as I have in the last couple of weeks, you begin to notice certain themes developing.
For example, it is quite clear that Jesus was an extremely ugly baby. Out of the (literally) hundreds of Madonna and Childs and Nativities that I saw, there wasn't a single one in which Baby Jesus didn't look boss-eyed, deformed, or just not-quite-right-in-the-head. He had the sort of face that only a mother could love. And he's nearly always clutching some poor goldfinch in his mitts. What the hell is that about? Some sort of religious iconography I can't be bothered to look up, I'll bet. [Postscript: Actually, I've now looked it up, and very symbolic it is too.]
And very often, the Virgin Mary is shown with two kids. It turns out the second one is Jesus's cousin, John the Baptist. Presumably he was Jesus's cousin on his mother's side. I suspect Mrs The Baptist was a working mum. Either that, or she and the Virgin Mary took it in turns to look after the kids while the other popped down the shops.
The other thing you soon begin to notice in these old painting is that Jesus was extremely white, and unforgivably ginger. I don't mean in just one or two painting; I mean in practically all of them (with one notable exception: a Russian iconographic painting in which he looked decidedly swarthy).
I mean, even his poor mum looks ginger in some of the paintings. As if she didn't have enough to worry about, the poor woman!
I rest my case. Here endeth the lesson.
As it's my birthday today (thanks, chaps, you really shouldn't—oh, that's right, you didn't), and I'm in a good mood, how about a quick round of the Nun Game?
Twenty-five points and one of my spare Moleskine™ notebooks to the first person to spot a nun hidden away in my recent photos from Rome and Florence. Answers in the comments please.
Simply post the URL (web address) of the Flickr page containing the nun photo into the comment's text. (Note: There should only be one photo on the Flickr page in question. If there is more than one photo shown, click your chosen photo to be taken to its unique page.) Oh, and don't forget to include your email address in the comments field provided, so I'll be able to contact you (it won't be published).
For the avoidance of doubt, there are no tricks involved. There is at least one photo of a real, live nun, who is very clearly a nun, and not just some indistinguishable speck/blob in the background.
Think of it as Where's Wally, but with nuns.
The judge's decision is final, no correspondence will be entered into, etc., etc.
Good luck!
Oh, is it empty already? Next bottle, I think.
New Scientist letters, 07-Apr-2007
From Richard Carter
Last night I took Fred Pearce's advice and installed 111 energy-efficient light bulbs to offset the 11.1 tonnes of carbon emissions that I will be responsible for this year. All went well, until a passenger airliner en route to Manchester tried to land in my drive.
There must be easier ways to be green.
Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire, UK
Actually, he sounds rather intelligent.
SMS conversation with Carolyn on Wednesday:
C: What's that bird called that walks up walls?
R: Catwoman.
To allow us to get to Liverpool Derek Hatton Airport in time for our very early flight to Rome the other Sunday, Jen and I spent Saturday night at my parents', where we were required to watch the final of a minor celebrity talent contest called Dancing On Ice. It was on ITV, the channel that does Foyle's War and Inspector Morse. I hadn't realised it also does family entertainment. I use the word entertainment guardedly.
The following conversation took place:
Me: It's very sporting of that Phillip Schofield to dye his hair silver to fit in with the ice theme.
Jen: Is he famous or something?
Me: He used to be a children's television presenter. He's never been the same since he split with Gordon.
Jen: Gordon who?
Me: Gordon the Gopher. He was a glove puppet that squeaked a lot. Phillip Schofield was his straight man.
Mum: I thought you said Jordan.
Soak it in petrol, hold a match to it, and… WOOOOF!
Edge: A History of Violence by Steven Pinker
In sixteenth-century Paris, a popular form of entertainment was cat-burning, in which a cat was hoisted in a sling on a stage and slowly lowered into a fire. According to historian Norman Davies, "[T]he spectators, including kings and queens, shrieked with laughter as the animals, howling with pain, were singed, roasted, and finally carbonized."
And to think they say things have advanced since those days.
So, is it striped or spotted?
I fully appreciate this is hardly the right time of year to be worrying about this sort of thing, but you'll be thanking me in December, mark my words.
Have you ever noticed how the year number changes at the end of each year? Damned confusing. Well, I've been doing some reverse-engineering, and I've come up with a handy, little formula for working out what next year's number will be:
(Where yn = next year's number, and y = the current year's number. Works for all years after 1 A.D.)
I await the call of the Nobel Committee.
Jen and I cooked some excellent kedgeree this evening. This required the shelling of a hard-boiled egg. I've been wanting another shot at shelling a hard-boiled egg ever since I saw this video:
Holy shit! It only bloody works!
At the risk of sounding over-dramatic, this discovery has transformed my life. Until this evening, I freely admit I was one of the shittest hard-boiled egg shellers on the planet. Now, I consider myself a pro.
(Mind you, Jen wasn't too keen on eating the damn thing afterwards.)
Hebden Bridge Times: Countdown to dock pudding cook-offs
Strong competition is expected at the World Dock Pudding championship which is being held in Mytholmroyd a week on Sunday.
Entries have already been received from last year's winner Doris Hirst, Joan Whitworth who was a champion three years in a row with her husband Trevor before he died two years ago and former champions 15-year-old twins Clare and Kate Morrison which will ensure the contest is keenly fought.
I have a horse in the office sweepstake for the 4:15 at Aintree this afternoon (otherwise known as The Grand National). Actually, I have two. My first draw, Thisthatandtother, turned out to be a 129–1 rank outsider, so I took another shot and drew Sonevafushi, which was an even worse 219–1.
I don't know how I will eventually make my fortune, but it's a safe bet it won't be through gambling.
Carol Klein in the Guardian Magazine's Gardening section two weeks ago (the butler is a bit behind on his reading):
Carrots are prone to attack from carrot fly, but the flies never reach more than a foot or so above the ground, so you can beat them by gravity in elevated pots or raised beds.
Bloody big flies!
I bought Carol's book Grow Your Own Veg on Friday. Not that I ever will, you understand—but it's a very pretty book.
Stense sent me a belated birthday present yesterday (pictured right).
Very droll.
According to the warning on the back of the box, the film contains infrequent, mild references to sex/nudity, some moderate violence, but no language whatsoever.
Not even Italian.
I apologise for the sound quality (specifically, the lack thereof). Do I really sound that Scouse?
Oh, and before you say anything, the reason my throwing is so crap on the first video was that I was filming with my right hand while throwing with my left. And my right hand didn't know what my left was doing.
I await the call of the Academy.
I love composting. Seriously. It's fab.
Back in 2002, I built two compost containers in my garden. They've seen a lot of action since then, let me tell you. I take great pride in my compost: garden waste, teabags, egg-shells, cardboard, potato peelings, you name it, it goes in there.
Every now and then, though, I like to give my compost a bit of a treat. You know, something a bit different to help develop a richer, more rounded end product. So I pop down to Tescos and buy some exotic fruit—guavas, mangos, passion fruit, stuff like that—and I throw it straight into the compost.
Composting is my own small contribution to helping save the planet.
It's good to be green.
But did you see It's Not Easy Being Green on BBC2 this week? Eeeew! There was this women's Tupperware™-type party for tree-huggers where the saleswoman was trying to convince the other ladies to buy something called a menstrual cup. Some sort of sporting trophy, you might think, but no: the saleswoman explained how a menstrual cup was an environmentally friendly, reusable alternative to certain female sanitary products. You know what I'm talking about. "And when you want to clean them, you just pop them in the dishwasher", she cheerfully explained.
Dishwasher. Very green.
Conversation in the kitchen at work last Friday (I am 'R' and my anonymous colleague is 'X'):
X: "Can you smell fish?"
R: "No."
X: "Are you sure? I can definitely smell fish."
R: "No. I have an extremely acute sense of smell, and I can't smell anything."
X: [Sniffs armpit apprehensively.]
BBC: eBay 'sorry' over policy change
Auction website eBay has apologised for not giving sellers enough notice about a change to the way it lists items…
Peter Jones says his business has been 'decimated', with sales down 90%.
I don't want to kick a man when he's down, but it's far worse than that, Mr Jones: the literal meaning of decimated is down by 10%.
Here's a (pretty simple) maths problem for you: a rectangle has an area of 15cm2 and a perimeter of 16cm. What are the lengths of its sides? The answer, if you can't work it out (or even if you can) is 3cm and 5cm. Here's how you might work it out:
- let the longer sides be m and the shorter sides be n
- mn = 15 (i.e. m = 15/n)
- 2m + 2n = 16 (i.e. m + n = 8)
- therefore 15/n + n = 8
- i.e. 15 + n2 = 8n
- i.e. n2 - 8n + 15 = 0
- Factorising (n - 3)(n - 5) = 0
- Therefore n = 3cm (the smaller solution)
- And m = 5cm
But hang on a second… Look at the sixth line:
n2 - 8n + 15 = 0
Just think about what that's saying (bearing in mind that we now know n = 3cm): that's saying that 9cm2 (an two-dimensional area) take away 24cm (a one-dimensional length) and add 15 (a no-dimensional integer) equals nothing.
HOW THE HELL CAN YOU TAKE AWAY A LENGTH FROM AN AREA? THEY'RE TWO ENTIRELY DIFFERENT THINGS. IT'S LIKE TAKING AWAY CREAM CAKES FROM THE COLOUR BLUE!
Maths is crazy.
Compare and contrast (my appropriately green emphasis added):
BBC: Nuclear Europe: Country guide - United Kingdom
Working nuclear reactors 23
Reactors decommissioned / out of use 21
Electricity from nuclear power 20%The UK was the first country to use nuclear energy to generate power for large-scale civilian use, opening its first plant in 1956.
The last new reactor was opened in 1995, and Britain has been steadily decommissioning its old plants, with many set to close in the next few years.
BBC: Nuclear Europe: Country guide - France
Working nuclear reactors 59
Reactors decommissioned / out of use 11
Electricity from nuclear power 78%France has been Europe's most enthusiastic devotee of nuclear power, constructing dozens of reactors since the 1970s oil crises spurred on its desire for energy independence.
It has become the world's biggest net exporter of electricity
The UK's energy policy, on the other hand, is to become totally dependent on greenhouse gas imports from a Russia-led cartel.
There's this woman in Church Street, Liverpool who wraps herself in sheets, paints her face white, and stands on a box with a bucket in front of her, pretending to be a statue. You can see similar sights in cities throughout Europe.
What the hell do they think they're playing at? Do they seriously expect me to pay them for standing on a box all day doing nothing? Where's the skill in that?
People who chalk copies of old masterpieces on pavements I get. I don't actually pay them, you understand, but they do at least exhibit a modicum of talent and give passers-by a bit of an art lesson. Jugglers: fine, that's definitely skillful and entertaining. Buskers: well, I'm in total awe of anyone who can play a musical instrument, so good luck to them. But in what way does standing on a box with a bucket in front of you contribute anything to the human experience? Go and get a proper job!
There used to be scruffy, little chap in Liverpool who stood all day holding out a paper cup and wiggling a shrivelled ice popsicle wrapper backwards and forwards very quickly between his fingers. That was his entire act. He didn't make much money, but at least he had the common decency to move.
Actually, I suspect he wasn't quite right in the head.
BBC: Iraqi MPs tell Harry to stay away
Senior figures in the Iraqi government have said Prince Harry should not serve in the country…
The Ministry of Defence has said his deployment is under constant review.
