Daily Mail Readers, Know Your Limits

Much flusteration on Twitter after the Daily Mail publishes an article reporting research that people with "feminine brains" earn less than people with "masculine" ones. But don't go thinking, little ones, that just because you are a man you have a masculine brain, or just because you are a woman you are a feminine-brain possessor. Oh, no. Are you good with instruction manuals and maps? Do you make lists and spot trains? Do you honestly answer the question "does my bum look big in this?" These are the things that give you a masculine brain.

Bit baffled by the last one, to be honest. I don't know how often the question "does my bum look big in this" is asked in boardrooms up and down the country. But I bet it doesn't come up at the typical late-night emergency strategy session where everybody's looking tense and talking about upside risks and under-capitalisation and shouting "damn".

This is the report from Nick Drydakis at Anglia Ruskin that originates the Mail article. The abstract could certainly be - well, abstracted from its context to produce the Mail's article.

Whilst men and women in certain occupations might face positive wage rewards when they have empathising and systemising traits and work atypical of those common to their gender, it would appear that evaluating individuals’ empathising, systemising and brain type is perceived to be important for employees’ wage returns. 

I think it's applying the male and female concept that causes the concern. That being good at organising helps you up the career ladder to an extent is truism. The minute you suggest this is a male-brain thing you end up in the world of Harry Enfield's "Mr Cholmondeley Warner".

Before you know where you are, this diagram

..... has become this one.....

So here's some better advice.

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• If you have tend to worry about people you've never met because they're a different colour;
• have stopped eating any kind of foods because they give you cancer;
• think benefits are for lazy people

Then you have a Daily Mail brain. You will probably never get beyond middle management.

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• If you think a Labour leader wanting to win an election is an act of betrayal;
• Have an unstoppable urge to tell other people they should believe what you do;
• Are condescending about religious people, poor people and Conservatives
• Eat only coffee that has passed through the digestive tract of small animals in a responsibly-managed clearing in a Balinese rainforest

Then you have a Guardian brain. Your best bet of employment is probably in academia (or the Church, ironically), as they really need things to work properly in business.

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• If you still think new evidence will come out about the death of Princess Diana;
• Worry about the price of your house should a new Ice Age break out tomorrow;
• Are obsessed with ISIS

Then you have a Daily Express brain. You'll never achieve much as you'll always be checking under the bed for terrorists or the Duke of Edinburgh

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• If you have a fondness for photographs of young women getting their exam results;
• Still think we have an Empire;
• Think that not enough people taking up the sport of rowing is a national problem;

You have a Daily Telegraph brain. You will probably end up as Chief Executive. Just as soon as your dad retires.

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• If you think the latest soap-opera stories are important;
• Care who Ryan Giggs may or may not have slept with;
• Stick a pen or cigarette behind your ear in case you need it

You've probably got a Sun brain. You may not achieve much, but then you probably never thought you would. You may be the happiest of the lot.

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When you get beyond the middle-ranking, list-making, attention-to-detail ranks in business, you discover something. There comes a point when it's self-confidence, being able to get on with people and being the sort of person that is - yes - comfortable talking to new people that gets on. When you get to the point where you don't need to make lists because you have people to do that kind of thing for you, train-spotting skills are irrelevant. The skills you need from then on  are quite often what the report thinks of as "female" attributes. The numbers of women on FTSE company boards are rising - but a lot are non-execs and (anecdotally) women on boards still seem more likely to be in Marketing or HR than in IT or Operations. That's the real issue we need to address - enabling women to use their talents in whatever field they want, wherever their skills fit, and taking away the barriers that stop them.

It's not about psychobabble about "masculine" and "feminine" brains that we need to look. It's the walls in our own brains that stop us evaluating people equally and fairly for the skills and personalities they possess.

True Internet Quotes - Francis of Assisi

Adapted From Wikimedia Commons

As the World Turns

Now that Mocktober (the month when we are cruel to those less fortunate than ourselves) is coming to an end, we look forward to Brovember.

Brovember is when we remember - if we have them - our male relatives of roughly similar ages. Ideally brothers, but cousins, uncles, nephews - all are available to be celebrated.

My brother, of course, lives in the tunnels under the Great House, kept well under control by his nurse, Mrs Rochester. I'm not saying I like to see him - or why would I imprison him down there, let's face it - but it's nice to remember him. That is what Brovember is all about, after all.

All-day Breakfast in Bed

Poor Burton Dasset. He signed up to an Ashley Madison account on a TalkTalk phone.

The woman who phoned him up to say she fancied an affair cleaned out his bank account. And before she did that, he took her on a date where he ate an all-day breakfast.

Now his details have been published online, including a photograph of a sausage that clearly couldn't be cured. Why do people have to take photos of their dinner?

I tell you, if Burton were married or had had more than 70p in his current account, he'd be in real trouble.

Why Are Some Atheists so Gullible?

A friend posted this witticism, from an American atheist association, on his Facebook page... It had 30-odd thousand likes on the association's page.

But you know there's a few little things wrong here.

In the first place, to a blind man the colour of the cat and room are irrelevant. The cat's existence is, but the others are no obstacle to the blind man.

In the second place, Oscar Wilde was a Christian. He was a David Cameron style of Anglican, often flirted with the possibility of going across to Rome, and landed safe on Tiber's side on his death bed. But, as I say, he always had been a believer.

Stephen Fry once played Oscar Wilde. Mr Fry is an atheist. I suspect the atheists have confused the two. They do, after all, have one thing in common. You're going to make me say it aren't you? That's right. They both studied Latin at school.

Then there's just one other thing about this quotation. Apart from it's not as clever as it's supposed to be and it's by a believer, I'm not convinced it's by Wilde. I've done all the research on it (ie I've Googled it) and there's no proper citation. No book or play quoted anywhere, no context, no date or place or time. Brainyquote is not technically a guarantee of a quote's authenticity.

So they're quoting something on the authority of a pretty picture on a poster. Previously I've mentioned the poster about an "atheist cathedral" which is actually the library of a college dedicated to the Most Holy Trinity. I'm not sure why some atheists are so eager to accept things on authority with a lack of evidence just because they happen to agree with them. But I've got a theory. I reckon it's because they're gullible.

Here, have a real Wilde quotation. It's brilliant.

The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of year
 To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'

Anyone lost a black cat? The blind man just brought it in. What a time to be delivering blinds. I was still in the bath.

Quick Edit: Thanks to Doug and to Mike P on Facebook.

About 5 minutes in.... (though the whole thing is pretty good)

The Dangers of Halloween

Time like an ever-rolling stream turns the page of mixed metaphor in the book of life, and so Halloween is nearly on us again.

And it's a time of year that parents and grandparents will naturally agonise over. Is it all lighthearted fun? Or is there a darker side?

I mean, take special Halloween sweets. You don't get that sort off blood-red colour without a host of additives, do you? And they're all stuffed with sugar. No wonder the kids have to wear flashing lights and garish outfits. It's to identify the kids that are suffering sweet-induced hyperactivity.

To set a responsible tone, last year we gave out apples from our organic, chemical-free orchard. Not only were we helping the kids' health, we saved money. Money which we could use to replace the windows which had apples thrown through them. Obviously the children had already reached the blue-Smartie stage of blood sugar and additive level. Or else we may have handed out cider apples.

Maybe we'll hand out organic dried apricots instead

Then there's the whole issue of letting children go around dressed as terrifying apparitions. Delving into those sorts of dark powers - it's not right. I mean, you may say it's just a bit of fun. But what is some poor innocent old soul going to think if, as is being requested this year, they get kids at their door dressed as Jeremy Corbyn, Theresa May and George Osborne? Talk about being in fear of your soul. Last year, a child in a Russell Brand costume got followed around by members of the Press for hours until they realised that he had more sensible ideas than the real one.

And then pumpkins. You may think it's a harmless old game, to carve out some awful face and put a lighted candle into it. But are you telling me that you can get a vegetable grown that size without using chemicals? Little Dorozy comes out in a rash if she sees a picture of something grown with artificial fertiliser. And what if they've used pesticides? The moths could be falling out of the sky. They say peel the veg, but the whole point is that a pumpkin is supposed to have its peel on to be a punky. That time we peeled them first they looked absolutely rubbish.

Probably not free-range

So this year we're going to make punkies out of some organic courgettes from the kitchen garden. OK, they will look a bit kind of small and stretched. But I reckon if we can hollow them out we can just about fit a bike LED in each one. Although we won't be using batteries. They're not rechargable.

Liturgy for a Car Parked on the Pavement

 

Beaker Folk encircle the car parked on the pavement.

Archdruid: Let us judge not, lest we be judged.

All: But let's face it, it's pretty tempting, innit?

Archdruid: Shall we risk walking out into the road to get round this selfish get?

All: Though the traffic is heavy and two of us have baby buggies.

Archdruid: For wide is the road that leads to destruction.

All: But it's a sensible place to park.

Archdruid: And narrow is the path that leads to salvation.

All: And that twerp in the Fiat isn't making life any better.

 

All may lay their right index fingers on the car.

Archdruid: Can you feel the selfishness?

All: It flows along our arms, like unto the water that runs down Mount Hermon.

Archdruid: Can you feel the stupid?

All: It burns! It burns!

All may remove their right index fingers.

Archdruid: Let us give the car a blessing, in the hope that the blessing will pass to the driver.

Beaker-bearers lift their beakers

Charlii: I pour out the Beaker of Grape Juice for fruitfulness.

Young Keith: I pour our the Beaker of Honey for sweetness.

Hnaef: I pour out the Beaker of Grease, for smoother starting in cold weather.

Burton: I pour out the Beaker of Milk, for youthful reactions.

Stacey: I pour out the Beaker of Tripe, for this bloke's judgement.

Kylie: I apply the Beaker of Fermented Fish Intestines, for better eyesight.

Kayleigh: And I apply the Half-eaten Kebab of Completing the Exercise.

Driver: Oi! What you doin' to my car?

Departing Blessing:

Archdruid: Quick! Scarper! 

In a Pagan Place

There's a wonderful track by those purveyors of wonderful music, The Waterboys. Actually, Mike Scott and his associates have made a remarkable number of wonderful tracks, mostly under the radar. The best-known of which, and the Beaker theme tune, being the sublime "Whole of the Moon".

Maybe actually sublimer than "Moon", on the subliminal level, is the supersublime "Pagan Place". Haunting, I think the word is. Obsessive, that's another good word. And I have to write the next bit carefully as there's another group - several, in fact - that use the word "pagan'. And I explicitly don't want to co-opt their own - sincerely held, often quite sophisticated - beliefs. But.

Why is the place that means most to the Beaker Folk the little Oxford/Warwickshire collection of limestone lumps, the Rollright Stones, not Westminster Abbey, Stonehenge or (close second) Walsingham? Because one frosty late October Saturday in 1983, very early in the morning, I passed the Stones while travelling down the little lane that leads from Little Rollright towards Great, and which is such a help to harassed middle-aged managers heading from the South-west to the Midlands.

At that time of the most evocative time of the year - redolent if not reeking with melancholy and the scent of decay - in a half-light, the Stones did not so much rest in their field as nuzzle against the fence. The old information shed wasn't burnt down that week, but its diagrams and archaeological information weren't terribly relevant. I wheeled the bike through the gate, went in and experienced a pagan place.

Why a pagan place? Firstly,  because on standard definitions that's what it is - a sacred place that was, we guess, dedicated to a divinity not defined by the Abrahamic religions. Not circumscribed by them, either. I'd like to say the word "numinous" at this point; if that's OK.

I was alone with a bunch of archaeological relics that I didn't understand - that nobody understands - there in the dawn light of a Cotswold ridgeway. And a presence was around me. A benevolent presence, sure. But not "a tame lion". A terrifying, wild, eerie presence. Just hanging there, in the air, kind of lurking. Like that presence always does.

But here's the thing. You want to know the thing that I (later) discovered is the nearest passage to the feeling I had that day? The passage I read and went "I understand that feeling"? It's in the Bible. Here in Genesis 15:12-21.

When the sun had gone down and it was dark, a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch passed between these pieces. On that day the Lord made a covenant with Abram...

And yes the last bit of this passage (not quoted) may have a bit of a genocidal implication. But I'm trying to focus on Abraham's experience here and maybe not that of the later writer who took what Abraham saw and wove it into a race history. It's Abraham, his God - the elusive, tricky, all-powerful YHWH - and a pagan place. A proper pagan place, where an elemental, awesome God makes the rules, not whichever sanctioned and established religion Abraham has been following up to now.

Then, for me, it's there again in  Matthew 14.

And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, “It is a ghost!” And they cried out in fear.

The "walking towards them on the sea" sounds kind of ordinary - just delivered deadpan like a hilltop in North Oxfordshire. Until Matthew drops the disciples' response in. The use of the word "elemental" seems obligatory here again. Memories of the Holy Ghost hovering on the waters of creation. The shock of an ordinary bloke doing something utterly - utterly - look, you know I'm gonna have to say "numinous" again, don't you? Here's the disciples in peril. Here's the power of nature. Here's God wandering in. In a pagan place.

I'd like to draw your attention at this point to the words of HG Wells' s narrator, in "The War of the Worlds":

"I had uttered prayers, fetish prayers, had prayed as heathens mutter charms when I was in extremity; but now I prayed indeed, pleading steadfastly and sanely, face to face with the darkness of God . Strange night! Strangest in this, that so soon as dawn had come , I, who had talked with God , crept out of the house like a rat leaving its hiding place— a creature scarcely larger, an inferior animal, a thing that for any passing whim of our masters might be hunted and killed."

So here's my theory. The nameless Dread; the lurking Other; the beyond-reason presence that I met on a Oxfordshire hilltop; CS Lewis' s concept of "joy', every good thing - every wild thing which is yet benevolent, even if scary - every stunning coming together of life and death, hope and despair - lightness coming out of dark - and yet even there, eternal and incomprehensible in "the darkness of God" is in fact our perception, in our place and situation, of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. That the lurking presence, in a wood or on a hill or in a burning bush, is in fact the eternal "I Am".

I would like to suggest therefore that we have tried to tame this lion, through custom and practice.  We have tried to pin this erratic Spirit, this wandering Messiah, this invisible God, into rules of our making. We have domesticated what we thought was this wild God, who scatters atoms across space and makes a world that can contain deep love, works of heroism, beautiful flowers and yet viruses and sudden disaster also.

He's there though. In a child's sudden grasping of a truth. In a piece of bread or a sip of wine suddenly changed. In a prayer in tongues or a rogue good deed.

In a scary place where the Divine breaks into the ordered, the I Am is recognised and the door is opened and heaven sneaks into the ordinary world.

In a pagan. In a pagan.

In a pagan place.

Volvo Life Paint - Because you can't Trust the People Who Drive our Cars

Volvo cars are engineered for the ultimate in safety for their occupants. Designed to survive the most brutal of Scandinavian weather, they are rugged and resilient in almost any crash.

Given the warmth and security of a Volvo, who could blame the driver if they decided to relax, send a few texts, open a packet of biscuits - maybe hold a cocktail party. Or why not just kick off your shoes and have a little nap?

I know I would. And that's why we invented Volvo Life Paint.  Because glowing in the dark is the ultimate protection when hit by a 2 ton brick driven by someone who's trying to choose a different album on their phone while eating a Big Mac*.

By 2020 we want nobody to be killed or injured by a new Volvo car. Obviously the only way to guarantee this would be to stop making them. And that would be really expensive. Blimey, look at VW. So we thought selling glow-in-the-dark paint would help while we try to think of something better.

Volvo LifePaint. Because you can't trust Volvo drivers.

* Serving suggestion only. Other sandwiches and fast food sellers available.

Back to the Future Simulator

Brilliant idea of Young Keith's to simulate the "Back to the Future II" Experience.  We left 1985 at 88 mph, and arrived in 2015. Obviously, we had to hook up to a powerful overhead electric source.

Or, to put it another way, we got the Thameslink from Bedford to London.

A Night at the Opera

" While an inexact comparison, research by the Guardian has shown that the cheapest tickets to watch opera (Carmen, £11), ballet (Nutcracker, £14) and West End theatre (As You Like It, £15) in London are all less than the least expensive Premier League ticket (£23 at Aston Villa)."

Well I should think so. Have you ever seen opera? It only exists to keep Guardian journalists out the pub.

Still, I'm shocked that it's 23 quid to watch Villa. Surely they should pay you more than that?