Folk Surgery

All over the country they are springing up. Folk surgery clubs are being formed by enthusiastic amateurs keen on maintaining their link with the grand living traditions of surgery as handed down father to son to dog for generations, free from the pollution of professionalism and the cold clinical eye of modern science.

Like all folk traditions, many threads make up the fabric of folk surgery. Some conservative traditionalists will commit to nothing more than what was known to Galen from 100 CE. Admittedly their clubs are few in number, but their rigorous adherence to ancient surgery more than makes up for their rapidly declining numbers.

Some people prefer to dwell in those halcyon Victorian days with bright steel instruments unfettered by blind compliance with the upstart Pasteur. Such meetings do tend to be characterised by cheerful screams and noxious odours, but enthusiasts quickly become immune to such minor unpleasantness.

On special Fair days, different surgery clubs will set up their brightly coloured tents and practise their own favourite historical techniques on each other and the unwary passer-by. A wonderful afternoon can be had by the whole family for the trifle of a few minor amputations. How the children laugh to see father hobble so. Jolly times! Teeth extractions can be arranged for the squeamish who merely wish to dabble in this most delightful pastime.

God discussions

In discussions about God

I find it rather odd

That evidence demands such small attention,

Some accept uncritically

What from others they would see

As nothing more than obvious invention.

Darwin and the basset.

The story of Charles Darwin and the Beagle has been well documented. There have been books, documentaries, films and even a set of collector cards which were never a big seller. Now, after much research, the relationship between Darwin and another breed, the basset, can be told.

Late in 2009, a Scottish professor of linguine living in Johannesburg  was reviewing his private collection of limpet pornography when he discovered a cache of private letters that Darwin wrote to a Lady Breathless of Aberdeen. The contents have shocked the academic world and can at last be revealed.

Several letters are specifically related to Bassets and Darwin's  fascination with the breed.

Early in the correspondence Darwin writes: 'When I was but a child our family pet was a basset, Ralph. How fondly I remember the long idle hours we spent together on the wild moors, discussing philosophy. Ralph favoured Spinoza.'

He speaks candidly of his crisis of faith on Ralph's death: 'How could this saintly creature die? In what divine plan does Ralph's demise by melon make any kind of sense?'

At times, Darwin's relationship with bassets borders on the obsessional: 'I must have more bassets! Please send me more money to rescue another six hounds from the workhouse. With just six more my theories will be complete. Have you seen my hat?' 

Darwin first book, 'The Origin of Species' was originally dedicated to his dear Ralph. Later editions removed the dedication for its unwholesome undertones. At last the truth can be revealed.

Hard Boiled

I leaned back in my chair with my feet on the desk and poured myself another scotch. It was a little early in the day for the breakfast of champions but I needed all the help I could get. My one man detective agency wasn't faring too well. In the last three weeks the only cases I had were the cases of scotch whose last inhabitant was sitting on the desk in front of me. It was half empty. I'm that kind of guy.

The intercom twerped. It used to buzz but we couldn't afford it and had to send the buzz back by registered mail. My secretary, Miss Dulcet, spoke. As usual the sound of her voice rearranged my pants.

'Sam, you have a new client waiting to see you.' That was a sentence I wasn't expecting to hear, but then again 'Your camel has stolen my watch' was another sentence I wasn't expecting to hear and I didn't. So much for philosophy.

'Shoo them in, Angel, shoo them in.'

A vision stepped into the room. It was followed by the most beautiful woman I had ever seen swathed in a heady cloud of  blossoms and spice. That fragrance told a story. I think it was the one about two Jewish tailors and a lion. She moved sinuously up to my desk, her hips telegraphing an invitation in sign language that would have seen her jailed in five states. She sat. I wished she'd used the chair. She showed a shapely expanse of thigh. It was a shame it wasn't hers.

'Where did you find that?' I asked her.

'It came by post just this morning,' she said. Her voice sounded like angels eating roast beef. 'I'm just so frightened, oh I do hope you can help me, Mr Shakespeare.' She started to cry.

'Now, now, Angel,' I calmed her, 'We'll sort it out. You'd better start in the middle, I bore easily.'

The Heavy Night

Brian Heliotrope was woken from a deep sleep by the gentle sound of rain falling on a tin roof. He was momentarily confused since he knew he was sleeping out side. Opening his eyes, he saw the stars in the clear night sky shining down unblinking, uncaring and merciless, like galactic tax auditors. Once again he contemplated the viscitudes of life. He thought about steak too. How far could his fall from grace take him? Would he need to change trains? Where was his hat?

He turned towards the sound that had awakened him. It was just another wino on fire, the cheery blaze making flickering shadows on the brick wall behind him. Look, a rabbit, now a duck. What talent!

Brian despaired. His talents had deserted him along with his second pair of pants. Now he could only shuffle along the hard streets, occassionally breaking into a soft shoe routine, the stares of passers-by squeezing his spleen.

All hope was gone. It took the 3:19 to Central and made him pay for the ticket. It wanted a window seat.

The first grey streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, which was nice, because the day before they had appeared in a paper bag blwing carelessly down the street. Brian climbed clumsily to his feet, or perhaps someone else's feet, and stumbled off to face another day.

The dead have no names

The dead have no names.

For a single generation their name lingers

And slowly fades like a photograph exposed to the sun.

For a single generation their interest in the earth

Holds them,

But the kite string that binds them to us turns to smoke

And they drift away.

God talk

My metaphysics are in a mess. I've been going through a practical atheist phase now for some time. I've read the books, considered the arguments, examined the evidence, and for the most part I have to say the atheists make a great deal of sense. Religion of any sort often makes little sense. The Buddhists do pretty well by mostly ignoring the whole thing.

Perhaps they're on to something.


When ever we want to talk about something, even if it's with ourselves we use language. Our language started as labels for things. The words we used were non-material symbols for very real things. What makes language work is that, for the most part, we agree on what words signify. If I say 'apple' you have a pretty clear idea what I'm talking about. We can agree (and have a reasonable conversation about) apples because we agree on their properties.

But what does the word 'God' mean? For a start, no two people seem to agree on the nature and properties of God. Furthermore, a label distinguishes an object from its background, for example, 'apple' splits the world into two bits, that which is an apple, and that which is not. But God, if it is any sort of God at all, is not just another object in the universe, and we simply can't point to bits and say THAT is God, but THIS is not God.

That's why some modern theologians say things like God is not A being, but God IS being. God does not exist, but God is existence. Some people find this kind of talk unintelligible. Atheists can rightly point out it sounds like nonsense. But any talk of God is going to sound like nonsense because God is beyond language.

So what then should we do? I say, let's give up God talk. We all know what we have to do: be kind and compassionate. How hard can it be?