December 28: a biblical Christmas

The Bible is such a pickle. There are accounts of the nativity in Matthew and Luke only. Matthew has the Wise Men, Luke has the Shepherds. Neither has both. It looks like Luke didn’t like Magi; he has a go at them in Acts, which he may well have also written. They are not kings, of course, but magician people, maybe astrologers, which would explain the star. And there is no mention of there being three of them. We get Gold, Frankincense and Myrhh, three gifts, so we extrapolate this to three magi. In some traditions there are ten of them. Herod commands the slaughter of the innocents in Matthew. Herod died in 6 BCE, so it’s not clear why he would have been around when Jesus was born. There is no documenatry evidence of the massacre of the innocents, not even in Josephus who writes at some length about Herod, including his misdeeds, and does not mention it. In Mark, the original of the gospels, there is no Nativity scene. It starts with the grown-up Jesus of Nazareth. So, all in all, as usual in the gospels it’s a bit of a copy and paste job.

When you think Mark was written 70 years after the event, Matthew and Luke maybe 80 or 85 years after and John even later than that, it is not surprising that these are contradictory accounts. They were not eye-witnesses, they didn’t know anyone who was. They were written in Greek. Jesus spoke Aramaic. We know that Peter couldn’t write. Jesus may have been illiterate too. There is no reason to suppose that these accounts are much more than a set of superstitions. You get the idea. A man was surprised at a big gathering of people that there were enough loaves for quite a few of them. He told that to his mate who wasn’t there. It soon becomes a word-of-mouth miracle. Even today, with our better means of verifying information and post-Enlightenment mentalities, conspiracy theories abound. Merry Christmas.

http://www.peoplearerubbish.com

December 18: my sister, embodiment of our social history

My sister failed her 11+ and went to a secondary modern school. When she was fifteen they had a careers class where they gave out questionnaires. What did they want to be? Air hostess; teacher; doctor; lawyer. The teacher took the sheets in and ripped them up in front of the class. Then she handed out the real questionnaires. What did they want to be? Street cleaner; laundry packer; cleaning lady. These were the real options. My sister did all right. She went to college and got A levels, then a degree. She travelled. she taught English in Greece. She met her husband. They raised a family there. After some years, when the kids were older, they came back to the UK. My sister trained as a primary school teacher. She’s been working for years teaching 7-year-olds. This year the management said: Don’t bother marking the children’s homework. AI can do that for you. My sister said: But I won’t get to know the children. No big deal, they said. It’ll free up time for some other bullshit stuff we want you to do (Bullshit being my word). She is quitting.

Here’s a perfect index to our social history. The class-ridden assumptions of the 70s and 80s; the brave new world of cheap travel and European opportunity; today’s cowardly bowing and scraping to tech and all the stupidity that comes with it. And a life as a perfect index to our blundering progress.

http://www.peoplearerubbish.com

December 17: the ancient stream

On Harleyford Road, a road that connects Vauxhall to Oval, there is a section of the pavement in front of number 29 where, whenever there is a period of rain, a little stream occurs across the pavement. I like to say it is the stream that comes up from the earth that is the ancient boundary between Vauxhall and Kennington. I have made this up but it is a little lie that I insist on to strangers and one that illuminates my dreary passage down that road which must been the bleakest in christendom. I like to lie. I have for many years maintained to all and sundry that the St George’s complex next to the MI6 building on the south embankment of the Thames is referred to by all the locals as Glory Towers. I like to think I am spreading this untruth around. A little lie can brighten up the world.

When I was a younger man in Paris I used to tell strangers that I was a stuntman specialising in falls. It made for a better conversation than being what I was, a translator or a teacher. Though this, of course, would also be a way of making myself glamorous, an index to the vanity of youth. These days, those illusions are past. My lies are not focused on me but on my environs.

http://www.peoplearerubbish.com

(And apologies to all my readers about this gap in transmissions. I have been preparing the book which will be out in February ‘Monkey Sausage Nose: an antidote to self help’ which is a compendium of curated material from this site plus a few other pieces, all put together in a charming bedside volume. It should be available from Amazon or Waterstones but I would prefer if you contacted me directly on paulbilic2003@yahoo.co.uk for a direct purchase.)