As a mountaineer knows, the problem with working in a rarified atmosphere is that you tend to end up being laid low with oxygen starvation.

Here’s Jonathan Derbyshire on the limits of necessary disrespect…

Dawkins’ attempt to explain away centuries of religious belief by comparing it with childish credulity, for instance, is deeply unsatisfactory. And if this kind of genetic explanation is laughably weak, Dawkins’ grasp of the phenomenology of religious belief is non-existent. Here Wood turns to Wittgenstein, who insisted that there are “grammatical differences between the use of religious language and ordinary language” (this is Wood’s gloss on some of the things Wittgenstein says in the notes collected as Culture and Value). Wittgenstein’s claim (anticipated by Kierkegaard and, interestingly enough, Nietzsche in The Anti-Christ) is that religious language is not referential (it’s not about some substantive reality) but modal – in other words, that it gives expression to a “form of life” or way of being in the world.

And his conclusion:

But despite the fact that some of Wittgenstein’s acolytes have wrongly supposed that the master’s doctrines relieved them of the need to justify belief in God, Wood is right to suggest that the “jauntily unphilosophical way in which most popular atheistic writing simply ignores the Wittgensteinian dilemmas is disappointing, and explains why its explanations of the sources of religious belief are so jejune.”

This is George… say hi!

Now, George is a born-again Christian of the variety that tends to consider The Bible to express the literal truth and despite doing fairly well for himself, he’s also not really renowned for being, shall we say, the sharpest tool in the box.

So, despite being fairly atypical in many ways, in some respects he is very typical of your average to below-average follower of an exoteric religion.

Richard Dawkins is a man who provoke a modicum of controversy with his views and the manner in which he expresses them. To some, he is not to their personal taste. Some find him a little too agressively polemical in his approach and some think him rather boorish.

One of Dawkins’ day jobs is that of holding the Charles Simonyi Chair for the Public Understanding of Science at Oxford University - note the operative words in that statement, ‘public understanding‘. His job is to talk to the public. That’s his primary audience.

So let’s imagine, for the moment, that you were having a conversation with George, a man whose understanding is very public, and you said to, quite casually:

“What relevance do you think Wittgenstein has to the public discourse on atheism and religion?’

Do you think George will reply?

A) Well, I think the jauntily unphilosophical way in which most popular atheistic writing simply ignores the Wittgensteinian dilemmas is disappointing, or

B) Wittgenstein? Mmm. Is that anywhere near Berlin? I think I went to a Bierkeller there once, while visiting that nice Mrs Merkel?

Dawkins’ arguments in the ‘God Delusion’ may well be philosophically unsatisfying, but then he is writing for an audience, some of whom may well own precisely two books - The Bible and (if they have children) The Children’s Illustrated Bible.

Either way, they’re unlikely give a toss about whether Dawkin’s ignores “the Wittgensteinian dilemmas” in his book, largely because many of them have never even heard of Wittgenstein, save for a few fans of Monty Python who may know that he played in midfield for the German Philosopher’s XI behind a front two of Heidegger and Nietzche.

I think the discontinuity here is, therefore, just that bit obvious.

UPDATE: Vistors arriving here by way of Tom Hamilton’s ‘defence’ of Joanthan Derbyshire’s comments, to which this post relates, might like to read this, which rather put matters in their proper context.

Polly Pot (sans vegetables on this occasion) appears to be having multiple orgasms over David Milliband’s half-arsed proposals for personal carbon quotas…

But Miliband’s electric radicalism comes in his plan for personal carbon allowances. Here is where social justice meets green politics for the first time. Give every citizen the same quota of energy and let them buy and sell it on the open market. The half of the population who don’t fly will make money from selling their quota to the half who do. Drive a gas-guzzling 4×4 and you will have to buy a quota from the third of the population with no access to a car. Who could complain about such transparent fairness? It is relatively easy to do: swiping a quota card to pay gas and electricity bills or buying petrol is a simpler transaction than Tesco’s complex information on their loyalty card. In wartime, ration books were produced quickly for all, covering almost everything bought and sold, involving every little corner shop. (Could paper ration books be easier than trying to computerise it all?) Why is this a quintessentially Labour policy that the Tories would never copy? Because it in effect redistributes money from the rich to the poor, from the frequent flyers to never-flyers, with a parallel currency. 

And the usual ’suspects’ - Tim Worstall, Devil’s Kitchen and Factchecking Pollyanna - are rapidly on the case, of course.

Me? I’ve got the odd question or two to ask as well?

Given that a sizeable old proportion of those who would be left with saleable carbon rations under this hare-brained scheme are those who are elderly (and receiving a state pension), on welfare benefits, or on low incomes (and receiving tax credits) and also the kind of people who don’t have a bank account, or have only a basic one, don’t use credit cards, maybe only use a debit card to get cash out of a ‘hole-in-the-wall’, and pay for the gas and electricity using a token meter, perhaps Polly might venture a few answers to the following practical questions.

Where are these people going to go to sell the spare ‘carbon credits’? Not the Post Office, certainly - not after yesterday.
Who will operate and regulate the market?

Will there be commission to be paid on the sale of these credits, and if so, by whom - they buyer, the seller or both? After all, won’t the traders in the market (i.e. the middle men) be expecting to make a little profit themselves?
Will the income from the sale of these credits affect the seller’s entitlement to the benefits they receive?

Will the proceeds of selling carbon credits be classed as taxable income?

(If I got those last two questions right, then I should see the magic words ‘marginal tax rates’ pop up in the comments at some point)

Isn’t this all just another example of a piece of over-complex, unworkable middle-class twattery, that sounds wonderful if you live in Islington but will mean fuck all to anyone living on  a council estate in Gateshead and, like the fuck-ups over tax credits, simply add to the general misery of people who’re already struggling to make ends meet?

Is there not something just plain demeaning about the very idea of issuing people with fucking paper ration books?

Has your column disappeared so far up its own arse that you can now easily give your own kidneys a bit of nibble without stretching?

And have you just not thought this through, as usual?

I guess the title’s a bit of a giveaway that this post is about Christmas and, this being me, you’re already expecting another solid entry for the weekly swearblogger’s round up…

…and I have to say that when I do get into this properly, you won’t be disappointed.

But to start with I should say that there are a few good things about Christmas.

The distinct absence of work for a few days is always welcome. And so is the fact that, just this once in the year, the main Terrestrial TV companies actually bother to spend some fucking money on programming for a change - well apart from ITV, who look to have just given up on that (spending money on programming) altogether.

My six year old daughter’s still young enough to be suckered by the old ‘Santa routine’ and still finds the whole business of opening presents, playing with the packaging for several hours and then stuffing herself with chocolate until she pukes to be a complete blast, which is kinda a fun (yeah, alright - big softy with the kids, I know).

And, after many years of careful relative training, I’ll be getting my usual welcome supply of book tokens, which, this year, may well necessitate the purchase of yet another set of bookshelves - or as my partner usually manages to say, ‘I don’t know why you don’t just move into the fucking British Library’.
So it’s not all bad, but it is a time of year that does come with rather more than its fair share of irritants, some of which will be getting both barrels in a moment

Mmm. Where to start? How about with a perennial favorite…

‘Away in a Manger’.

Yeah, that’s right, the Christmas carol, ‘Away in a Manger’ - I hate it. In fact, I loathe it with a passion you cannot possibly comprehend.

The vast majority of Christmas carols. so far as I can see, are benign enough. By and large they serve no useful purpose, unless you find some amusement in the sight of a Sally Army band freezing their tits off outside the local shopping centre (I do) or consider that the Midnight carol services run by many churches provide a valuable social service in taking most of the drunks off the streets for long enough to let you get to bed and get some kip before the bastards come rolling past your house for their nightly departure ritual;

‘You’re my mate, you arrrrrr. I fucking love you, mate…’.

But Away in a fucking Manger? That’s different. That has a purpose, one that makes it the Christmas carol from hell.

Away in a Manger is nothing more nor less that the sadistic infant school teacher’s revenge on the world for having to put up with your bratty fucking kids for the rest of the year. It is the first, and only, Christmas carol taught to four and five years olds in infact school, and why? Because those sadistic bastard teachers know full well that having taught the lisping little arseholes the fucking song, they will go into the world and sing the fucking thing in their dull little monotone voices in any venue, at any time, and at every possible fucking opportunity.

Go shopping in the two weeks before Christmas and in every single fucking shop you go into, you’ll find some winsome little munchkin singing away at the top of the voice:

‘Away in a Manger, No-ooo crib for a bed, the lickle lord Je-thath lay down hith thweet head…’

Stop. Just stop it. Just fuck off will you… Arrrghhhhhhh!

Every fucking shop. Every single one of them has its own diminuitive singing toss-pot to go with the piped fucking musak version of ‘Will you Stop the Cavalry’. Well, no. Don’t stop the fucking cavalry. Not until they’ve done something useful and trampled the fucking warbling dwarf under their hooves. Then they can stop.

What else is there? Oh yes. ‘It’s a time for giving…’ - the next fucking chugger who pushes a plastic ‘tin’ in my face and says that to me while I’m out shopping is going to need an emergency collectiontinectomy to remove the fucking thing from their colon.

It may well be a time for giving, but I’ve already fucking given. I’ve two kids of my own to bleed my bank account dry at this time of the year without worrying about whether little ‘Joshua’ and ‘Jeremiah’ in Malawi will be getting christmas presents this year - and in case, from their photographs, they look like they’d much prefer to be getting a few decent fucking meals down them rather than getting a shitty plastic Power Rangers doll of Christmas day. Why not just sell the little fuckers to Madonna, she’s loaded.
Look, I have this simple arrangement going with charities already. I work for them, and they give me money - why the fuck am I then going to give it back, you twat? Just fucking think about it for once.

A couple of years back my one-time employer decided to try and intrude on the usual office festivities - which consisted of getting pissed, picking a workmate’s name at random out of a hat and buying them the most bizarre piece of tat you could find for a fiver, and trying to win the office competititon for finding the most phallic arrangement of a candle and two baubles on a Christmas card - with the suggestion that we skip the crappy present gag and put the cash towards buying some poor unfortunate a fucking goat instead.

Being a touch unsure of how well this might work out, I asked a friend, who works for an overseas aid charity (aka Trailfinders for students) about the logistics of this kind of deal, and got the reply;

‘You’d be better off currying the goat before you send it - at least they’ll get a meal out out of it. Fucking things cost more to feed than the recipient’s family and the cheese tastes like shit’.

So just remember, at Christmas, give a man a fire and he’ll be warm for night; set him on fire and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.

Still, if you are the kind who does do charity a christmas, then our man in the kebab shop has just the thing for you.

I hereby announce the launch of the Eugenides Christmas Appeal 2006. Bids in the comments, please, for a quite awesome prize - the exclusive services of Mr Eugenides for an entire evening. One lucky winner will be able to watch me drink heavily all day (alcohol not included in price of bid), eat a kebab, lecture you on the evils of socialism, and then have an invited friend or family member called a “cunt” in all manner of daring and humorous ways until I fall asleep on your sofa.

Much better than the annual Blue Peter car boot sale, I’m sure you’ll agree.

What else? Ah, yes. Channel 4’s ‘Alternative Christmas’ message - this year its a woman wearing a niqab.

Look, guys, I hate to say this, but I can hear the barrel being scraped from here. The first year you did it, with Quentin Crisp, yeah I could see the point, ‘hey’s let’s get a real queen’ and all that but I do think this gig is getting just that bit tired and old hat now.

Look, fuck Channel 4. Leave the BBC on, cut two eye holes in a big plastic bag and put it over the telly when the Queen comes on. It’ll give the same effect and make about as much sense - and you won’t be risking accidentally running on into the fucking Snowman afterwards, which is always a bonus.

Fuck it, I’m getting bored with this - that’ll do for now. Now where’s that picture of George Osborne and the goat - I wonder if I dare…