Pyrrhus of Epirus

                     Pryrrhus: Note the Noble Brow and Hare Lip

I'm on a bit of an Ancient History run at the moment, and this post adds to the growing/glowing portfolio, or genre if you will. I am about to introduce a most fascinating and much-neglected character from ancient history. Pyrrhus of Epirus has so far escaped the indignity of a post designated solely to himself, although I have mentioned him oft in passing. I am about to redress this rank neglect and utter thoughtlessness on my behalf. Read on, as I air my vignette of a singular man, mostly forgotten in the mists of time. Pyrrhus, come forth from the shadows; it is time your story was told, even if it is penned by an Englishman untrained in the craft of the ancient historian. A man not worthy to tell your tale to the eager folk that follow this paltry, chaotic and sometimes irregular blog, a man who is oft caught in a reverie that tests and pushes his tenuous grip on sanity to the very edge/verge of frank delirium, and mayhap beyond.

Enough: Let me Introduce, Pyrrhus of Epirus

Tis impossible to deliver an adequate summary of Pyrrhus' highly eventful life in the confines of the blog format. I will endeavour to deliver a summary of a summary in this post. I will reserve a second post to discuss his character, generalship, personality and legacy. Of the two posts, the second will be the most important and most interesting. 

Pyrrhus was born in 319 BC into the royal family of the Macedonian kingdom of Epirus and was a second cousin to the Great Alexander. To say that he entered the world in somewhat turbulent times is a vast understatement. Following the death of Alexander the Great in Babylon (323 BC), his vast empire quickly fractured as three of his most ambitious and successful generals fought, schemed, manoeuvred, and negotiated, splitting the empire among themselves. From then on, war became endemic, as the generals/kings and their successors fought and squabbled among themselves to secure land, money, and power. Alliances formed, dissolved and reformed. Expedient marriages between rulers to strengthen bonds and treaties were common. Friends became enemies and friends again with changes in fortune, opportunity and strategic necessity as often as the wind changed. 

At 13, Pyrrhus became king of Epirus under regency. At 17, our hero travelled to Illyria to attend an important royal dynastic wedding. Whilst away, he was usurped, and a previous king of Epirus returned to power. This would set the precedent for the rest of Pyrrhus' highly eventful life. He would experience stupendous success, but in equal measure, plumb the darkest depths of despair. His life was an adventure with constant war and slips of fortune. Some are said to have lived the lives of two men. Pyrrhus's life exceeded that of the local tabby taking residence in the pound reserved for 'starving, rabid and exceedingly vicious dogs'. Not deterred, intrepid Pyrrhus joined his brother-in-law, Demetrius, who was campaigning in southern Greece. In 302 BC, Pyrrhus took part in the battle of Ipsus in Asia Minor. Sadly, for him, he ended up on the wrong side and had to flee the battlefield with Demetrius and 9000 men.

Changes in Fortune

In the aftermath of battle, politics dictated that he become a hostage to the first Macedonian ruler of Egypt, Ptolomey I. It is said that the wily old general of Alexander took a liking to Pyrrhus and cemented the accord by marrying him to his stepdaughter, Antigone. By this time, marriages between respective royal families were an important aspect of Macedonian diplomacy. Perhaps the marital bond left little room for affection when its strength relied heavily on the rapidly changing political landscape of the time. No wonder it was often stretched and fractured. Regardless, the gods shone on Pyrrhus as Ptolomey provided the necessary resources to restore his kingship over Epirus in 297 BC. Pyrrhus proved a wise and prudent ruler. The army was reorganised, and sensible civic policies were introduced. In addition, he sought alliances of mutual benefit with neighbouring Greek/Macedonian states. But Pyrrhus was not content with being an able administrator and politician. Pyrrhus was born in an age where kings vied to recreate the glory of the Great Alexander, and he was no exception.  

In 289 BC, Demetrius (remember, Pyrrhus' old mate) invaded Epirus and began plundering the land, akimbo. Meantime, Pyrrhus was in the lands of his allies, the Aetolians, helping to prevent the depredations of Demetrius's able subordinate, Pantauchus and his army. They came to battle, and Pantauchus and his army were defeated. It is said that during the battle, the doughty Pantauchus challenged Pyrrhus to single combat. During the engagement, Pantauchus was badly wounded and carried away from the fray by his bodyguards. Imagine the great heroism of two generals duking it out during a lull in battle. Perhaps only matched by the great idiocy of the leaders of the respective hosts, basing outcome on the gods of fickle and capricious fortune. Upon learning of the battle's outcome, Demetrius returned to Macedon, and Pyrrhus returned to his homeland as a hero. Not long after, Pyrrhus, forever the opportunist, invaded Macedon after reports that Demetrius was gravely ill. As Demetrius lay supine on his supposed 'Death Bed', Pyrrhus delved deep into the Macedonian heartland. However, Demetrius recovered and took to the field with a large army. At this miraculous change in fortune, Pyrrhus prudently decided to retreat to Epirus.

Demetrius' ambitious gaze turned east, and with Alexander's shade as his guide, he decided it was time to emulate his great predecessor by invading Asia. To secure his back, he came to an accord with his sometime enemy/friend, Pyrrhus. The other great Macedonian kings became alarmed and persuaded Pyrrhus to renege on his treaty with Demetrius; of course, Pyrrhus complied. In 288 BC, the kingly alliance moved against Demetrius. Pyrrhus invaded southern Macedon, and as a consequence, Demetrius turned his army to face him. His army, mayhap unhappy with his overbearing autocratic rule, deserted to Pyrrhus, and Demetrius fled to parts anew. Pyrrhus was now the king of Macedonia but had to share his crown with another powerful general-king, Lysimachus. Are you managing to keep account of the twists and turns of Macedonian politics of the time? I wish I could, but my head spins when contemplating the torturous machinations that abound and rebound.  

Would you believe that Pyrrhus and Demetrius decided to renew their friendship once again? The peace did not last long (no shit). In 286 BC, Pyrrhus moved against Demetrius. It ended in victory, and Pyrrhus' empire achieved its height. He now ruled an extended Epirus, Thessaly, and half of Macedonia. If Pyrrhus felt secure in his extensive holdings, then he was about to be disabused. In 284 BC, Pyrrhus's co-ruler, Lysimachus, made his move and invaded Pyrrhus's portion of Macedonia. Pyrrhus, vastly outnumbered and facing mutinous defections in his army, wisely retreated to Epirus.

War with Rome

At this time, Rome was flexing its muscles in the Greek-controlled region of Italy (Magna Graecia). Rome had come into conflict with the Greek city of Tarentum. Realising that their city was no match for the rising power of Rome, the good citizens of Tarentum asked Pyrrhus to intervene. Pyrrhus, always restless, saw an opportunity to carve out a new empire in Italy. He had no regard for the upstart Rome, which he asserted, in his ignorance and arrogance, was no more than a rabble of barbarous folk. He was about to learn a lesson in war and politics from a race not impressed by the chaos of decadent Greek, supposed 'statecraft'. I'm going to cut this short. Pyrrhus scored two costly victories against Rome, perhaps due to the novel impact of Pyrrhus' war elephants ('Lucanian Cows'). After the second victory, Pyrrhus exclaimed: "Another victory such as this and I will be going home, alone". After no political solution materialised, he left the Romans to resume their war unhindered and sailed to Sicily. Soon after arriving in Sicily in 278 BC, he was proclaimed king.

After a conflict with the Carthaginians in Sicily, the desperate folk of Tarentum beseeched Pyrrhus to return and tussle with the Romans once again. Foolishly, he came for a final round. From Pyrrhus's perspective, the opportunity to leave Sicily was timely, as the Sicilian Greeks had grown tired of his high-handed rule and the imposition of a dictatorship. As his ship left the island, he turned to his men and said: "What a fine wrestling ground we are leaving to the Carthaginians and Romans". Thus, foreseeing the Punic Wars to come. By now, the Romans had got the measure of the lumbering beasts, and the final battle was a victory for Rome. Pyrrhus abandoned Tarentum to its fate and never returned to Italian soil. 

The End

The indomitable and pugnacious Pyrrhus then decided to make war with neighbouring Macedon. After defeating the Macedonians in battle, he managed to take over most of the Macedonian territory from King Antigonus. King Antigonas retreated to the coast to await further developments. In 272 BC, a well-born Spartan, Cleonymus, entreated Pyrrhus to attack Sparta and place him in charge. However, the campaign did not go well for Pyrrhus, and on retreat from Sparta, his son, Ptolemy, was killed. He had no time to mourn as he was immediately offered the dubious honour of interfering in an internal dispute in the city of Argos. During a confused melee in the streets of the city, a well-thrown roof tile unhorsed Pyrrhus, whereupon he was set upon and beheaded. There ends the illustrious, glorious and rollicking life of the sometime King of Epirus, Macedon and Sicily. What a life, what a man!   

My next post will focus on a critical analysis of this remarkable man's life and his legacy.   

The Problem of Complexity

Malthus Pondering Population Dynamics

Something has been bothering me. Tis the great mystery of complexity that only received a satisfactory answer in the middle of the 19th century.

Consider the following scenario: You are a highly educated gentleman of circa 1810, well ensconced in your middle years and middle England. You are a child of the Enlightenment and the Scientific Revolution. Like most gentlemen of 'independent means', you have no need to work and can dabble in the sciences or arts as you see fit. Although you consider yourself a man of science, you have received a liberal arts education embracing literature, theology and philosophy, and you are fluent in the dead language, Latin. You were brought up as a Christian, in particular, the Church of England. Both parents were devout and pious. From an early age, you found the Bible disquieting. Some passages disturbed you on the moral level. Clearly, the God of the Old Testament was more akin to an evil demon than the supposed loving, just, and righteous God as preached by the Reverend Mugumbo from the pulpit every Sunday. The sermons were deceptively selective, and unlike the majority of parishioners, our man had actually read the bible. With the march of science, the Bible's cosmology and other matters bearing on nature and natural processes he found to be contradictory to solid, testable science. And he could go on...

Earlier, as a young man, he began to lose his faith and started to attend lectures given by the local 'Humanist Society'. Lectures on 'Non-Belief' were frequent visitors to the agenda. It made so much sense. In the past, religion was seen as the only answer to questions about forces, actions, and occurrences that have now been found to have naturalistic explanations. Mr Newton and others have uncovered mysteries that were ascribed to the hand of God. God does not seem to play a role in this world; science has shown us that all natural phenomena have scientific mechanisms of action. If this is the case, why need God?

Surely there was nothing left to explain that could not be explained by science, or was there? There was one question that seemed impossible for science to answer. The theist could state, and with some conviction and intellectual plausability- "O clever scientist, pray provide an answer to this conundrum: How can we explain the manifest complexity of the natural world of which we are a part? Even the simplest bacterial organisms are highly complex arrays of specialised organelles, biochemical processes and intricate protein structures. How can complexity arise from simplicity if not by the hand of God?" This was the question that kept our incipient atheist awake at night and from full commitment, even though he knew that the so-called 'God Hypothesis' was tantamount to no answer at all. There must be a rational solution that is not reliant on supernatural deities. There must be a natural mechanism that relies on observable, rational scientific processes. But here was the rub: What was that rational, naturalistic process that could produce such mind-boggling complexity? The problem seemed insurmountable. 

Sadly, our puzzled scientific hero was born too early and did not live long enough to see the scientific paradigm shift of 1859. With the publication of 'On the Origin of Species', his question had been answered. Not only had the problem been solved, but the proposed mechanism, on casual inspection at least, seemed remarkably simple. This raised the obvious question: Why had it not been deduced by the greatest minds of yesteryear? The shades of Aristotle, Archimedes, Galileo and Newton come forth and shake their collective head. There are many others in the shadows. They stand agape, contemplating the simple majesty of the evolutionary process, pondering a lost opportunity. 

The fact is, the time was right. Remember poor Alfred Wallace, who had independently come to the same conclusion about the Great Question at the same time as Darwin? We all remember Charles Darwin, but Wallace has somehow been lost in the annals of time. This screams redress, and I have commissioned a post of rehabilitation and justice. Watch this space.    

Mayhap, we should give the greatest intellects that have ever existed a break. They were not privy to the groundwork of scientific endeavour preceding the ultimate theory. The 18th and 19th centuries were a time of wonder and scientific exploration unprecedented in history. Scientific discoveries of this time provided the knowledge basis for the encouragement of evolutionary thought. In particular, theories proposed by the evolutionary thinker Lamarck (1744-1829), with his idea of 'Acquired Characteristics', were particularly important. In addition, the work of the economist Malthus (1766-1834), whose toil on population dynamics in a world of limited resources was particularly influential. Ultimately, nature is prodigiously wasteful and cruel. It was he who penned the epithet: 'Survival of the Fittest'. Good man that Malthus. 

Today, evolutionary theory is very much solid mainstream science. However, when first proposed, there were many detractors. And not all objections were based on irrational fundamentalist theological thinking. For instance, for such a theory to work, vast aeons of time were required for adaptive change to occur. At the time, estimates of the Earth's age based on geological evidence ranged from 1 million to 100 million years. How could evolution have carved the biological complexity we see today from simplicity in but a few million years? Religious adherents were still convinced that the world was but a meagre 6,000 years based on biblical calculations. It wasn't until the middle of the 20th century, using sophisticated techniques, that the true age of the Earth (4.5 billion years) was determined. Further objections were based on the genetic mechanism itself. At the time Darwin's seminal book was published, the genetic mechanism of heredity was unknown. The prevailing theory of the time envisaged a blending of hereditary components from both parents, analogous to blending dissimilar-coloured fluids. But this would dilute hereditary components, rendering evolution as proposed by Darwin impossible. Darwin countered with a hypothesis where heredity was particulate (gemmules), but it was unnecessarily complex and implausible. It would take the rediscovery of Mendel's work on heredity in the early 20th century to finally provide a sound genetic mechanism in accord with Darwinism.

Perhaps, the most difficult objection to Darwin's theory was not scientific but existential. The painful implication was obvious: humans were not 'special'. It knocked us off the biological pedestal. We were just another animal, the smartest, yes, but really just another and latest iteration of the simian species. Furthermore, we had evolved from 'lesser species'; slimemold was our kin. This was a revelation that hit the hardest and was perhaps the most difficult concept for mankind to process and assimilate. Our central, superior, and unique place in the world was deeply ingrained over countless generations. To think otherwise was unthinkable and would never have been contemplated by Aristotle or Newton alike. Man was but a beast, a smart one for sure, but still a beast. In hindsight, it should have been obvious. Man has always been an animalistic brute; evolution made us so.       

Evolutionary theory provokes controversy even today. Quixotically, it seems that, at least in the Western world, the US is unique in posing challenges to theory, and certain folk and fundamentalist organisations in that country are keen to promote an alternative based on Divine Intervention, whatever that means. And let us be clear, this viewpoint is not confined to a few cranks. This crowd has clout with influential friends that weild politicol power. Woe is the day that 'Creation Science' is taught in conjunction with Evolutionary theory, as a matter of law, in science classes. When this day comes, and rationalists fail in their efforts to stymie such ridiculous legislation, the death knell of rational thought and belief will be the herald that precedes the end of Western Civilisation. When a civilisation falls, history is our guide on the consequences. And those consequences are invariably barbarism.      

Carthago Delenda Est: Third Punic War- Prologue

I entreat my readers to take the trouble to read my posts concerning the two preceding wars (Punic Wars, I &2) between the arch-enemies, Carthage and Rome, which finally culminated in the 'Third Punic War' (149 BC to 146 BC). To be honest, information about these wars is scattered across several posts, and, from memory, none of them is titled 'First & Second Punic War'. However, if you search with these terms, you will find relevant posts. Also, searching using 'Hannibal', 'Hamilcar', 'Scipio Africanus' and 'Zama' should reveal kindred posts buried deep within the arcane archives of this decidedly odd blog. Some knowledge of these great conflicts will benefit the reader and help in the understanding of why these vastly different nations became embroiled in a 'life and death' struggle to the bitter end. 

The three wars fought between these two dominant ancient Mediterranean civilisations were, in hindsight, inevitable, and, believe it or not, we are still dealing with the aftereffects 2,000 years later. The outcome of this struggle, spanning over 100 years, has had overriding consequences for the development of Western Civilisation, yet it is rarely part of the high school curriculum. This is a wicked shame, as there is much to learn and assimilate from this critical 118-year period in history. 

The Carthaginians have largely been erased from history. For this, we can blame the Romans. The Romans had many enemies during their rise as a Mediterranean power and the subsequent establishment of their mighty Empire. Of all the foes, there was one that during Rome's march to greatness came close to ending their ascent. At the hands of this enemy, Rome suffered catastrophes that would have destroyed any other nation. However, Rome weathered this series of calamitous defeats, survived, thrived, and would eventually exact a cruel revenge, culminating in the eradication of her once most formidable adversary, the Carthaginians. However, today, if you ask the 'man' in the street if they can name a single Carthaginian, they would fail. If prompted (or poked with a pointed stick) with the clue 'Ancient General and Elephants', there might be a 'light bulb' moment, hence the exclamation 'Hannibal'. This is a shame on several levels. Firstly, it reveals the woeful lack of education in the average 'man on the street'. But it also unveils that the Carthaginians were not particularly imaginative in their naming protocol. The majority of  Carthaginians mentioned in the ancient literature were named accordingly: Hamilcar, Hannibal, Hadsdrubal, Mago, Himlico, Carthalo, Gisgo, Hanno, and Malchus. These are men's names, and I bet over 95% of Carthaginian men mentioned in ancient accounts had one of these very uninspired and limited list of monikers. Not a Gary or Kevin amongst the lot. 

Back to Being Sensible

Tyre, in what is now Lebanon, has been continuously inhabited for over 4,000 years. The city thrived in the Bronze Age and became a dominant seafaring power of the region. During the early 9th century BC, Tyre founded Carthage (Qart Hadash- 'New City') on the coast of North Africa. Other colonies would follow and dot the north African coastline. The cities were never politically unified, but shared a language and culture, and would come to each other's aid in times of need, except when they didn't.

By the 5th century BC, Carthage and Greece were the dominant powers of the Mediterranean region. Predictably, the Carthaginians and the Greeks clashed, and battles were fought for the control of the island of Sicily. By the time of the 1st Punic War (264 BC-241 BC), the Carthaginians held the western end of the island, while the Greeks controlled the eastern end. 

With the expansion of Roman power into the Greek-controlled regions of southern Italy (Magna Graecia), a clash between the Romans and the Greek city of Tarantum was assured. A sometime Macedonian king, sometime freebooter, Pyrrhus of Epirus and his army were invited by the beleaguered city (Pyrrhic War, 280 BC-275 BC) to come to their aid against the encroaching and pesky Romans. Phyrrus envisioned an easy victory ahead with booty akimbo. And thus he interfered and, at first, won a series of battles against the Romans, but at great cost. He was reported to have said: "Another victory like this, and I will be going home alone". Eventually, Pyrrhus was defeated, and he returned to Greece with his much-depleted army to cause mischief as he saw fit, and subsequently met his end after being hit on the noggin by a roof tile in the Greek city of Argos. 

In 264 BC, the Romans were invited to meddle in Sicilian affairs. Once there, the Romans came into conflict with Carthage. The war between the nations dragged on for 23 years, resulting in the defeat of Carthage. Sicily was annexed and became a Roman province. Smarting from defeat, the Carthaginians vowed revenge. But before this aggression could be carried out, they faced the problem of paying the war indemnity imposed by the victors. This would be achieved by expanding their presence in Spain. Spain was not only a lucrative source of silver but also supplied the Carthaginian armies with tough Spanish tribesmen. 

After a peace lasting 23 years, the Carthaginians felt strong enough to challenge Rome for a second bout. The treaty imposed by Rome after the First War had deprived the Carthaginians of most of their navy, making an attack by sea difficult. By 218 BC, the Carthaginians had established a strong position in Spain and, more importantly, had assembled a formidable army under a relatively new and untried commander named Hannibal Barca. Hannibal did the unthinkable and invaded Italy by land after marching his army across the Alps. What Hannibal did in that fateful year would initiate the Second Punic War (218 BC to 202 BC), alter the course of history, and establish a legend. His tale is told in this blog. Those who seek will find. 

After 16 years of causing havoc, Hannibal and his diminishing army had been corralled into southern Italy. After a Roman army landed in North Africa, the Carthaginians recalled Hannibal. Sadly for Hannibal, most of his horses, and therefore the power of his cavalry arm, could not be taken. To deny this valuable asset to the Romans, they were slaughtered. It is hard to imagine the horror experienced by the troops, as these beautiful, trusting, and beloved beyond measure animals were sacrificed on the altar of expediency. 

The battle of Zama (202 BC) sealed Carthage's fate. Carthage had become a vassal state to Roman power. The indemnity was oppressive, payable in grain and silver over 30 years. In addition, Spain became a Roman province. The Carthaginians could no longer exercise their power to go to war unless sanctioned by Rome. But regardless of provocation, Rome was in no mood to be kind to their defeated enemy. And provocations were plenty as Massinisa, the Numidian king, chipped away at Carthaginian lands to provide fertile land for his people. The only resort for the vanquished was to appeal to Rome. Roman Commisions came aplenty over the years to assess and adjudicate. But predictably, the Romans almost always sided with their longtime ally, the Numidians. 

By 197 BC, Carthage had had enough, and its army engaged the Numidians in battle. The Carthaginians were worsted. But in the Roman eyes, they broke the treaty, and they were itching for a pretext to finally destroy their once formidable enemy. Instead of a commission, an army was sent to the North African shore. Delegations from Carthage nervously approached the Roman host and petitioned for clemency. The Romans were implacable and demanded that all arms of war be handed over and that they await further instructions. The desperate and wretched Carthaginians complied and awaited their fate in abject helplessness. Finally, Rome announced: "The citizens of Carthage were to leave their city and settle in the hinterland. They were not allowed to settle on the coast". Rome had struck the death knell for the Punic people. Finally, Hannibal's depredations were to be atoned for. The city, which had flourished for 700 years, was to be pillaged and destroyed. These conditions were too harsh, and predictably, the Carthaginians chose to fight to the death. They were under no illusions concerning the outcome. Better to die fighting for the city they loved than suffer an ignoble death at the hands of the environment and the barbaric Numidians. Rome was always quick to accuse the Carthaginians of 'Punic Faith' (Punica Fides), but on this occasion, it seems the Romans were quick to illustrate a degree of perfidy unbefitting their supposed rigid adherence to treaty protocol and fairness.

And thus we see the beginning of the Third Punic War. The last conflict between these two disparate nations. The final clash of arms, resulting in the eradication of Carthaginian power, was about to be fought: The death ride of the Punic Nation. 

The next post in this compelling, nay, gripping saga, will continue sometime soon. It will detail the war as it unfolded. It is a story of stark necessity, of heroism borne of fortitude, cruelty borne of desperation, and finally a very human response to finality. We should all read and weep, because someday we may become Carthage. 

       

Clarification with Reference To Previous Post

My previous post included a prose piece inspired by my 70th birthday, written by my son. Thus, giving validity to the Latin tag: 'Chippus Blockus Maximumus.' My Latin, of course, was perfected during my five-year sentence at Tipton Secondary Modern, the premier scholastic institution of the fair town of Tipton. My Alma Mata, educated Tipton's most illustrious citizens and inmates. This includes Lugless Dougless, he of truncated pinna fame, ferret tamer to the stars and protagonist in a previous post entitled, 'The Ballard of Lugless Dougless'. Also, the esteemed Prof. Ipod Mugumbo, PhD (failed), spent his informative years ensconced in the notorious Remedial Class. As you will no doubt recall, the Prof is famed as being the only pigmented albino in existence.

Mention of my old school brings me neatly to the heart of today's blog. I have had various emails from folk requesting clarification regarding my son's not-so-cryptic allusion to a Historical Thermal Application to a scholastic establishment in his prose piece published in my previous post. Several years ago, I posted regarding a very unfortunate event that occurred in 1972. Sadly, my old school was engulfed in a conflagration just a week after my graduation. Arson was suspected, however, although a thorough investigation was undertaken by Inspector Mugumbo of the 'Burny Stuff Squad', the miscreant (for it is he) was never brought to justice. I'm not sure whether there is a statute of limitations for this form of criminal activity. After 54 years, I suspect the perpetrator is long gone from the area. 

For the purpose of elucidation and edification of my readers who are recent followers of the blog, I have decided to reprise the post in its entirety. Mayhap, it could bestir the memory of some old codger who was in the Tipton area at the time. A new lead might materialise, and consequently, a 'Cold Case Review' might be undertaken. Unfortunately, Inspector Mugumbo is no longer with us. Not long after the event to be described, the Inspector was burnt to death during his demonstration of a practical fire safety protocol.

So, after this rather protracted introduction, here is the post.      

 

It was a shit school- but burnt well

I was rummaging through some old documents the other day when I found this newspaper clipping betwixt the pages of an old book, entitled: 'The Art of the Incendiary'. The news article concerned the tragic conflagration which engulfed my Alma Mater the day after I graduated.

The police came knocking on my door a few days later with all sorts of questions. And of course I had an alibi. On the morn of the fire I was in the company of fellow ex Tipton school pupil, Sally Ault. As I distinctly recall we were involved in extra curricula activities in my unkempt bedroom. Sally's testimony, bless her heart, was unshakable and remarkably consistent. 

The evidence against me was circumstantial at best. And just because I'd had my shoulder length blond locks sheared on the afternoon of the incident proved nothing. The Inspector was unrelenting in his questioning and hung in there like a ferret clinging to a rabbit's neck. Confess, confess! Tis true the suspicious youth seen hanging about at the time matched my description exactly, as several witnesses were willing to attest, but I'm a great believer in doppelgangers and parallel universes and such. Wisely the witnesses had an epiphany and recanted. On second thoughts the youth's hair looked more mousy brown than golden hued. This ruled me out in a thrice. No way it could be me as I had just washed my golden locks which bedazzled in the sun and bathed the scene in an ethereal glow as if a cleansing H bomb had gone off in Tipton High Street. Here is a gratuitous tip: never use cheap shampoo or conditioner- false economy and I should know. Have I digressed? Anyway, without witnesses or a confession the poor Inspector was bereft of a conviction. No court in the land would have convicted on the evidence to hand and rightly so. It is better for ten guilty men to go free than one innocent man to be unjustly convicted. Isn't our justice system wonderful? The arsonistically (not a real word) inclined miscreant was never caught and probably lurks unrepentant within our very midst waiting for an opportunity to assuage a hunger which never abates.     

Is there a statute of limitation on this sort of thing? I suspect after 44 years it would be very difficult to identify the perpetrator and gain a conviction. Best to let it go then, eh Inspector?



 

Sally on the day of our graduation- I wonder what she is doing now?

  

  

Ode to Flaxen

 

This post is a little different to my 'normal' stuff.

 It was my birthday a couple of months ago, when I reached the grand, nay majestic age of 70. To celebrate this momentous occasion, I received absolutely nothing from family or friend. Before you feel sorry for me, let me explain: this lack of pressies is by design. Our family decided several years ago that adults wouldn't send or receive material goods for our birthdays. Instead, we would reserve the transfer of material or monetary worth to the grandchildren. This sensible and practical resolution also extends to a very popular mid-winter festival. This birthday, however, my son sent, unbidden, a gift beyond tangible or monetary worth. I received a prose piece that, lending toward doggerel, provided cutting insight into my muddled, often contradictory psyche. Regardless, I was impressed. I've kept the original punctuation, or lack of it, style and formatting as it adds to the quirky, jarring nature of the piece.

Dat's my boy

In his own words, take it away, FS junior:

Ode to Flaxen

O Flaxen 

Septuagenarian of stable phenotype,

Mildly creaking joints,

Genome intact (largely).

The world does not merely mark your seventieth year —

It sequences it.

You, who beheld the double helix

Spiralling like divine fusilli,

And whispered,

“Yes. Let’s fiddle with that.”

Retired geneticist.

Chromosomal conjurer.

Splicer of destiny.

A mind formidable,

A tongue incorrigible.

In laboratories, sterile and humming

You spoke truths so scientifically precise

And so socially catastrophic

That colleagues lowered their goggles

As though shielding themselves from fallout.

Brilliant?

Indisputably.

Mad?

With supporting data.

Did the lab HR maintain a dedicated folder?

Bound. Indexed. Cross-referenced.

O tireless empiricist.

There was that moment —

Purely academic.

Entirely professional.

For science —

When you placed your own swimmers beneath the microscope

And peered into the wriggling abyss.

And there they were:

Ambitious.

Unusual.

Not entirely terrestrial.

Some mutated.

Some experimental.

One possibly poorly constructing a key box.

And thus arises the noble inquiry:

Am I your son?

The phenotype suggests it.

The facial deformities confirm it.

Yet until peer-reviewed and double-blinded,

The conclusion remains tantalisingly provisional.

O Founder of the Fartorium.

To lesser men: a simple office.

To you: an acoustically advantageous sanctum.

You entered with gravity.

You departed with lightness.

Some men leave reports.

You left resonance.

Some men leave legacies.

You adjusted atmospheres.

And now —

The Incident.

Circa 1972.

Let the record blaze — entirely fiction.

Yet rumours drift like smoke across time.

Whispers curl along memory’s rafters.

Tipton Secondary Modern.

No evidence.

No photographs.

Only the faint grin of a boy

Who understood thermodynamics

Slightly too early.

If flame ever danced,

It was surely pedagogy.

A misunderstood chemistry lesson.

An architectural re-imagining.

Spontaneous enthusiasm for oxidation.

The building stands.

History smoulders politely.

Outside laboratories and hypothetical combustion —

Beer.

Not merely consumed — annexed.

Acquired in strategic volume.

Installed reverently into The Beer Fridge of Doom,

A humming shrine of chilled abundance.

You drink with academic diligence.

Field research.

Comparative analysis.

Seven pints an hour?

A working hypothesis.

Traditional archery —

For why propel a projectile

Unless it be as our ancestors intended:

Wooden.

Taut.

And capable of piercing a Frenchman at 100 yards.

Modern bows are for the undecided.

You prefer tension you can hear,

History you can feel in the shoulder,

Danger you can politely ignore.

And the obsessions —

O the obsessions.

They do not arrive gently.

They descend.

Watches.

Knives.

Puzzles.

Fidget toys.

You do not simply become interested.

You become possessed —

Gloriously, unhealthily immersed —

Until mastery is achieved

Or boredom strikes like a gavel.

And then —

Abruptly —

You move on.

The previous passion, fully conquered,

Is placed gently into a drawer.

Somewhere in this house

There exists a graveyard of former fixations —

Perfectly organised.

Meticulously understood.

Abandoned without ceremony.

The drawer does not tremble.

It waits.

At seventy, O Flaxen,

You remain gloriously eccentric.

Curious.

Fearless.

Unconventional.

Occasionally best observed from a prudent radius.

And adored.

So stand, O probable father.

Geneticist.

Workplace wildcard.

Atmospheric innovator.

Archer of ancient inclinations.

Beer connoisseur.

Ferret confederate.

Alleged — yet legally unproven — enthusiast of Tipton thermodynamics.

Seventy years sequenced.

Still sharp.

Still strange.

Still muttering “for science” before doing something concerning.

May your arrows fly true,

Your beer remain cold,

Your puzzles capitulate,

Your microscopes reveal nothing too alarming,

And may Tipton Secondary Modern

Continue to stand —

In spirit.

Happy 70th, Dad.

Human Evolution: Introductory Commentary and Shit

Her Major is in: Exotic Dancing as related to extracting the maximum amount of money from sad, lonely old men. I'm sure she will do extremely well in her degree, especially in the practical and theoretical elements. This is guaranteed, as her supervisor is devoid of accepted moral precepts and is wretchedly amoral (surely a redundancy? ). Supervisor: Dr F. Saxon 

Like many biologists, I assumed that human evolution was now defunct. And this had become the case since we had arrived at a sedentary lifestyle following the 'Agricultural Revolution'. My assumption was that the loss of adaptive pressures resulted in 'Evolutionary Stasis'. We no longer had to wander around the savannah/tropical rainforest/temperate woodland/etc in lioncloth, or buck naked to earn a living.

The hunter-gatherer existence is seen by some folk as the ideal state of man. They conjure a romantic vista of bliss in which we return to nature and live in harmony with Mother Earth. This may sound compelling as they sit at Starbucks, sipping a double crappuccino with extra cream. However, the reality was apparently a never-ending cycle/circle of marginal survival. Adaptive pressures favoured a physique slimmed to the bone during hunting season. Hunting was gruelling work requiring bursts of raw speed to drag down injured prey. To survive winter, when the pickings were sparse, Mother Nature beloved those who could store fat efficiently to endure long, involuntary fasts; mayhap today, too efficiently. Mother Nature bestowed blessings on the strong and fleet of foot, and metabolically efficient. Women cherished and lent their bodies to the best hunters for vigorous and unrelenting carnal lust - men who could sire fine sons fit to live and thrive in a raw, atavistic arena that is LIFE.

Even so, life was short and brutish. No modern anodyne to cure their ills. Most women would eventually die in childbirth. A wound or a minor infection that could be cleared up today with antibiotics would result in death or permanent disability. This hard, rigid subsistence demanded full participation by members. There may be truth in the story that the Eskimo women of old, when old, could no longer soften leather with their teeth due to years of diligent attrition. Worn to the bone, aged teeth had served/survived their burden. These women, mayhap no older than 35, would accept their final lot and, with impending doom, wander off into the white-tippexed landscape and take the last trudge unto eternity. Frankly, I think Captain Oates just went out for a fag and got lost. Did this happen? I would like to think so, as it fits neatly with the narrative.    

Since Darwin's radical theory that species evolved as a consequence of adaptive forces, environmental or otherwise, came forth, evidence supporting the theory has accumulated across a variety of scientific disciplines. One hundred and seventy years after the publication of Darwin's book, 'On the Origin of Species', the theory proposed by Charles Darwin has become canon in biological thought, and there is little doubt that it is the bedrock and foundation stone of all biological processes. No professional biologist, if serious in the prosecution of biological endeavour and progress, can deny the tenets of Evolution and its role in sculpting life.

My assumption about the lack of human evolution's continuation was in error. I am happy to accept and concede my mistake and ascribe the lapse to a case of Intellectual Hubris. Furthermore, there is a common misconception among those not well-versed in evolutionary theory that adaptive evolution is somehow directed toward a course of 'excellence'. Excellence is a qualitative term, and it is pertinent to ask what adaptation(s) would be expected or desired.  For instance, can we envision 'Retrogade Adaptation', in which the qualities favoured may lead to a lower overall IQ in a population? And it must be stressed that adaptation will be limited to within distinct breeding populations. Not all of humanity needs to partake, or is privileged to have access to my bestoke genetic profile. We can watch from the sidelines, thus reinforcing our ingrained and deeply held prejudices. Remember, folks, stereotypes are there for a reason. For some, having a low IQ may be seen as a positive outcome. No more pesky thinking and difficult reading, and stuff. Just sit back and collect the welfare cheque. For this group, this may be considered a step in the right direction rather than a retrogade one. By the way, retrograde is a concept in astronomy, not biology. The mere fact that they could neither spell 'retrogade' (or retrograde), nor comprehend their meanings, has no bearing or relevance at all, at least to them 

Evolution does not necessarily proceed to make a species more attractive, intelligent, or less spotty. No, evolution is concerned only with differential reproduction and death, resulting from adaptation to specific environmental pressures experienced by a population over time. And those imperatives may change with time. Is it possible that we are witnessing a divergence, a dichotomy, if you will, from the base human population? This observation, hypothetical or otherwise, could align with my hypothesis, which I will describe shortly and tentatively strive to bolster with empirical evidence. 

This work has been funded by a grant from the Tipton Institution of Difficult Shit and Stuff, under the auspices of Prof. Ipod Mugumber. I would like to thank Prof. Mugumbo and the esteemed board members of the institution for allowing me to take a sabbatical from my onerous teaching duties. Not only will this generous largesse provide sufficient funding for my essential and highly important research work, but it will also fund a research assistant hand-picked by me. I would therefore like to welcome Miss Nubile Legsakimbo to the team. Miss Legsakimbo comes with impeccable credentials, including her High School Leaving Certificate, confidently asserting, 'Most Likely To Get Knocked Up Within The Year' and an 'Ecdysiat Practitioner Certificate, Third Class' (Failed). She also comes with a recommendation from 'Ten Gilda Hilda', indigent of Amsterdam.    

My Hypothesis, which is all mine and no one else's

Caveat: This work represents preliminary, 'proof of concept' research, and if my initial findings provide strong indicators in line with the proposed tentative hypothesis, it is my intention to expand data acquisition from not only 'Aldis Tipton', but I will also mine data from 'Netto Tipton', with a possible extension into the same supermarkets within the Dudley metropolitan precinct.

Hypothesis, as put forth by Dr Flaxen Saxon: 

Denizens and folk who inhabit 'budget-friendly' supermarkets are experiencing rapid, unprecedented adaptive pressures, resulting in morphological and intellectual changes in line with evolutionary change.

Commentary on Proposed Hypothesis

Furthermore, quantitative metric measurements can be observed and recorded, and empirical data can be assessed to determine whether they are consistent with the previously stated null hypothesis. Depending on the result, a decision will be made regarding the continuance of this research project.       

Initial Contemplation Leading to Hypothesis

Look around your local supermarket, Aldi is perfect for this type of observation. What do we see? Do we see a tribe of hunter-gatherers, sleek and fit, ready to chase down a wounded gazelle? Or do we see a herd of fattened, wretched sows, of both sexes? Admittedly, modern living, with all that it brings, has saved us from the horrors that afflicted our ancestors. But that doesn't mean we must necessarily devolve into amorphous, unhealthy 'Pudding Folk'.

At the conclusion of this valuable research, my results will be presented, in monograph format, in the prestigious and estimable scientific journal: 'Tipton Journal For Advancement of Sciency Stuff and Very Hard Sums and Shit'. It is a fervent hope that my seminal and groundbreaking research will be completed before the adjudication of the Nobel Prize in Physiology and Medicine (2027). Nuff said.

The second blog in this series will showcase the data and conclusions from this study. Watch this space, and perhaps weep.     

String Theory

If you think this post is about String Theory and its convoluted explanation of reality through vibrations and the contemplation of n dimensions, you are going to be sadly disillusioned. Bugger esoteric theory, for today's outpouring remains fully embedded in practical reality. Please note: There will be no mention of Hot Gypsies, Hola!

I am perplexed, and facing a problem of extreme befuddlement. As my general readership will no doubt be aware, I'm a rabid archer and the unrepentant owner of 36 bows spanning across cultural and historical bounds. 

In order to use a bow for the purpose of propelling a yard shaft, at a suitable target, or annoying neighbour, there has to be a string to mediate the process. The purpose of the string is to act as an intermediary in the transfer of potential energy that is expelled at the time of release. This energy accumulates within the limbs of the bow as the archer transfers his/her muscular energy. This energy transfer is not 100% efficient; waste will accrue, and energy will dissipate, generally through heat loss, and thus will not be available to power the projectile's propulsion. The laws of thermodynamics are not to be violated or denied. Modern recurve bows, however, are very efficient at transferring energy, and thus energy loss is minimised. Paradoxically, modern compound bows, with all their clever design, and although considered the pinnacle of the engineer's skill, are less efficient in ceding the energy reserve for useful work than the humble stick. The reflex/deflex of the recurve bow and the ingenious use of laminations, wood, fibreglass, and sometimes carbon, are cleverly fashioned to exploit each material's strengths and, by combination, extol their synergistic alliance. The second law of thermodynamics, although never defeated, exacts a toll that remains within accepted and manageable limits. The compound bow beloved by the hunter loses a greater degree of stored energy to frictional heat loss than the humble recurve. This fine, machine, the wonder of the age, efficient energy transference, is superseded by another inbuilt priority. Its goal has been by necessity transformed. The pulleys, cams and cables inherent within the system are ultimately designed to enable a final, steady and unhurried release. 'Let Off' is the hunter's friend.  'Let Off' is the design default. And let's be clear and cogent: I'm not discussing Big Bill's colonic gaseous emissions that come forth after a heavy Saturday night's drinking in the 'Felching Ferret' and the obligatory consumption of a vindaloo. No, 'Let Orrf' in this context refers to the engineer's skill, through a thorough understanding of classical mechanics. Potential energy is stored within the totality of the system, not just in the limbs. This is where the engineer's skill in creating a machine with an intricate array of finely tuned and crafted parts comes into play. At full draw, the power is distributed within the 'workings' of the bow. Although the full draw weight of the bow is, let us say, 50lbs, the archer, at full draw, experiences a hold of no more than 5lbs; this is termed 90% let off. The compound bow holds the other 45lbs in abeyance, in the beguiling array of cables, composite material and double cams. The advantage is clearly seen. But Nature demands balance. All must bow/bow to the laws that will and cannot be violated or denied. The charlatan who peddles impossible, nay, implausable, perpetual 'free' energy engines can only thrive but for the want of a middle-grade understanding of the immutable laws of causal reality. The presence of the extra machinery that affords convenience is in itself a contradiction. The final benefit of comfort and accommodation is a chimaera of deceit. Energy trapped in the machine pays a toll for the inevitable multiplication of frictional loss, a consequence of the maze of complexity. The modern recurve, though deceptively simple, is the more effective machine, at least in terms of total energy transfer per pound of input. How can it be otherwise?

Anyway, I've managed to wend my way off the beaten track. The topic to be presented has been bypassed and left unattended. This is the dilemma I must face. The Muse that accompanies my soul, on occasion, is a capricious sprite that comes and goes without bidding and leaves me drained and used up. During her stay, she demands total obedience and expects frenetic typing on topics that fly through my brain unattended and bereft of control. I am a mere puppet and dance with the twang of the firings of neurons. I have little volition and must spew forth the froth and detritus that invades my mind. She is a cruel and compelling mistress- but I must obey. And when she leaves, oftentimes she is the herald of the 'Black Hound' that crushes my being. 

So, back to the Topic at Hand- for some reason, I have digressed

I have a surfeit of bow strings. Foolishly, I had placed a large number of strings, of various lengths, within a box. I confess, I wasn't particularly meticulous with their placement. However, I kept them separate, or so I thought. Moving forward a span, I needed a spare string for a bow and therefore rummaged through the box to see if a suitable replacement could be found. Imagine my dismay when I found a tangled mass befitting of the Gordian Knot. Unlike the problem Alexander faced over 2,000 years ago, a sharp blade was not the solution. In the time the strings had been allowed to nestle, they had mysteriously entwined, twisted, and interlocked, defying rational discernment. In fact, they were so interwoven that the separation of even one string defied my concerted effort.  So, my question to the savants that deign to read this drivel: What is going on? How come strings, left separate and unattended for a while, become hopelessly interlocked? Now I am an unashamed rationalist and empiricist, completely immersed in the scientific method. My journey to this intellectual revelation and truth did not happen easily or overnight. Tis the product of many years of education and reflection. How come entities, abundant, have become interlaced in multifold ways that logic and rational understanding hold no sway? During the time of repose, the box containing said strings, left unabused, and without outside interference, as far as can be rationally determined, somehow experienced outside or internal interactions that require agency. Energy must have been expended, whether that energy came from outside or from within the confines of the system is to be determined. I am at a loss to offer a solution that jibes with sound induction. Surely, there is one, or a cohort, of my esteemed readers that can proffer an explanation that is in accord with what I hold sacred in my ordered and highly rational worldview. There has to be some energy source involved to move the strings in convoluted, interconnected ways. I am losing sleep as the problem denies any explanation that remains solid with my rational domain. Hopefully, there is a wise soul out in the vast expanse of the blogosphere who can come up with an explanation that beats my reliance on amitriptyline. Otherwise, I am doomed to awake at 4am, after a restless night of tossing and turning, to be fully immersed in this dreadful conundrum. It invades my waking hours also. It will not leave me and haunts both my days and nights in equal measure. In sheer desperation, I am pushed to utter despair and driven to contemplate the existence of a poltergeist named Rupert. Naughty Rupert, places odd socks in my drawer. He hides my car keys and sequesters my wallet when I need it. Will someone save me from incoherence and uncertainty? I have spent the last 50 years of my scientific professional existence building an edifice of rock-solid certainty and intellectual comprehension. Things made rational sense. Of course, not all of the universe's mysteries have been unravelled. But with time and scientific endeavour, all is within our grasp, eventually. The elements of the Supernatural need not intrude on my well-ordered scientific paradigm.  

Is there anyone who can restore my confidence in an ordered universe governed by long-established rules based on irrefutable mathematics and logic? Surely, there is someone well-versed in physics, mayhap beyond my meagre knowledge, who has the wisdom to explain the cosmic quantum forces that befuddle my simple mind and can provide an explanation that doesn't evoke the mischievous sprite, Rupert.

My sanity is in your hands...