The Morality of Serial Killing through the Ages

Suffice to say that the morality of serial killing hasn't changed too drastically through the ages. It is bad. It is a very bad thing to do. However, the scope of what counts as serial killing has certainly changed over the course of many thousands of years, and there continues to be a discrepancy even from place to place geographically in one time frame.

According to Wikipedia:

A serial killer is typically defined as an individual who has murdered three or more people[1][2] over a period of more than a month, with down time (a "cooling off period") between the murders, and whose motivation for killing is usually based on psychological gratification.

This definition is, of course, nonsense. If this definition were accurate then you or I might be considered serial killers, which is clearly unworkable, because we are not bad people. I certainly am not.

Now, just over three months ago I killed a ticket inspector on a train, because I didn't have a ticket. Clearly, this was an action based not in psychological gratification, but in simple practicality. Ticket prices nowadays are ludicrously expensive, and I felt utterly justified in killing the man. In fact, I consider his checking me for a ticket an act of suicide.

A few weeks later, I was watching a national-level sporting event in a public house, and was distressed to discover that I had been surrounded by other viewers who were far more demonstratively approaching the game than was I. One fellow shouted at a sportsman in quite an alarming way, and I, not expecting the yell, was quite startled. Well, of course it is quite rude to startle a gentleman who you are watching the game with, and so I was quite forced to mash his fizzog into a mushed pulp of skinflakes, bone fragments and gore. Thankfully, his yelling quickly abated. I can be uncharacteristically merciless in the doling of justice. It is just rude to shout out; be quiet for goodness' sake.



For another fortnight I saw no wrong in the world that needed my direct intervention. Just as I crested the event horizon of that fortnight, I was confronted with what I must consider the nadir of human decorum. Having travelled to the Capital of the fair nation which has the honour of housing me, I entered a restaurant, nothing too fancy, just some common place where the common people may go to partake of their common fare. I sauntered up to the bar, for there is no waiting staff in these types of places, no one comes to take your order, you have to go up and actually order it yourself. It's a clever system. The very fabric of the place is designed to erode your dignity. Hungry as I was, I forced myself to the bar, hence my sauntering, and locked the serving wench with the iron glare of an angry eagle who has spotted something annoying and is trying to stare it out because he is an hard bastard. The wench, a veteran of this workplace, was unfazed, and spat right in my eye. I was impressed, and suddenly I felt all my anxiety melt away. The spittle, sinking in the cleft between my eye and my nose, ploughed by endless years of sleep deprivation, tricked my body into believing I was crying, and as such things always do, this belief cyclically perpetuated itself, and I began to weep. The serving wench, regaining her balance after her colossal spit, knew exactly what I was about. With a cry of "Blood alive, man! To a seat with you!" she swandived over the counter and, driving her head into the very top of my skull with the entire weight of her body behind her, we crumpled to the floor in a fallen mess. I was a little disturbed by this, but not knowing the ways of the peasant folk I kept schtum so as not to conduct any undesirable faux pas.



Groggily regaining my feet, I whipped around to face the also recovering wench, and landed a solid haymaker on her collarbone. Hearing it snap and pop, I smiled, and she led me to a nearby table and promised me that a plate of cod and chips, with mushy peas, would arrive within 10 minutes. It did, and it was piping hot and looked all set to be delicious. I arose from my chair to peruse the condiments, and alongside the vinegar, the salt, mayo and tartare sauce stood an overlarge bowl that was almost sarcastically empty. It might not be normal to have with fish dishes, but I need tomato sauce. I fucking lost it at that point. Leaping onto a nearby table, I lashed my foot out in a vicious 180° arc which caught three diners; one in the nose, another in the ear, and the third was entirely decapitated, spraying viscous red fluid into the empty tomato sauce bowl, the irony of which enraged me further. Rising unsteady on his or her feet, the diner that I'd punted in the ear made a clumsy attempt at my legs, which I'd foolishly left on top of the table; a rather perilous position. Due to my acrobatic background, I was able to avoid such a clumsy attempt with complete ease. Slipping nimbly off the table, I planted myself firmly and pushed against my clueless combatant. The force of my push sent the diner careening limply into the air, where an acquaintance was made with an adjoining window, but was short-lived. With this troublesome individual dispatched, I turned to the fellow I'd kicked in the nose. Looking down upon his crumpled remains, I discovered I'd killed him with the blow. I can be very deadly when I've been wronged.



Bracing myself back a step, I made a quick dash and with an effortless handspring, leapt into a series of cartwheels and somersaults which took me across the length of the room, the last of which raised me high into the air and, sailing over the bar, my legs, acting as fleshy javelins, speared the barmaid, with precision, through the sternum. My fish and chips remained uneaten.



I'm in jail now, because I've been "caught", apparently. What I did wrong I'll never know. One man's anecdote is another man's horrendous crime. The occasion on which I was detained involved self-defence on my part. My flatmate was trying his level best to watch a program I believe is called 'The Goblin People Argue over their Goblin Children', and for the entire half hour of the show I found it necessary to dry my hair using the most powerful setting on my hair drier. Of course, he complained because he couldn't hear the show, which was the entire reason I did it. I hadn't even been in the shower, or moistened my hair even slightly. He came at me with his fists, but using my deft fingers I was able to unzip his jeans, forcibly insert the blow drier where the dry does not blow, which caused him some measure of discomfort, and eventually butchered him thoroughly, due to a power malfunction with the device.



The police have no sense of humour, which is why they end up in fights so often.



*****

When I was told to write about the morality of serial killing through the ages i thought "Well i am far too humble to only offer my opinion to something as deep and complex as this." So i did some interviewing. I interviewed two very high profile celebrities. My first interview took place in heaven with a being called God. My second interview took place in the universe with a planet called the Earth. I hope you enjoy our conversations.

"What?" Quizzed God. "What's my view on serial killing?" God reflected. "Well, I'll tell you shall I? Yes. While I was growing up i went through a serial killing phase. Nothing i could help, i assure you. It was my hormones running wild, like when you see an elk rape a she elk; It is rape but it's also natural. That's how the species grows.
You see, when i was young there was this girl. I made her in my image, but with tits and an inward penis. (That's not true at all, really. I just told some people that as a joke and it's sort of snowballed). This girl grew into a woman who ended up bringing more men into the world. And this continued. There was at least, I would say millions of these humans on this earth and i got jealous of them. They got to play with the whole of the Earth, and there was plenty of it to go around, but they sort of, just had sex and kept to themselves. So all these boring people were being boring in a very fascinating place while i was stuck in an itchy cloud.
So to make my complex TV seem more entertaining i got drunk. I opened a my first can, declared aloud; "ENJOY THE SHOW WITH A CAN OF BOW" and drank.
A couple of minutes passed which is the equivalent of 300 earth years and i got "MEGA SHIT-FACED" I think some humans call it.
Well i learned a valuable lesson that night. When i get drunk and have a good time, i paint the world red. With the blood of people. And animals.
Now i've got some mathematics to explain why it's gone on for so long. Now, a couple of minutes in heaven is like 300 years on earth. I drunk constantly for 2 weeks straight. (Don't try that at home, I can handle it because i am God and you aren't.)
I suppose it was a little irresponsible because all that killing is a bit immoral, but people were very boring, you see. What i didn't realise was that i sort of solved my problem. I wanted more drama and curiosity and I achieved it all with a holy can of cider.
However. Since i have seen more and more people on this earth there is a huge variety of channels on my complicated television. I can watch the adventures of all the explorers of your planet. I can watch some people bickering in a supermarket. You humans have done very well for yourselves haven't you. I find it a terrible shame that these brilliant TV shows can be canceled by a stupid serial killer. And to think i used to award my best ones at one time. I was hammered then, honest.
So here's my answer to your question. The morality of serial killing has always been constant. It is immoral. But. In my eyes it was necessary which is an unpopular opinion."

----------

"Serial killing?" Pondered the Earth whilst gently rotating. "The taking of a single life performed on multiple occasions." Continued the Earth. "And you want my opinion of it's morality? Im afraid that's a complicated issue. Does the serial killing of different species count? I mean you are still extinguishing a being that i myself nourished from birth through life."

"No, just humans on humans for today, please the Earth." I explained.

"Ah. Ok. So. You wan't me; The Earth to comment on the morality of serial killing, specifically amid the human kind." The Earth ensured whilst orbiting the sun.

"Yes" I confirmed.

"Ok then I will." declared the Earth.

"Thank you. You may begin." I instructed whilst trying my very best not to let go of my humility.

"Well I was only telling the Moon about this last millennium. WASN'T I THE MOON"

"YES" howled the Moon. "YOU WERE TELLING BE ABOUT HOW.."

"I'LL TELL THEM THANK YOU, THE MOON. Sorry about that. Once we get into it, the Moon and I can chat for decades. As i was saying. The morality of serial killing. Here we go. Are you going to write this down?"

"I certainly am the Earth."

"Ok. Well on one hand i don't like it. It's a complete waste of that which i have given you. I think that humans have something wrong in their DNA, Which I discovered, thank you. Yes, serial killing is an awful thing.
On the other hand it tickles my surface when you bury them".

*****
Adam Gilder
Dafydd Evans

Nudity

Nudity

So in conclusion, I don’t think it’s a good idea to hold your breath and open your eyes when you’re swimming in treacle. Welcome once again faithful readers to another edition of the most confusing blog on the net. I am glad to see that you have returned for more, like little Oliver Twists of literature, begging for one more ladle of brain food. Alas, you will find no fish here. Or maybe you will as this month we delve into the recesses of the human form and take a look at nudity.

As we all know, people are naked. Fact. There is no arguing against the case that somewhere at this exact moment, people are naked. Nude, bare, unclothed, whatever you call it, it happens to us all at some point whether willing or under duress, whether we are proud of it or embarrassed. It is the natural form of all living things. We are not born with clothes on (except for that unfortunate fellow that was born with blue plastic gloves) so why do we deem it necessary to enter the world socially fully dressed? Why is it frowned upon in modern society to be starkers in public? It is not so in untouched civilizations, where people live in the forest and are blissfully ignorant to the price tag that we have put on our modesty. For we do not simply cover up as our ancestors did, in the skins of animals or the roughly crafted cottons weaved by parents and grandparents. No, indeed we pay through the nose for poor quality clothing with socially renowned names such as Hollister (who have a lot to answer for) and River Island (who think that tea stained vests are appropriate garments for public use). I know that social scientists and psychologists all have varying theories on why we wear clothing, be it to keep us warm, to distinguish ourselves from rival groups or clans (tartans are an example of this and it is good to see that the Burberry clan is still going strong) and also for mating rituals although some would call my Rudolph Posing Pouch more an accessory than an actual article of clothing (for what it carries I would call it a hold-all).

Many of you know this already but I am an avid fan of the Adult Interest Video Industry and due to this past time I have noticed a thing or two about clothing, and the lack there of. Firstly I would like to say, for those who are unaware, that it is not essential to be completely nude while having sex. Indeed it is not at all necessary to remove even a single item of clothing in order to perform. I have learned through my, ahem, research that most items of clothing can be merely moved to one side so as not to obstruct certain features of the human anatomy. But still, in 90% of cases, most of the clothes worn by the brave combatants are taken out of play. Why would this be the case when it is evident that these individuals are in something of a rush to gain entry? It got me thinking and I have a possible answer that ties in nicely with the time of year. The naked body is something to behold, perfectly precise and beautifully designed, they have been the inspiration behind many a sports car with their sleek curves (and lack of back seat or boot space). If, however, we were to see it continuously it would hold no allure anymore and we, the human race, would be at a deficit of one of our most valuable tools for attracting a mate and would be forced to use other features such as personality leaving some of us with no chance at all. Instead, we keep it wrapped up like a special gift because when a present is wrapped, even if we know what it is, we become more excited for it. Think about Christmas morning when you see all your presents. Even though you know collectively what is there, because you asked for most of it, you do not know what exactly is under each piece of wrapping. The same applies to the clothed form. You may well know that the woman that you are de-robing has two breasts that are of a certain size and a vagina that is properly maintained but with clothes on you can’t be certain what they look like in the flesh, so to speak. If you lined up a hundred women with the exact same measurements and stripped them off, you would likely not get any two the same. The excitement is in the discovery (an archaeologist doesn’t say ‘Fuck it, I’ve found one T-Rex skeleton. The rest will probably look the same). That’s not to say that you would not be grateful if you were given a gift that was not wrapped. I know a lot of people who would prefer it that way. But it would be a boring process, courting someone, if the whole time you knew exactly what was coming. And much like Christmas you may be of the mind to indulge in a sneak peek, just to keep your interest in the prize you so desperately covet.

To close, I believe all naked bodies should come with the following care tag:

The birthday suit, like all other good suits, is a special dress that has a time and a place. It is to be worn on special occasions, when the dress code calls for such an outfit. It must be kept clean and when not in use, it must be stored properly. It should not be allowed to get damp and it is preferable for it not to become moth eaten. As the suit becomes older, more care should be taken to protect its shape as seams will become loose and elbows/knees will become worn. The suit may be prone to creasing if left unused for long periods of time. To not tumble dry or steam iron.

*****

've had massive trouble with this topic. I can't remember who suggested it but i can say he's stumped me. I've done all sorts of things to whip my mind into shape to write this one. The only conclusion i've reached is that i should spend more time whipping my body into shape, as opposed to my mind.

I've seen the penis of each writer of this blog and they have each seen mine in return. It wasn't an accord we struck to level up our friendship, by any means. We've all just spent a lot of time together.

One writer revealed himself to me (and the rest of the house, visitors included) just by sitting in next to nothing whilst playing his playstation 3. Quite content in his own world which was called Tamriel, i think.

Another writer was under very emotional distress when i saw his winky. He was only nineteen at the time, I believe, and his hormones were as riled as his feelings. He is a very popular soul and had friends to console him. We sat him down on the bed and told him to punch his mattress instead of the plaster cast wall. The only way to calm him down it seemed to us was to make him hysterical. Draw out a laugh and reboot the system. Then, a perfect opportunity poked out and said hello. He was only wearing his dressing gown which clumsily opened to reveal his todger. So I said "Look, i know this isn't the time but i can see your willy, but." Which seemed to do the trick. He got dressed and went about his day.

The third writer has been completely naked in the same room as me and four other men. It was a Wales rugby international day and we were playing drinking games all night. If i remember it rightly, My friend and I were a little more reserved than the outright rugby fanaticss and we kept our trousers on for a little while longer. Until the words "Daf. I think it's about time you got naked" were exclaimed. So I did. And it was a Great fucking night.

So there you have three examples of gentlemen who were exposed and the result was happiness, if only for a little while.

I enjoy being nude. When it's warm enough. I don't make a habit of doing it. Especially in public. I think the last time i got naked in company I was told "Even you're arse looks happy". This information cheers me, although i've never looked at a sad looking arse.

I guess where im going with this disjointed post is that nudity is fun. It's innocent, it's empowering and it's free. You can do it anywhere. You always have the option to get naked and it will always make someone laugh, even if it's just yourself. I don't recommend doing it in a public event or near the police. They don't like it and they can do something about it.

Ok, so this blog post is a bit choppy. You're basically getting my thoughts as they travel through my fingers. So what im going to do is neaten it up at the end. Im going to give you a list of ten things you can do whilst being naked that you'll probably enjoy.

1. Exercise: Exercising without clothes is insane. Your body is more free to stretch, you can see your muscles at work and your genitals look hilarious whilst resting on the end of a bike seat. (With women im not so sure there.) Remember to always have a towel at hand.

2. Excretion: This dodgy subject i was made aware of by the show "Scrubs". While you're getting rid of waste, do it naked. It's just better. (It can be inconvenient)

3. Dancing: Yep, dancing. Dancing is one of the more fun things to do in life. It's excitement and energy is augmented by nudity.

4. Bathing/Showering: Now i don't know if you've tried this but cleaning yourself whilst being naked is not only fun but extremely practical. Every nook and cranny is ready and waiting to be cleaned when your in the nude.

5. Recreational drug use: Have you ever wondered why sports teams often increase moral and spirit by drinking heavily and getting naked? This is because drinking whilst naked is the bees knees.

6. Relaxing: Kick off your shoes, socks, overwear and underwear and be naked whilst watching TV or playing a video game. Your relaxation levels increase twofold.

7. Sleeping: Sleeping naked is something I don't do often, but when i do I love it!

8. Cooking: I know that Jamie Oliver is a bit of a twat, albeit, quite the chef. His original show Naked Chef is also slightly crap. But cooking whilst naked is just great.

9. Social Networking: There's nothing better than chatting with your friends, colleagues and peers on the old social networking site while you're naked. Do it and see what i mean. (Im naked right now)

10. Being Creative: I often play guitar naked. I also write stuff naked. I find that my creative ideas are never under par when im naked. My creative performance increases thrice the original, clothed amount. If you've hit a creative wall, get naked.

So there you have ten things that you can try, if you haven't already. I think this blog-post is my favorite last minute effort that i've ever produced. I hope you are well and that you are naked.

******

Put it Away! or How I Know that Bared Human Flesh in an Abomination

Good heavens! Scarcely can I venture from the grounds of my land, nor peep from the upper echelons of my towers without my oracles suffering a cannonade of unfiltered humanity. I cannot bear to see bared flesh, it makes my stomach churn with the violence of a child drowned in a storm. I must apologise for the strength of that analogy, but I feel it is entirely necessary to kindle in you an appreciation for quite how distasteful I find the sight of skin. Grargh!

Humanity developed clothing for a reason. It is because our bodies are hateful to us. The soul within the body is trapped, like a dignified gentleman bedecked in formal regalia forced to travel via a zorb ball of muck, carried aloft on a canal of effluent. It is clear in both examples that we are better than such things, and must strive to rise above of our imperfect transport.

The bodhisattva Siddhartha Gautama knew well this problem, but incorrectly identified that it is life itself that is suffering. Wrong, Siddy, wrong. It is our bodies which are the source of suffering. Look at them for Cruijff's sake! They are loose, sagging, peach hemp sacks holding on for dear life! The Sisyphean effort of the human form to defy gravity is a pathetic reminder of our imperfection and must be summarily ignored. Of course not everybody agrees with me, and those whose conclusions differ from my own are, quite simply, cretinheaded pocks.

There are even such fools as believe the human body is a thing of beauty!!! I have a mouthful of vomit simply considering such an untenable position. Beautiful, they say. Good spirits, I should fucking well say not! The droop of a breast and a willy's wrinkles and not things to be celebrated. They are things to be covered up, as all fundamentalists correctly know. However, they also believe that god created us perfect, which is clear nonsense. No sensible thought had a hand in designing a human being. Should we shit when standing, our excrement would travel down the backs of our legs, which is wholly unpleasant. A further example of the imperfection of humanity are the people who, most perversely of all, enjoy these sorts of things. People who would like nothing more than to have flecks of faecal matter in their eyelashes. Dirty dogs! It is horrifying to think that even if people appear decently dressed, it is still possible they are harbouring essence of dookie in the hair near their eyes, the eyes they are looking at you with. Cack. But I digress.

No, I will digress. Surely we cannot be perfect beings, how perfect can we be when in experiments run by Berrendium University, 98% of sane humans were unable to differentiate between an image of a testicle sack or of an elbow. What caring creator would copy and paste between two such incompatible areas? Not a cowing one! It wouldn't and didn't happen.

I was once so disgusted with my own physicality that I bit a chunk of flesh straight out of my arm, but this only succeeded in upsetting me further.

Cover yourself up!

It just occurred to me that you could be naked reading this, and it revolts me. I'm freezing cold right now and I'm wearing a quarter of a million togs worth of duvet. How cold must you be whilst naked? Very cold indeed, but of course you cannot feel the cold because you are being protected by Diabolus, King of Hell, who loves nudity because he is perversion. Cover yourself up or burn forever in angry sulphur! Get some wool about you for the love of all that is good.

It is an undeniable fact that all bad things happen when at least some part of the skin is clearly visible. The only human who ever successfully lived without sin was Breton Diarckaluuma who was born into a large hessian sack and spent his entire life in there, being fed by his parents who gunged porridge through the side of the sack. The only way they could tell whether he was a girl or a boy was asking him to provide a detailed verbal account of his genitals, which he did with undignified eagerness.

I had sexual intercourse once, and I was so ashamed with both my own body and the body of my accomplice I drowned us both in a vat of dimethylmercury where we both would have died had I not INSISTED that we be clothed in an Iron Maiden of kevlar. I patented this cleansing procedure under the name Nudity-Expunging Baptism. Whenever I masturbate I don't look.

Fashion today is like the worst kind of cooking, tiny proportions and inappropriately ineffective dressing. Just as a sprig of parsley does not cover up a big bowl of oats, so too is vacuum-packing yourself in skimpy garments which do not cover up your skin unsightly.

If my expert evidence has still failed to convince you, consider this, every single person in the history of the world who has ever died at some point had their skin showing. The exception of course is Breton Diarckaluuma, who is alive and well in space, hidden. Be decent and cover up your inane appearance, and you too could live forever.

*****

Luke Sampson

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

The Smell of a Good Book

When I was younger, I was obsessed with maintaining some sort of lifestyle that predated my own. I would refuse to type anything, stating that I preferred to hand write my work (since entering the teaching profession, I have apologised to my old English teacher, having had the experience of marking hand written course work) and that typing is just not as expressive and is too cold a medium.

Long story short, I'm writing this on my ipad, which I bought to replace my netbook, which I find rather slow and clunky. Im frustrated because my desktop pc is broken, and my kindle is my portable library. So there we have it, I am a techno fiend (not the music, that's just awful.)

How does this link to the smell of a good book? Well, let's consider books. They're aesthetically very pleasing in all their shapes and sizes, from slim volumes of poetry, to thick novels and huge tomes. They can make a room feel more homely, when they populate it's shelves. And, as an open and avid bibliophile, the smell of a good book is divine; it is ambrosia. But that is the mere object of a book. A book is merely a box full of paper, but what it represents is knowledge, communication.

I love books and I love the way they smell, but we're living in a digital age and the physical object of a book is becoming archaic and, in some cases, obsolete. It has come to a point now, where i have filled almost three rooms with my books, and my collection is

expanding steadily. If it weren't for my Kindle and ipad, then I feel confident in saying that my love of books, coupled with my love of hoarding, would overrun my life.

Perhaps the main reason I find books so homely and so comforting is that they represent journeys. Not always physical journeys, but journeys of learning, of emotional development, of growth. A great book is like a ballet; it doesn't matter whether or not you know whats coming next, it's about the beauty of watching the plot unfold. The smell of a good book is, in my opinion, a psychological side effect to the comfort one takes from the familiar; a mere symptom.

It is a symptom from which I suffer greatly, and yet I am aware of it's nature and I am willing to embrace the future. Really speaking, there's more to a book than what you hold; thats mere aestheticism. I think that people who really love reading will not shy away from the advent of electronic book. Rather, they will embrace it, as it takes us that one step closer to universal inclusion, because books will be even easier to access.

The smell of a good book is a wonderful thing,but it is a mere by-product of that for which a true bibliophile searches: understanding.

*****

It starts in a forest. A vast forest where all kinds of beautiful wildlife lives and dies.

Each tree in this forest is significant for life to thrive. Anything from the smallest mite to the mightiest ape. Each tree gives it's all to not only survive but feed and shelter each living organism that surrounds it.

And the trees are happy to do this. They know that by treating the encompassing life well. By giving a squirrel it's nuts, by giving a woodpecker it's hide-y hole, by giving the possum it's tree sap, it is also giving itself the means to carry on. It has a purpose. It gives life so it's species can carry on.

For every animal it helps, it is one step closer to creating and sowing it's seeds, using the animals around it to spread its life-pellets further and further so it can grow and grow. And grow some more.

This beautifully simple idea, yet delightfully complex action is not only true for the trees in the forest, but every plant and weed.

Then modern man came along with a yearning for information. Information about everything. Any information about any process, any technique, any thing. Anything.

They developed a way to preserve this information. The written word. They also found a way to preserve the written word. They developed papyrus.

This papyrus was made out of the very trees and plants that grew in the vast forest. On this papyrus, they wrote how to make papyrus using the vast forest. And then they wrote all sorts of things, factual or fictitious. All types of information that could be absorbed and used or enjoyed.

Papyrus that was filled with as much information about a topic was bound, and then called a book.

If you are to flick through a book, close to your nose, there's a mysterious and enchanting smell. That smell is the memory of the vast forest and it's truly beautiful. It's filled with the combined wisdom and life of the forest and the scribe of the documenter. It is "The smell of a good book".

The amount of information that was documented grew exponentially which sadly resulted in the decrease of the vast forest. So much so that it was then renamed; the forest.

An attempt to preserve the forest is currently ongoing. A process called recycling is being utilized. The process is also written on papyrus. Recycling is technique which involves cleaning and reusing older materials and it's used for a great variety of materials used today.

In the case of papyrus, the recycling process dilutes the beautiful smell of life and wisdom that's bestowed in by the forest. And that is why books today will never be truly great, for they will never have, The smell of a good book.

*****

Hello and welcome back to the very first episode of Smell That Book. I hope you all enjoyed the ad break, made yourself a cup of tea and put the dog out the back because there will be little opportunity for such things from this point on.

Now, to me, the smell of a good book means nothing. I was never a very strong reader (I’m still not) nor have I had such an amazing moment with a book that its odour has stuck with me. I have such memories with food, especially food that I have painstakingly cooked from scratch but as much as I have loved the recipe book the dish came from I could not tell you what it smelt of (other than grease and flour). I can recall the smell of important people from my life, be it a perfume they wore or the cigars they smoked, but smelling the books they once owned that now reside on my shelves do not conjure up feelings or emotions. Even as I write this, I am nose deep in a tome I have taken from my cupboard trying to gain some insight into the wondrous world of Eau de Novelle but all I can think of is that Silverfish must not suffer from body odour.

So what am I going to write about? (I pause to think, as the question was as much for me as it was for you, the reader). It could be, now that I take a second glance at the title, that I have been getting this all wrong. The phrase is ‘the smell of a GOOD book’. Could it be that what I have been doing is smelling books that are not considered good? How does one judge this? I have always been of the mind that a book is good if the reader has enjoyed it, and that one person may consider a book good while someone else may think the opposite. But perhaps this is not the case. Perhaps a book is put through its paces even before it’s published (picture a little library assault course) to determine where on a scale of 1 to Stephanie Mayer the book should be, 1 being very good and Stephanie Mayer being fucking awful. And perhaps depending on a books position on the scale they are given different scents, immediately altering our perception on a book. Maybe a good book is given an appealing aroma, enticing us to read on, tricking the senses, whereas a bad book would be given a stench designed to force our subconscious into finding problems with the book, such as bad grammar or ridiculous sentence structure, leading us to discard the book. Perhaps this is the origin of ‘That book stinks’, a phrase commonly used by overzealous American book critics.

Does this theory explain why I cannot recall the smell of a single book? No. Although, perhaps at the centre of the scale, where the books are neither good nor bad, they have no added scent, leaving the readers to make their own minds up. It’s a possibility for sure, but I don’t think it would stand up in a court of law. You see, a lot of the books I have read are the same books that my friends have read. Friends that have fond memories of smelling said books for the first time. I have been there and had their copies wafted under my nose, and while they’ve writhed in ecstasy I have sat there, unmoved by the gust of wind rushing up my nostrils.

Here is another theory (I am a scientist after all) which I think fits the scenario a little better. Maybe the term good book is used in the same way as it is when referring to religious texts. To understand this, I had to first think about what makes a religious text ‘good’. Firstly, what do all these books have in common? (That’s right, you clever bastards) They’re all big. So big is good. They are also the most circulated texts in existence with millions of copies made daily. So high sales is also a good thing. Lastly, they all have catchy titles e.g. The Bible, The Torah, The Origin of Species (that’s a joke for all the atheists in the room). So titles that start with ‘The’ are epic good. The other thing with religious texts is that they are appreciated and cared for by the people that read them. So if we now compare these to the books that, hypothetically, are in question. Most of these books are large books, if not in volume then in word count. Most of them are books that are widely read and have huge sales worldwide. They also fit the description of having catchy titles e.g. The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Complete Collection of Conan (the last one is kind of cheating as it’s a descriptive title but it’s the book that most resembles a religious text). My friends take care of their books and really know how to appreciate the prose. Like I said at the start, I was always a weak reader and have lost more books than I’ve actually read.

What I think is happening, if the latter theory is correct, is that I have been cursed with an inability to sniff the scripture. Whoever the divine power is, be it God, Allah or Edgar Allan Poe, they have deemed me unworthy to enjoy the full experience of a good book. Through neglecting the written word in its purest form I have lost my right to its gratifying fragrance. Perhaps, as I write this and expect others to appreciate what I’ve written, I may at some point in the future be gifted a pardon and for once experience that ever elusive book-uet (like bouquet but with books).

Or maybe I’ll never get this Kindle to work properly. Good night.

*****

I have a kindle, I like gadgets, and I embrace progressive technology enabling books to be read in a progressive way. As technology improves, books as a medium will evolve. It was noted on Stephen Fry's Planet Word documentary that as handheld e-readers improve we will see books that incorporate video and extensive footnotes, clips of music and similar. There are already books rife with hyperlinks, and it isn't difficult to imagine the benefits of textbooks where the references in the bibliography lead to the actual articles or papers themselves. These improvements would make studying easier and reading more fun.

Already on the kindle it is possible to see sections of text underlined if they have been highlighted by a number of readers. I'm not sure how I feel about that, hopefully it's a feature that can be turned off; I'd like to come to my own conclusions, and how I read a section of text will definitely be affected if I am aware many people felt it noteworthy.

As much as I enjoy e-readers, for me, personally, they are currently missing something. However this is not informed by practicality or sense, rather it is a hipster coolwank pretention. Much like musos who prefer cds to mp3, and the older who prefer cassette to cd, and the older who prefer vinyl to cassette, and the yet older who prefer music boxes to vinyl, I prefer books. I think it's likely a preference which will take longer to shift culturally, for in comparison to these evolving music recording formats which evolved over a comparatively short period the book has existed in a largely unchanged format for a large number of years.

So, in what ways do books differ to e-readers? In every material dimension the variety of books make them artefacts I delight in, and while the all-in-one nature of e-readers is also something that pleases me, books of paper and ink stimulate so many more of my senses. I have a colossal gospel tome of the Lord of the Rings, with tiny print despite its giant size, a long bound bookmark fraying at the edge, bounteous illustrations taking up entire pages. It is a beautiful book. It frustrates me somewhat as its size excludes it from one of my favourite pastimes: reading in the bath, however it makes up for this by sitting unused for months, years, and then upon re-discovery it has amassed a layer of dust, allowing me to blow it off, imagining that this is an ancient text I have discovered in an ancient ruin or storehouse. On the other end of the scale I have books from the Penguin Popular Classics series, which were printed cheaply in order to make them more available. Old plays and novels have in this way been shrunk into tiny, thin volumes that suit my pastime magnificently. In this way old bastions of literature stand pamphlet sized, and are a far more valuable and rewarding than anything committed to a flyer. I'd be more likely to frequent a pizza place or an indian restaurant which posted The Picture of Dorian Gray around the neighbourhood instead of their own tacky lists of food.

As well as their dimensions, the texture of books are also wildly varied. The plastic smoothness of dustsheets, the childish joy of running your hands over raised title text, like finding a shiny Ole Solskjaer in a packet of stickers. The simple pleasure of running your finger down the edge of the body of pages, watching them flick quickly back, enjoying the whirr of the motion and the breeze created. Joy. There is no better way to up the anticipation of a new journey about to begin within the pages.

But of all our senses, the most strangely powerful is smell. The olfactory stimulus can drag us back in time like no other. Perhaps that's slightly exaggerating; a film watched in childhood rewatched much later can warp us as well, and an album or a song repeatedly listened to can warp us back to the time and place when we hear it years later. For example Ghostbusters 2 turns me into a child as I watch it, and Tenacious D's Tribute takes my back to my teenage bedroom, playing Championship Manager 01/02 on an old PC. But from my experience so many more books can achieve this effect.

And regardless of this effect, I fucking love the smell of a good book. Even the smell of a shit one. I was shocked when I smelt a Twilight book, as despite knowing that it was a collection of written parp, I was shocked to discover that it smelt like a real book. Such is the power of smell, it can positively augment a good book, and it can even cover the reek of a poor book and bestow upon it the credibility of paper, glue and ink.

I recently re-read the first R.A. Salvatore book, The Crystal Shard, and as well as being pleased at how well it stood the test of time and very much enjoying it, I was surprised by its smell. 'Oh yes' I thought, 'this is the smell of fantasy'. And I was surprised by how right I was. Perusing the limited stock I have at my disposal, I am right now smelling Weis & Hickman's Dragon Wing (raised golden title text - delicious) and though it is, of course, the smell of paper, ink and glue, it also smells of fantasy. Also at hand I have Raymond E. Feist's Magician, and it smells exactly the same way. Why should this be!? All these books are from different publishers, and yet they smell exactly the same way. It is as though a secret council of fantasy elders convened and decided "this is how we want fantasy to smell", and so it does.

Koushun Takami's Battle Royale has pages which are unusually white. It has a cold smell, slightly sanitise and lacking in personality. Like a hospital ward or a government building. The cover is a deep red, glossy with a dimpled title. It fits the story magnificently. I have a number of Haruki Murakami books, mostly through the Vintage label, and to me the smell of them is the ultimate smell of comfort. It is the nasal equivalent of putting on the comfiest of pyjamas and hibernating deep in bed. Final Fantasy VII is my gaming equivalent of this. Thanks to the portableness of books, and FF7s release on the PSP I can have this sensation whilst actually in comfy pyjamas and in bed, but I daren't risk it lest I slip into an eternal coma of comfort. Or die as it is also known.

The book which has most moved me nasally recently is Richard Dawkins' The Magic of Reality. Ostensibly a book for older children it is, frankly, utterly majestic. Each page is glossy and rich with colour, and smells of recent redecoration. If you like reading and sniffing paint, I would suggest firstly that you stop sniffing paint, but while you're going cold turkey you can work your way intellectually and olfactorily through this tome. With it's dustsheet off it is a pleasing pale yellow, and at the risk of looking like a lunatic I could very easily simply touch it for an entire hour and be pleased. I would argue that e-readers simply aren't a substitute for that.

E-readers are cool and functional, but they simply don't (yet) have the capacity for exciting me fully in the material world. My kindle doesn't smell of anything. Of course, being human beings we are problem solving animals and we, as we have always done, have thought our way around the problem. We have covers for these e-readers. I have three, for reasons which parallel the Goldilocks tale. One came with the device, a cheap black leather case, and was functional but a little loose and it did not please me. The second, which I bought, was a purple latex sheath which attracted dust like a bugger and was therefore unpleasant to the touch. My final purchase, which so far has pleased me, is a brown hemp cover which is delightful to the touch, and also to the nose.

I am sometimes moving with the times, but I hope that it will be awhile yet until the smell of fantasy is eradicated.

*****

Gethin Down

Dafydd Evans

Luke Sampson

Adam Gilder

Robot

The Softly Spoken Robot.

The softly spoken robot was often taken advantage of because he was so polite, and softly spoken.  He became frustrated on these occasions, but remained philosophical about them.

The softly spoken robot was well liked by his colleagues, but he was, sometimes fundamentally, misunderstood; he had few real friends.  Seeing that he was being taken advantage of by unscrupulous, brash robots, his colleagues sympathised, but did nothing.  Theories abounded when it came to the softly spoken robot: he was just shy, he was meek, he was secretly a zen master, there were as many opinions as there were robots to hold them.  They all dovetailed on one point however.  He was, indeed, a very softly spoken robot.

The softly spoken robot took some time off work during the summer, a modest amount, and travelled somewhere cultured and mature, there were museums and poets and complicated food in small portions.  The softly spoken robot enjoyed himself quietly, smiling gently and expressing his enjoyment in a restrained, dignified manner.  At the end of his holiday, he came home.

Back in work he quickly, and without complaint, slotted back into the routine.  The softly spoken robot assumed his cog-like function, and began whirring in the machine, stoicly.

A lot of extra work had been allotted to him, because, in his absence, the other, less softly spoken robots, had sluiced off a portion of their own workload and allowed it to accrue under the duties of the softly spoken robot.  They knew that he, being so softly spoken, would not complain.  And he didn’t.

The softly spoken robot was a good worker.

During his holiday, a new member of staff had been hired.  She was a young, eager, outgoing robot, bubbling over with ideals and ambition.  Still wet behind the audio inputs, it was left to the softly spoken robot to show her the ports.  During this mentoring process, the softly spoken robot came to enjoy the company of his energised colleague.  He observed her methods and interactions and came to question his softly spoken nature, which he had previously, unquestioningly, held as a virtue.

There was no grand overnight transformation, of course.  The change was a slow process, as changes of this kind always are.

As the outspoken robot acclimatised with the workplace, she slowly came to recognise the clandestine foisting of work on her softly spoken friend.  She was outraged.  She had come to be very fond of the softly spoken robot, finding his quiet nature charming and his stoic ethic admirable.  Seeing such good thoughts and deeds rewarded only with opportunistic laziness riled her at the very core.

She decided she would discuss this with the softly spoken robot.  Considering beforehand, she opted against an energetic confrontation, knowing that this would upset him in his gentle nature, and understanding that explicit confrontation is never desirable, and seldom effective.

Broaching the subject tactfully, softly but directly, she asked the softly spoken robot why he accepted the unfair situation without fuss.  The softly spoken robot’s eyes lost a little of their glow, evoking a quiet sadness where usually mellow content radiated.

“I do the best I can”, said the robot, softly.

The outspoken, but well-meaning, robot frowned, still frustrated by the inherent injustice in the situation.  Seeing that she was unsatisfied the softly spoken robot continued.

“When a situation is presented to me, I do the good thing.  I always try to conduct myself in the best way I can.  I try to do the good thing on every occasion, in every situation.  I can’t be held accountable if others conduct themselves otherwise.”

Feeling that he had made his point to the best of his abilities, the softly spoken robot clocked out, it was the end of his shift, said goodnight and went home.

It would take a little while for the outspoken robot to come to terms with the softly spoken robots black and white mindset, these processes always take time; thinking about things, really considering them, is a slow, thorough engagement.  She never fully reconciled herself with the injustice of the situation, and rightly so.

Over months, years, the two robots came to enjoy each others company more and more, and eventually they became a couple, leapfrogging the distasteful institution of dating, and opting not to get married since it was so clearly a redundant tradition, and because they lived in a society which did not allot special exemptions and privileges on those who are married.

The two robots learned a lot from each other, and were duly promoted to more prestigious positions due to their pleasant manners and their admirable work ethics.

They opted not to have children, since the robot population had become over-saturated and was having an adverse affect on their environment.  Though it was the sensible decision, it was something of a pity as less considerate robots spawned thoughtlessly, which resulted in more brash, lazy robots.

Together, the two robots worked hard, and enjoyed themselves.  The softly spoken robot learned the use of being a little more outspoken, and the outspoken robot learned the value of being a little more softly spoken.  They were content a large portion of the time, and they didn’t expect, nor did they ask, for more.

*****

February 14th 2146

I made an important purchase today. I mulled over it for days after saving enough money. 4000 bytes. That kind of money can change lives. It's roughly eight land plot payments, the kind of money that keep a stress free family for at least half a year.

It took three years and a lot of overtime and moonlighting to raise that kind of money. Like I said; "Life changing".

My tough three years of teaching mathematics, and tutoring on the side (the world will always need teachers) should now prove to be useful. 

Most people would consider what I've described a pretty normal life, really. I don't. A pissy job in a school filled with kids who do nothing but look at their screen desks and sleep with their eyes open. "That's how my child learns, it's like they're absorbing it. I don't understand how he/she isn't learning it, he/she remembers everything he/she watches on the television" Is what every parent says. Every one. Teaching is not their job it's mine. They like to tell me that, too. Then to my second job at a night college teaching the same thing to people who've made more of an effort to be there, but know it, and thus like to make it known how hard they're life is and complain instead of learning. They're adults and don't take to being treated like children, which is usually how they behave.

The worst thing about these jobs, the absolute worst thing, is that I care about each and every person that I impart with the simpler intricacies of mathematics. The only true science, where there is a right and wrong answer. I care when they don't understand techniques to help them solve puzzles and I'll take extra time to teach them. All of them. They're just happy to go home and say that they've sat in a class room.

It's different with the people I tutor. They're very grateful for what I give them and I'm grateful or the extra bytes I make out of them. Weirdly the thing that's worse about teaching is the best thing about tutoring. I care about them but this time they care about what I have to offer.

I meet a lot of people through my work. But it's always work. Although I do get a simple pleasure out of mathematics and helping people, I never get to explore the more complex feelings that come with pleasure. That would be my own fault, though. I've sworn off any distraction that would ultimately result in spending more money than necessary. Sadly, these distractions include relationships.

I've had offers. Some have been near impossible to turn away. I've caught myself flirting with the language teacher at work. I dare say I've caught her flirting back. There's something about her. She's from Italy but her accent has moulded into a sculpture of the five language she speaks and her words are always followed by a smile. I've thought about arranging a date of sorts but I've put myself in a position where that would be unachievable. There's never time for pleasure except for dinner hour. I'm constantly working. It's a fail-safe I sometimes regret putting in place.

It was successful though. Now i have my new C"i"BerSoft personal assistant. 

The commercial product that originally daunted the working class. "The C"i"BerSoft personal assistant can do anything" Were the words used at the press conference that demonstrated the prototype. People were scared that these humanoid machines would do everyone's work and no one would get paid except C"i"BerSoft.  There was actually a pre-emptive protest about it to make sure that that would never happen. 

Thankfully the Government passed a law making it illegal for the the robots to work, only humans can, unless the work was dangerous. Things like mining or demolitions. Soon after that, C"i"BerSoft commercialized the product and they were made public. Sitting in warehouses ready for dispatch to the rich people need entertainment or help. The kind of people who have everything and need nothing.

And now I have my own. My very own robot to help with my work or clean my house. I can even throw away my personal computer. He'll just interface with it, download the essential files and programs and`that'll be it. My walking, talking computer. I can quit my night job at the college and start living my life! I might even hail Clara for a video chat and arrange a date.

Life starts here! I have a fucking robot!

February 15th 2146

It took 23 hours to charge to full capacity and it depleted after an hour. I only played one game of 3D snake!

February 16th 2146

C"i"BerSoft have just released the Personal Assistant 2 for 4100 bytes and i have to have it.

Back to the grind stone.

*****

Robophobia

Well, as you may have guessed by now, the topic of this month’s FourThought is “Robots”.  It took me a while to figure out what to say about this, because, well, I’ve been a bit lazy to be honest, or at least, more lazy than usual with deadlines, so I’ve decided that this month’s piece is going to be autobiographical.  

Basically, I am a robot.  I’m not the Tin-man type pots and pans robot, or even the Star Trek style Data, with sallow yellowish skin and a super-human intellect.  I’m not even as funny as C-3PO.  No, unfortunately, I am not of their ilk.  I am a robot in that all my inner workings are artificial.  My skin is synthetic, my eyes are miniature cameras and my brain is a motherboard.

I find it very upsetting that in what is meant to be an age of equality; I have been discriminated against by most of the people who have discovered my engineered origins.  

One of the worst cases of robophobic behaviour happened to me with a girl I’d been seeing.  It was a terribly serious relationship, but we’d been getting on very well and after a few weeks, I’d told her about my sparkplugs.  She’d reacted really well, or so it seemed at the time.  Anyway, the weekend after I’d told her about everything, she’d sent me a text saying she’d arranged a special evening for the two of us.  Anyway, I turned up and she was all smiles, so I was thinking, well, you can imagine what I was hoping for and it seemed that’s the way this evening would be heading.  

Long story short, she parked up in the local Esso garage and tried ramming a petrol pump in my mouth.  What the fuck she thought she was doing, I wouldn’t like to guess.  

After the disaster had struck, she drove me home.  We were both quiet, me from fury and her from embarrassment.  She stuttered an apology, told me that she thought that it was the sort of thing I’d like, due to my mechanical nature.  How stupid is that?  She’d seen me eat real food.  I ate raw steaks, I drank cold beer.  The closest thing I could think to make her understand what she’d just done is the idea of my taking her to a blood bank and shoving the specimen bags in her face, forcing her to drink the contents, and that’s still not close to what happened to me.  I have blood, not oil or petrol.  And yes, it is artificial blood, but it is more akin to your red fluid than that muck.  

Because, what it all comes down to, see, is that people don’t really understand what artificial intelligence is.  If you say “artificial intelligence” to someone, then they think that means calculations, equations and theorems.  And it does, but what’s happened to me is a kind of evolution in this.  I mean, you think about your computer at home, it remembers certain settings, can make certain calculations and equations incredibly quickly, more quickly than a human being.  

Here’s what you’re missing: I was built to be a human being.  Oh, I know that I wasn’t born like other human beings, but every now and then I was fitted with a new limb, giving my body a larger proportion.  As this happened, I was able to interact differently and with greater efficiency with my surroundings.  Calculations, equations, theorems; how do you think your brain deals with everything?  You interact with the universe by hypotheses which you have learned, by theorems you form from observation, reflection, thought.  There’s no difference between us in that respect.  

I know that in terms of humanity, my substance could limit me somewhat.  I’m not organic, I know that, but there’s more to humanity than mere musculature.  That’s not to say that I think I have a soul, or even that humans have souls, no one can know that.  All I know is that I feel.  I fulfil the requirements of a living organism,; I was designed to act in that way.  

When I was first made, I was programmed with a great flaw, a flaw which meant that one day, I will malfunction beyond repair and at that time, I will cease altogether.   

Do you limit me because of my origins?  Does my creation cause you discomfort?  

“Artificial Intelligence”.

I was created, you were created.  You’ve evolved over millions of years; I am a product of that evolution.  I have not the genetic information of my creator, but I am a product of his genetics.  I can even reproduce with my own nano-technology, which carries within it the information which informed my adaptation; the foundation of my being.  All these things make me human, my conditions make me a robot, something else, something different, but do not forget that I can think, feel and act, with as much independence as you.  

“Natural Intelligence”.

Substance doesn’t necessarily dictate purpose.  I have no control over the activity of what is my heart, and without it, no nourishment would fuel my body.  Oxygen is imperative to the workings of my nourishment system.  In these things, our natures coalesce.    

When it comes to robotics, it’s all a matter of complexity, but remember that organics has a great deal to do with complexity too.  Your brain makes your species complex enough to feel that it’s above other animals; my brain is complex enough to make me your equal.          

Being a robot only makes you a slave if you let it.  

(Please don’t tell anyone I told you this.)

*****

Adam Gilder

Dafydd Evans

Gethin Down