Author: Kim du Toit

Guilty As Charged

Culture

From Longtime Reader SKB comes this point:

“Usually, your social commentary is just a bit too aristocratic, or ‘posh’, for my taste.”

SKB, round about now my old housemaster and various teachers who were entrusted with turning this young hooligan into a gentleman are beaming with pride. Mostly, I suspect, they would be relieved because let’s face it, this must have seemed at times to be a daunting, if not insuperable task.

Here’s the thing. For the last five years of my school life I had the great good fortune to attend a seriously “posh” (and spendy) boys-only private school in Johannesburg called St. John’s College. It was founded in the late 1890s and when I was there it was one of the the top five private boy’s schools in South Africa (the others being St. Andrew’s, Bishop’s, Michaelhouse and Hilton Colleges), and at the time all five were rated in the top 100 high schools in the world. Our “brother” school was Eton College in the U.K., and we had a continuous exchange program with both teachers and students. Here’s a sample pic of the school, taken from the “A” rugby field:

The large building on the left of the pic is the chapel — and actually, there are three chapels: the Crypt (semi-underground, and the oldest part of the school), the Main Chapel above it, and to the side the tiny All Souls Chapel which commemorates those past students and teachers killed in the various world wars. Here’s the Delville Wood Cross in the All Souls, made from one of the trees chopped down by shellfire in the 1916 battle and one of only five in existence:

And if you’ve been paying attention to my writings, Delville Wood was where my grandfather Charles Loxton fought and was wounded.

The buildings were designed by architect Sir Herbert Baker, who went on to design the South African Parliament buildings, in much the same style. This is the David Quad:

…and another view, taken from the other side:

The Darragh (dining) Hall:

Yeah, I know: Hogwarts. Except that all our teachers were like Snape. And finally, this is the “A” cricket field, which is on the other side of the school, on top of the ridge (the school is to the right):

In the traditional sense, a “college” is not a university; a university is a university. A college is a preparatory school for university. And so it was. Our academic life was rigorous to a degree which would nowadays be called “brutal”: bi-weekly (called “fortnightly” in the British fashion) examinations and report cards which went home to be signed and commented on by parents, and yes, we were “streamed” in A through D classes. So demanding was the work that a first-class pass (a “First”) in the final examination meant that one did not have to sit the entrance examinations for universities like Oxford or Cambridge; indeed, for a couple of subjects (e.g. Latin, which I took for all seven years), one could skip the first term at either of those universities. There was a post-grad year (called “The Sixth”) which offered U.K. A-levels, which I never took (and have regretted ever since).

Schoolwork wasn’t all. Sports, of course, were compulsory: cricket, swimming and athletics, along with electives of tennis and squash in the summer; and either rugby or field hockey in the winter. (Basketball was added much later — we called it “netball”, and it was only played in girls’ schools.) To say we were fit would be an understatement: pre-breakfast runs, calisthenics (“P.T.”) during school hours, and at least three afternoons a week devoted to sports (more if you played for a school team against other schools on Wednesdays and Saturdays). It wasn’t so much fitness as torture, but we were almost as fit as Olympic athletes as a result.

Discipline was likewise brutal (caning, detention, “hard labor” and suchlike exotica were routine), and it should come as no surprise for anyone to learn that I have the all-time record for the number of caning strokes — one hundred and twenty-eight — administered to my mischievous and it must be said deserving backside over the five years spent in College. (I only had a few, maybe a half-dozen or so, given to me in my two years in the Prep.) Caning was later abolished, which is why my total is the all-time record.

Above all, however, it should be said that St. John’s stressed two things: severely-circumscribed behavior (appearance, manners, discipline and religious discipline) and absolute freedom of thought. My last public speech at College, delivered without pre-censorship to the school, parents and staff, argued that prostitution should be legalized on health grounds. (Yes, I’ve changed the 16-year-old Kim’s opinion, although I still support the “health” rationale.) The next speaker’s topic was “Is religion still necessary in the modern world?” Neither speech drew anything but a dry “Interesting” from the Headmaster in his concluding comments, and all three speakers went on to get Firsts in the finals.

In short, St. John’s made absolutely no bones about the fact that we boys were going on to become productive citizens as part of the elite stratum of society. What we got out of our schooling was an absolute belief in ourselves and our worth to society, provided we didn’t take the wrong road (and lamentably, some did; but most didn’t). To be an Old Johannian means being a member of one of the most exclusive clubs in the world, and we can hold our head up in any company. As one of my school friends once put it: “There may be other places called ‘St. John’s College’ in the world; but ours is the only one that counts.”

So yes, SKB, my commentary is occasionally aristocratic and posh, not to mention elitist. You can blame St. John’s College for my upbringing, indoctrination and education, but I am unashamedly proud to be that way. Later this week, I’ll talk about The Club — otherwise known as “The Old School Tie Set”.

And for those who care, the School Prayer (from memory):

Lord God our Father, who art Light, Life and Love,
Look down with love upon our College of St. John.
Make it to be a home of religious discipline, sound learning and goodwill,
Which may send forth many, rightly-trained in body, mind and character,
To serve Thee well in church and state.
Supply our wants, and give us increase as shall seem Thee good;
And let Thine angels drive away all evil from us,
Through Thy Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ.
Amen.

The Great Skin Debate

Culture

Aaah, tattoos… or as I prefer to call them, body graffiti.

I have two major points to make about this topic.

The first is that I think that the acceptance of tattoos is yet another sign of the coarsening of our society and its growing decadence. If we look at who’s sported tattoos on their bodies in the distant past, it’s been primitive tribes attempting to make their warriors look more fearsome (e.g. Maoris, Amazon tribes), or else the womenfolk of the tribes trying to make themselves look unappealing to men once they were married / paired off permanently, or else all members of a tribe wearing the same markings as a symbol of identity, to distance them from members of other tribes. Regardless of why, however, the common aspect of all was that these were the actions of primitive peoples. So now it appears that because tattoos have become somehow “cool” or tokens of individuality, we as a society have to accept them. After all, nobody gets hurt, right? (I’m leaving out the tragedy of infection and so on, because that’s relatively rare nowadays.)

My other point is personal, so buckle yourself in, because this is going to be a bumpy ride. To start with a humorous take, here’s a little guide to tattoo placement:

I’ve never really understood tattoos as decoration. Maybe it’s because I was brought up to believe that only low-class types got tattoos: they, sailors and strange Asian people. However, it seems that nowadays just about everyone has them, except for every woman I’ve ever dated — it’s an immediate disqualifier for me: no matter how small, how discreet or how “tasteful”, ink on a woman’s skin = Kim moving in the general direction of away. I can understand why men get tattoos, because we’re idiots and do stupid shit all the time — not excusing, just understanding — but I see no reason why a woman should ever deface her body, for any reason whatsoever. (Yeah, I’m pedestalizing, to use that horrible modern term. Sue me.) Even stuff like this, while undoubtedly artistic and aesthetically pleasant to look at, occasions from me at best a disgusted curl of the lip when I see it in (or on) the flesh. On silk, it’s beautiful; on a woman’s skin, repulsive.

Then, of course, you get outcomes such as this one, which turns an already-trashy-looking girl into a vision of pure horror:

You just know she’s got a “tramp stamp” at the base of her spine. (My take on tramp stamps: regardless of the design or verbiage, what they’re all saying is: “Insert Here“.) Don’t even get me started on tattoos around the vulva… ugh.

I’ve also never understood why a beautiful woman would get a tattoo. (Ugly ones, sure: why not? You’re already ugly.) A good example would be Britain’s Got Talent judge Amanda Holden. Unquestionably, a lovely woman:

Inexplicably, she has two (!) tattoos. “Yeah, but they’re not visible, Kim!” Well, except (and one hopes, only) to her husband. Seems kinda pointless to me, especially for a woman who seems to have everything in her life under control. (But I’ll get to that later.) Then you get this neurotic bint, who says that older women getting a tattoo means that “they still have something to say”. Yes, and that something is: “Getting older doesn’t necessarily mean getting wiser.”

Of course, my ire is not just aimed at women. David Beckham, supremely-talented footballer and canny businessman, has turned his once-handsome body into some kind of freak show:

Jesus wept. (Literally: see bottom-left corner.) I know: footballers are generally low-class scum (also musicians, another massively-tattooed segment of the population), but even for scum, Beckham’s taken it A Picture Too Far (or several pictures too far). (For my Lady Readers, here’s Beckham, pre-body-decorations:)

Note, by the way, that he’s wearing a shirt to cover up some of his arm tattoos. That was the manufacturer’s marketing department, not wanting to alienate the average consumer.

When it comes to men, I sort of get the “bonding” rationale — “Semper Fi”, “U.S.S. Arizona”, “Rangers Lead The Way”, and even “Harley-Davidson” and so on. I also get the “commemorative” ones: “Bagram AFB 2015”, “Bastogne 1944” etc. I don’t agree with the rationale, but I get it. But as for examples like Beckham’s? Sorry, I got nothing. I just ascribe it to “Men Do Stupid Shit” and move along. (And please spare me the “bad boy” bullshit. Real bad boys don’t advertise; and women who get taken in by that deserve everything they get, e.g. hepatitis C.)

Here’s how I approach the whole issue. If I were going to get a tattoo, I say to myself, what would it be? What would I want to immortalize on my skin?

Right off, I can eliminate messages, sayings, or any verbiage whatsoever. I can think of no saying or statement that would qualify as worthy of being on my body, forever. “Mother”? Give me a break. If I’d ever got one of those idiotic things, my mom would have killed me. Yeah, you love your mother. Me too. Everybody else too. BFD. And as for those “affirmation” expressions: “Love Is All”, “Strength Through Willpower”, “Keep Believing” (in what? God? yourself? the Chicago Cubs? a Doobie Brothers reunion?”), and my All-Time Bullshit Message: “No Mercy”… really? You’re that much of a bad-ass that you have to advertise it? It’s “message” body art by Hallmark, except Hallmark would never create crap messages such as these. I also love the ones which feature Chinese or Japanese pictograms, and laugh like hell when the hapless recipient discovers that the tattooist has actually written “Idiot Gaijin” or “Won Ton Soup” instead of “Mighty Warrior”, as requested.

And then there’s the stupefying array of crucifixes. Yeah, I bet Jesus is SO proud of you. Why don’t you just wear a simple crucifix on a chain around your neck — it says the same thing, is less painful / expensive, and as a bonus, you don’t look trashy. If it comes to Christians like this, give me an Orthodox Jew any day. (Tattoos are forbidden under Talmudic Law as something like “defiling God’s creation”. No truer words were ever written.)

The problem is, when we think of images to be tattooed onto our skin, we fondly think they’re likely to look beautiful and artistic, like this:

…when the odds are better that they’ll instead come out like this:

You know, that last pic actually makes me feel nauseated. Imagine that woman serving you food at a restaurant… and yes, I have asked to be moved to another table featuring a non-sleeved waitress (Kirby Lane in Austin, TX).

And I note that tattoo reversal is becoming HUGE business in Japan, because companies are finding that employees with unmarked skin tend to be better at their jobs — less absenteeism, better attitude, more reliable — and are therefore refusing to hire people with visible tattoos. Just sayin’.

I remember doing one of those foul “speed-dating” things once, back when I was a single guy. My very first question to a prospective date was: “So… tell me the story behind your tattoos.” (There’s always a story / excuse.) Any response which wasn’t “I don’t have any tattoos!” meant she had no chance with me. More than half the women I spoke to were tattooed, sadly, so I didn’t bother with the speed-dating thing again. And for the record: I have never slept with a woman who has a tattoo. Won’t ever, either.

Here’s my final take. With only a few exceptions, I think decorative tattoos — especially comprehensive ones like full-body or sleeves — are indicative of some mild form of pyschosis. There is a peculiar strain of either narcissism or self-loathing involved, and (paradoxically) maybe both. Whatever it is, I’m not really interested in trying to understand it.

Yup. You call it “clever-ironic-witty”, I call it confirmation.

———————————————————————————

 Afterthought: I’ve probably pissed off a sizeable number of people with this post. I don’t care. If you are thus defaced, know that there’s a considerable proportion of the population who feels exactly the same way as I do — and as I always say, if you’re going to deliberately set yourself apart from polite society, don’t be surprised when you’re treated like a pariah. Or maybe that’s the point: “I’m a rebel!” Yeah, you and all the other people with tattoos. Repeat after me: “We’re all individuals!”

Yeesh.

Another Dinner Guest

Men & Women

In an earlier post, I talked about my favorite all-time dinner guest, David Niven. Yesterday I was asked about my favorite living dinner guest, and I do have one, but I need to explain my rationale first.

A dinner party is not a place where I want to engage in deep philosophical discussions, or intense socio-political debate. At a dinner party, I want to be entertained, and the wittier, more erudite guest will always get the nod ahead of someone like, say, Thomas Sowell, who is beyond-words brilliant and a wonderful person to know withal. (My respect for Dr. Sowell is immense. I’ve read pretty much everything he’s ever written, and whenever I see one of his articles online, it’s “drop the baby and get over there” time.) But while Sowell is a brilliant man, he’s not a polymath like I am — most experts are pretty focused on their areas of expertise — and nah, I want a guy like myself, who’s interested in everything, the kind sometimes called a “Renaissance Man”.

Enter Stephen Fry. Read more

Quote Of The Day

QOTD

From some unknown British woman, screaming at a random Muslim guy:

“Do you wanna know why I’m being racist? In my own country? Because it’s your race that’s blowing up our fucking nation!”

You know, in a strange way, she makes perfect sense. Look, I know that “Muslim” is not a race — but it’s the Muzzies (and liberal asswipes) who’ve turned it into a racial issue, instead of a religious and/or cultural one. Every time a Muslim screams “racism” when in fact someone is taking issue with their fucking 9th-century death cult, they’re leaving themselves open to shit like this.

And as for the Muslim feeling unsafe in his own country:  how exactly do you think British Anglos (for want of a better term) feel, when children get blown up at a pop concert and pedestrians get stabbed outside the Houses of Parliament by Muslim fuckheads? (And they are, most definitely, Muslims, by the way, despite attempts at whitewashing by the liberal media.) Do you think they feel safe?  And yes: when you set yourselves up in little Muslim-only ghettoes and neighborhoods where non-Muslim women feel threatened just for wearing a minskirt, when Muslim men set up entire pedophile clubs “because these are infidel girls, so it’s okay”, then how the fuck do you think people are going to treat you? Like one of their own?

Given what Islam has wrought in Britain over the past twenty years, let me tell you:  I’m on this woman’s side more than I am on the random Muslim’s.

Not Wanted

Two-Minute Hate

From some tart at PJMedia:

I got my dad an Amazon Alexa (shhh…don’t tell him). I plan to set him up with the Pandora polka station, the weather, and sports scores and see how that goes before we move on to more advanced skills like controlling the lights. He doesn’t “do” technology, so I’m not sure what’s going to happen. Who am I kidding? I know exactly what’s going to happen: he’ll be throwing it at the wall by day’s end.

If my kids installed that creepy little piece of technology in my home without me knowing about it, I’d be throwing them at the wall.

Fucking “Internet of Things”… what a load of utter bullshit. Malevolent bullshit.

Object Lesson #2

Terrorism, The Gun Thing

And, children, this is why you need to carry your handgun with you at all times:

Several shots were fired at a truck flying a “Make America Great Again” flag and an American flag on a highway in Indianapolis Tuesday afternoon, Fox 59 reported. Luckily, no one was hurt in the incident, which looks like a possible case of left-wing terrorism.
Indiana State Police say a newer white 4-door Chevrolet Malibu with a Louisiana plate pulled up next to the pickup truck. A black male passenger held a handgun out of the window and fired several shots at the pro-Trump truck. Police say no one was in injured in the incident. The driver of the Malibu was described as a black male around the age of 23. The passenger was described as a light skinned black male with a sleeve tattoo on his right arm.

Somebody tell me if the shooter was some random White asshole and the target a Black woman with a Hillary! bumper sticker, that the media reaction would have been somewhat different. On second thoughts, don’t bother. We all know the answer to that one.

But seriously: this violence by the Left can only be addressed by a violent reaction, i.e. the intended target returning fire. Hence the need to have a gun with you at all times.

Just remember that we didn’t start this foolishness. But if we’re confronted with it, like in the above scenario, we are damn sure going to finish it — if, that is, we’re prepared for it.

Carry your gun. All the time.

Update: from Longtime Reader GMC70 in Comments, thoughts which really deserve to be part of this post:

Just remember to learn the law of self-defense in your jurisdiction, and apply it correctly.
And as an attorney, I’ll throw in gratis my recommendations should you ever have to use that weapon to defend life:
1) make sure YOU (or someone at your direction) call 911, and request assistance.  Too often, the “victim” is simply the 1st person to call 911. State to the operator (it’s recorded, remember) that “I was forced to fire my weapon to defend myself” or words to that effect as appropriate.  DO NOT elaborate or go into detail with the operator.  And make sure that if an ambulance is appropriate, you notify them of that.
2) when law enforcement arrives, DO NOT have your gun in your hand unless absolutely necessary; you do not want to be mistaken for the BG.  Acknowledge the obvious – your rounds are in the goblin, and say, again, “I was forced to defend myself (or another) with my weapon,” as appropriate.  STOP THERE.  Do not elaborate.  For God’s sake DO NOT – EVER – LIE TO LAW ENFORCEMENT.  You can refuse to talk, but you cannot lie.  And it will not help you, in the long run.  There are too many ways for lies to be discovered for what they are.
3) note witnesses, and make sure their names and addresses are recorded.  If necessary, do this yourself; you may not be able to rely on law enforcement to do it.
4) At some point you are likely to be asked to make a detailed statement.  POLITELY DECLINE TO DO SO.  Personally, my statement will  “officer, I’m rattled by this experience and I need to collect my thoughts (or get checked out by medical, if the circumstances warrant) and clear my head before I make a statement.”   They may arrest you – let them.  DO NOT MAKE ANY STATEMENTS WITHOUT CONSULTING AN EXPERIENCED AND QUALIFIED ATTORNEY.   At this point, LEOs may not be your friends.  If they’re good officers, they’ll understand; if they’re not, making a statement may not help you, and could hurt you.  DO NOT hurt yourself by making statements without collecting your thoughts and carefully considering the impact of the statements.  Remember – as a general rule, when an officer takes a suspect into a room for questioning (and at this point, you’re a suspect), he’s not there to get the facts.  He’s there to get a confession.  And confession and truth (or facts) are not necessarily the same thing.
5) After consulting with an attorney, and considering what is in your best interests, you may submit a statement and/or submit to questions – with your attorney present.  And how you proceed from there should be in full consultation with a qualified attorney.
Remember – trials are not about truth, they are about the perception of truth.  The only “truth” that matters, at that point, is what those 12 people in the jury box decide is the truth.  Do not give the State ammunition to prosecute you.  And some prosecutors may want to prosecute you just for the principle of the thing – I’ve seen it.

Here’s to hoping you’ll never need that advice.