Essays in Idleness

If the Viking priests from the age of the Orkneyinga Saga (composed eight centuries ago, about matters through centuries before it), returned suddenly to their old haunt on Papa Stronsay, they would have lively conversation with the current inhabitants. As they could not speak English, nor these new monks Old Norse, the chatter would be in Latin. The Mass they would celebrate together would also be in Latin, of course, and the Vikings would have no difficulty in following it. For it was their Mass, too.

The gentle reader who does not already know about the Transalpine Redemptorist presence in Orkney may inform himself (here, and perhaps also, here). For it is more than the “romantic story,” of a genuinely counter-cultural adventure. In some sense one might say that the living centre of the Catholic Church is now more on that bleak, and beautiful island of Papa Stronsay, than in the heart of today’s pagan Rome. This seems especially so in light of the recent Synod; as to me, after reading the current pope’s latest remarks at the conclusion of it — full of his characteristic slights and insults towards traditional practitioners of the Catholic faith.

I know that many faithful are hurting, or quite understandably angry; that they feel violated and betrayed. That is why I am writing like this, reminding that Christ will bind wounds; that He will not betray us.

Christ goes where He is wanted, and under present circumstances that is far, far away, “to the peripheries” — or rather, let us cut the cheap sociological blather and say, “to the ends of the Earth.” He is in love with the bright-eyed peoples of Africa; and with those suffering under murderous tyrannies in Asia and the Middle East. By contrast in Europe, and here in the Americas, in our life of fat and consumption, we now have little use for Him; and so He leaves us to find our own way, progressively, downward.

Yet in many rural and remote places, and even sometimes in little neighbourhoods within the huge, fraught cities of these once-Christian realms, His Church is flourishing. The numbers may be tiny in proportion to the general population, but wherever that old Latin Mass is sung, there are vocations, and there is revival. Where it is not, the Church is dying out; and yet here, too, where the Mass of the Ages, and through it the teaching of the ages, is no longer made available, individual novus-ordo Christians still wait and humbly pray for relief.

Christ is there, forever in the Eucharist; and wherever it is taken by the shriven with real faith and the childlike understanding, the power of the Redemption is felt. (And where it is taken by appropriation, unworthily “by right,” the power of Judgement is visited instead.) He is present in the sincerity of all private prayer and petitions, extending from that Mass, and every good and virtuous deed, done in the communion of the Saints. Christ is crucified, dead, and risen; He is alive. Try as they will, His detractors will ever fail to kill Him.

This is simply how things are, and how they always were and will be. Within every cell of the true Church is the relation between that small Christian soul, and this Tremendous Lover. (See here.)

We have often before been abandoned by priests and bishops, with their own private agendas, or strutting their fake “humility” for the adulation of crowds. We have had bad popes; we have had every sin of which men are capable, done in sacred places. This is the world, and this is what men are: fallen. Let them seek forgiveness, and pick themselves up; do what they can to rectify the damage they have caused, the pain they have gratuitously inflicted. Let them open their eyes before Our Lord closes them forever. It makes no sense to choose the road to Hell.

There is nothing new under the Sun, and I see that Saint Peter Damian’s Liber Gommorrhianus, or “Book of Gomorrah,” from ten centuries ago, is once again circulating, in English translation. (Can be ordered here.) It is from another age, when clerical corruption, including rampant sodomy and pederasty, was threatening the integrity of holy orders. Damian was an ascetic, at home in the remote Italian hills, but as I recall from a previous translation of this book, he can be unpleasantly modern in his forensic descriptions of what priests and monks descend to, when they become depraved. He turns, with a form of mercy that is excoriating, upon the most common crime: then as now, the satanic tampering with adolescent boys.

He provides, too, the context for this corruption, through cross-allusion to simony and careerist self-advancement (his Liber Gommorrhianus ought ideally to be read alongside his Liber Gratissimus) — directing fearless, full-bore attacks on the princes of the Church who make themselves comfortable, and hide the crimes. The book made its author extremely unpopular, and the defence of him, by Pope Leo IX, though brave at first, became increasingly lukewarm. But the scandals it exposed were quietly acknowledged and gradually addressed. The shame that this saint had helped to reawaken slowly triumphed over the filth of this eleventh-century liberalism.

This is not the whole story of Petrus Damiani, some of whose miscellaneous writings on the spiritual and contemplative life are also known to me through the excellent translations of Patricia McNulty (1959, here). These are precious, very positive works, curiously contemporary with that saga of conversion in the northern wilds. This lonely Benedictine would likewise be at home with those monks on Papa Stronsay, so far away from him in space and time.

It was beloved Benedict XVI, incidentally, who through his motu proprio, Summorum Pontificum, brought the Transalpine Redemptorists back into full communion with Holy Church. They were a product of the SSPX reaction against the liberal innovations that followed from Vatican II, and the account of their relations with Rome is complex and often vexed. So it must be in a generation when the Vatican bureaucracy is more easily alarmed and scandalized by the persistently faithful, than by the faithless and glib. But that generation is already passing into ashes.

Our task is to keep our moorings in the true and unchanging Magisterium, clinging, as it were, “to our guns and our Bibles,” or to distant treeless islands as the case may be. For wherever Christ is — however cold, windy, and wet — we are at home in the breast of Our Saviour.

It seems that Tony Blair and I were wrong about Iraq — at least, according to Tony, who made a less than complete confession to some other talking head on the weekend. Jeb, the brother of Dubya Boosh, says something similar from time to time, by way of securing his reputation as a wimp in his own run for the U.S. presidency. In the clear light of retrospection, maybe they wouldn’t have thrown that particular rock into that particular hornet’s nest from that particular angle. All the same, they’re glad we got Saddam.

They may speak for themselves. (I permit it.) But speaking only for myself, given better information from the intelligence agencies (and so forth), I’d do it all over again — the way I wanted it done in the first place.

Gentle reader knows my opinion of “democracy,” and might trust I would not have spent thousands in blood and billions in treasure trying to install “democracy” in Iraq. Let the politicians apologize for that mistake. No: I would have picked a plausible Arab Strongman, who understood the regional facts of life, in just the way we had remodelled them: “You’re with us, or you’re with them, and we have the missiles.”

In other words, proceed from the “invasion” phase to the “surge” phase, without the long intermission.

Call me a bloodthirsty warmonger, but I thought the operation was military in nature, and the quicker it were over, the better. This, moreover, because, as I was aware then, and am even more aware now, the Western television audience has a short attention span; and voters, though enthusiastic at first, tire of foreign wars quickly. Focus, therefore, on wiping out anything that looks like an enemy in short order; then leave a few discreet bases scattered about to repeat the operation when and where required. Do what you can to avoid “collateral damage,” but don’t fuss it: more lives are saved by a drama that, so far as humanly possible, observes the Aristotelian unities.

This is hard nasty geopolitical stuff in a fallen world. One does not waste punches, nor bluff. I admired President Bush because, while supposedly inarticulate, he was able to communicate the notion, “You do this, and we do that.” By showing that he meant it, to Kabul and Baghdad, he had, by May of 2003, everyone’s complete attention. America was the hyperpower, and everyone understood. (Twelve years later, that hyperpower has folded.)

More lives are saved by clarity and simplicity. The Daesh were able to flourish because so much wiggle room was supplied to them. Tony is right that the movement technically originated on the Syrian side of the border; but that was so largely because it had been driven there. The Daesh began to amount to something with Saddam’s surviving assets, mostly in capable personnel. For, whether or not sporting “ABC” weapons, Saddam did have international terrorist connexions, and considerable experience in manipulating them. He did have a plan for what to do if the Americans invaded; and though he may be posthumous, himself, it is still working.

I would go so far as to say that he outsmarted people like our Tony. For the Americans and British and all their other allies have gone home. And his Sunni-faction Daesh are still very much in business.

Put this another way: Why did we stop at the Syrian border? There were several unanswerable reasons to cross it in hot pursuit, of which only the first was to hunt down and kill escaping enemy forces.

Another was to win the Assad family over to “cooperation” with the USA, or failing that, to let them join their old Ba’athist allies in extinction.

To which end, many logistic problems could have been resolved by coming at them from two sides: from the Mediterranean as well as from the Persian Gulf. For Assad’s Hezbollah confederates — the Shia Iranian proxy — were also in need of inartistic pruning.

This last would in turn not only have improved everyday life in Beirut and Damascus; it would have clinched the “you’re next” message to Tehran. It would have mightily impressed our old NATO friends in Turkey; and have left Israel with one fewer front line to lose sleep over. And all for a fraction of the cost of the four lost years before General Petraeus and company “surged.”

Gaddafi never needed replacing. After all, when he’d had a good look at what Boosh had done about Saddam, he became quite reasonable, happily surrendering his own nuclear programme. Mubarak might still be in power, too, as the conditions for the Arab Spring (power vacuums) would not have coalesced. And I daresay the ayatollahs of Iran would be welcoming our nuclear inspectors, by a treaty less negotiated than dictated. There would certainly be no ever-mounting tide of refugees on European shores; and several million Christians would still be living in comparative peace in the locations where they were born.

“Peace through strength” is an old adage; or by way of preparation, “Peace through war.” Instead, we have been working on the idea of peace through shuttle diplomacy which — have you noticed? — always ends in failure. It is a failure by which vastly more lives are lost, or ruined, than by the success of prompt and decisive military action.

This, anyway, is where I disagree with Tony; yet still agree, in principle, with the proposed solution to the terrorist problem of that Dubya Boosh. It was, if gentle reader will recall, that each and every sovereign state will “deal with” (in the sense of, extinguish) the threats originating within its borders. Or, failing that, get a visit from the USMC.

Further to yesterday’s effusion, and to round out my comments for a week through which I have tried, Lord have I tried, to avoid “news,” “views,” and unpleasant speculation from the Synod at Rome; … well, I’ve been chatting with some fellow hack on a phone, and he said he had some questions for the bishops. “So have I, so have I,” it occurred, and the first seven questions come to mind were these:

1. Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing pow’r?
2. Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
3. Are you walking daily by the Saviour’s side?
4. Do you rest each moment in the Crucified?
5. When the Bridegroom cometh will your robes be white?
6. Will your soul be ready for the mansions bright?
7. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

If I had a single criticism it would be that the old guys have nae clew on this topic of “the family.” They give a poor impression of old celibates altogether; especially the Aryans. They have missed the whole point, and it was left to some Romanian woman (here), and to some Russian with a beard (here), to remind them what’s what, and how it fits together.

’Tis not just from the beginning of the Christian faith, but as Christ said to Moses from the start of this world: the man and the woman, created He twain. And it is by this arrangement that His world is peopled. The family is not about young divorcees and old perverts, Your Eminences, nae; it is about the bairns. And more, if ye be patient, … gentle reader. It is about the childers of thy childers, playing in the dust when thou art old:

I was told by me aunt, I was told by me mother,
That going tae a weddin’ is the makins of another;
Well, if this be so, I will go without a biddin’
O kind providence, won’t ye send me tae a weddin’ —
    And it’s O dear me, how will it be,
    If I die an old maid in a garret?

I can cook and I can sew, I can keep a house right tidy,
Rise up in the mornin’ and get the breakfast ready:
There’s nothin’ in this wide world would make me heart so cheery
As a wee fat man to call me his own deary —
    And it’s O dear me, how will it be,
    If I die an old maid in a garret?

Among my favourite pop-Protestant hymns is “To Be a Pilgrim,” as sung by the empyreal Maddy Prior. This partly at least because she sings the salty original words of John Bunyan, and not the fey Edwardian rewrite that is to be found in Vaughan Williams’ English Hymnal. Bunyan did not hesitate over terms such as “hobgoblin” and “foul fiend”; and can carry a pronoun through three stanzas. (In the churchy version, “he,” the Pilgrim, migrates to “we,” and “I,” as if Annibale Bugnini had been advising the Anglicans about the year 1906.)

Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend,
Can daunt his spirit;
He knows he at the end
Shall life inherit.
Then fancies flee away,
He’ll fear not what men say,
He’ll labour night and day
To be a Pilgrim.

A delicate Catholic question might be raised whether the Pilgrim’s confidence in being saved is a presumption upon Our Lord, or a manifestation of the theological virtue of Hope. The prose understanding would require the former, the poetical understanding the latter interpretation. I note that the passage is cast in verse.

It happens I was reading last night a collection of prayers by the late Thomas Dekker (c.1572–1632): playwright, pamphleteer, invincible Cockney, and all-round pioneering journalistic hack. It is entitled, Foure Birds of Noahs Arke, and I have a delicious facsimile of the little book, reset in hot metal (edited F.P. Wilson, 1924). The original was written and published in 1609, during the worst of the plague outbreaks in Jacobean London, when all the theatres were closed, and all the acting companies fled upcountry — or onto the Continent, where they first found that peasant German audiences could be enchanted by the works of such as Shakespeare, reduced to a kind of mime-show.

Dekker is among my beloveds, even though the two of us would not have got along; for we are hyperbolic in opposite ways. His prayer book is a prize, the more to be appreciated by anyone familiar with his plays. The man is salt-of-the-earth to start with, and quite often a rogue, but in offering prayer-texts for the common folk in their so several walks of life, he drops and loses his bag of conceits. Nothing could be plainer; the Faith that rings through those prayers is shorn of affectation.

We think of Bunyan as the finest face of the old Puritanism, but in his allegorical “excess” (for the modern reader, who has been alienated from allegory), he is Catholic in spirit. Too, he is so by his rigid adherence to Biblical teaching, which takes one ever home to our same common Christian place. But he is so, too, in the comparison that emerges to a writer like Dekker, who is strait-laced and po-faced when providing his moral instructions, setting the pleasures of this world in too strict opposition to the pleasures of Heaven — if he has a fault. Bunyan, by comparison, could belly-laugh like a Catholic, and took it for granted that, for instance, people joy in a little earthly splendour.

He (Bunyan) is all of one piece, where Dekker will race from one cliff-edge to another. But that starkness is also Dekker’s strength:

“Christ the Sonne of GOD, is the Pellican, whose blood was shed out to feed us: the Physician made of his owne bodie a medicine to cure us; looke upon him well, and beholde his bodie hanging on a crosse, his wounds bleeding, his blood trickling on the earth, his head bowed downe (as it were to kisse us),”

… and what follows is a vision of worldly corruption to curl your toes. All set in almost casual juxtaposition to the unheroic, quotidian life of the city.

Whereas Bunyan is our holie knight and Pilgrim. Combine these two aspects of the old English puritanism (itself a product of the later Middle Ages), as if uncrossing one’s two eyes, and the old Catholic Christianity seems fully restored: of an otherworldliness that can still be strangely comfortable in its own skin; that is secure and balanced on its both legs.

We are not “universal tourists” in the decadent manner, but Pilgrims all. We must revolt against a post-modern world that stands, not on the one leg or the other, but on nothing and nothingness. And I should think, together on our march to Heaven’s Gate in Jerusalem Wall — with both Bunyan and Dekker in our re-assembled, universal (“catholic”) entourage.

There are men I would trust with my life; men I would trust with my bags; men I would not trust with them; and those who need hanging. Using the hundred or so adult inmates of the Greater Doganate for my statistical sampling, I’d say it is one of those Pareto curves, in the common “rule of thumb” ratio, of 1:4:4:1. But only until I had thought about it. Take in the rest of the street, and the distortions become more apparent, towards the gibbet end. That is city life. Were I on a small yacht, however, sailing through the Roaring Forties in the Southern Ocean, I would want to be crewing exclusively with members of that minority first class.

Now, there are few circumstances in which statistics are of interest to me, but this might be one. From my (necessarily) limited observations, I do not think the curve applies universally, any more than the waves are the same upon all the world’s seas. Call me politically incorrect (and you’d better not because the term is now marked as discriminatory), there are cultural and subcultural variations which, though fluid, alter the proportions.

Among the more absurd myths, of contemporary public thinking, is that people are basically the same everywhere; that you can put them all on some standard curve. This may be, or not, true of human nature, in some (imaginary) pre-cultural condition, but the living creature has more range. Better and worse can be got out of him, and this is where “culture” deeply matters. To say that “one is as good as another” — the premiss of current multicultural policy — is, whether knowingly or not, to serve dark forces.

Some vexation comes from the leftwing convention of using words, for the purposes of propaganda, in the exact opposite of their original meanings: in this case, “diversity” is used to describe enforced conformity. Such words are then used as if they were things, so that reality is entirely negated. But it is important, as one discovers living in Parkdale, to ignore fools and the mad.

The original terms have many meanings, each of which depends on context, but at some primary level the acceptance of “cultural inequality” distinguishes right from left, the conservative from the liberal, the reactionary from the revolutionary, or as I like to put it, the friends of Jesus from the friends of Lucifer. This, and not folderol about “free markets.” Men are trouble — we are all trouble — in the more ancient view; and it is hard work indeed to get anything good from us. Success does not come by laissez-faire. And anything that is done to raise civilized standards, creates a cultural distinction.

Read no more than the Koran, and the Gospels, and gentle reader will see that even after discounting the range of individual temperament, the human product cannot be the same. Look through centuries of comparative history, and the point is illustrated. Mohammed, and Christ, are not interchangeable prophets. There is some overlap in their teachings, but the centres of the resultant cultural and spiritual realms are radically displaced. Many of the differences are both unsubtle, and consistent over time. Either may be judged at its best, or at its worst; but neither are they like at the extremes.

Having put God aside, for one hypothetical, pragmatic moment, we might judge only from the behavioural effects. The same is possible between any two “cultural constructs,” at a given scale; and prior to the post-modern triumph (itself a manifestation of culture), there was little hesitation in making the comparisons at every level of sophistication. Read any old Baedekers to see what I mean; note that they were written by more intelligent authors than those who supply the copy for the glitzy tour guides of the present day.

We are almost all wealthy tourists in the West, in the last couple of generations, but the conditions of the journey have changed: less than one in a thousand is an old-fashioned traveller, exposed to anything outside his quotidian sweep of experience. We fly from one resort to another for aptly-named “vacations.” We have Internet, too. It is for this reason, perhaps — the reduction of the human to the incurious, pleasure-seeking beast — that the post-modern, smug, ignorant, addled, and vacant “universal tourist” makes up the overwhelming majority on all our voting rolls.

I am making, once again this morning, an extremely obvious point, and to a plain purpose, crossing all boundaries of politics and religion. No scoring system will ever work, and no policy prescriptions could be based on it: for what I have written is far too general.

My point is rather the reverse. Neither can policy prescriptions be based on the opposite, and entirely absurd position, that cultural differences are of no consequence, and can be overlooked. Yet this is exactly what is done by all of our progressive parties.

There are at least two tables, within pubs in the Greater Parkdale Area, where, notwithstanding I was once quite welcome, I am not today. Some think this is because of my opinions, which are those of a rightwing fanatic and religious nutjob. But no: it is because I am willing to express them. This is a form of incontinence, one might argue; and like other forms, it may accord with increasing age. Yet I do not think that silence is invariably golden.

To hear me tell it — and whom else were you expecting, gentle reader? — it goes like this. In years past, I would sit quietly and ignore nonsense, especially political nonsense, spoken by my fellow imbibers. I can still do this. Many of the most ludicrous remarks, on any passing issue, are not actually opinions of the speaker. He simply echoes or parrots the views of the media and his own social class. I’ve been absorbing this “background music” for years; why revolt now? The noise is anyway not arguments but gestures.

Say, “Stephen Harper,” and watch the eyeballs roll. Say, “George Bush,” and still, ditto. Say “Richard Nixon,” however, and you don’t get much of a rise any more, for memories out there are short, very short.

(A Czech buddy, in the olden days, once performed this experiment in a pub. “I just love that Richard Nixon!” he declared, in his thick, Slavic accent, loud enough to afflict the Yankee draft-dodgers at the next table, who’d been prattling about Watergate too long. “Gives those liberals heart attacks,” he added. … Some bottle-tossing followed from that, and we were all banned together, so ended up as friends.)

On the other hand say, “Barack Obama,” and they will focus like attentive puppies. Or, “Justin Trudeau” to the ladies, to make them coo.

It is a simple Pavlovian trick, and might be done in reverse in a rightwing bar, except, there are no rightwing bars in big cities.

Yet everyone knows there are rightwing people, even in Greater Parkdale. And they are welcome anywhere they want to buy a pint, the more if they’re buying for the whole table. The one condition is that they must keep their “divisive” opinions to themselves.

My weakness is for retaliation. I will ignore “background music,” but will not sit quietly being needled, when the remarks are addressed specifically to me. I might endure a cuteness or two, from someone perfectly aware of my opinions, but by about the third time I find the Leftoid checking for my pulse, I’m inclined to show it.

This is never expected. If it’s a man, he will generally go pale, silent, stunned. If it’s a woman, she may burst into tears. And yet nothing I said required raising my voice; nor uttering anything factually untrue. It is instead the use of plain language, with which the post-modern cannot cope. Raised as he has been in a bubble, he may never have been contradicted before.

What interests me, as a “sign of the times,” is that the needling is, in every case, both rude and open. It is like the rocks thrown at the Jamarat, in Mecca. It seems not odd, when everyone is doing it. The malice is like that of the Palestinians, directed towards the Jews. It happens every day; everyone expects it. Only when the Jews defend themselves, does outrage suddenly boil over. How dare they respond in such a “disproportionate” way? How dare those Jews strike back, when all we were doing was knifing them?

I mention this by way of qualifying something I wrote yesterday: “His acceptance speech last night was sort-of sweet; it showed him still quite damp behind the ears.”

Perhaps “sort-of sweet” gave the wrong impression. In the speech, our prime minister-elect congratulated himself and his colleagues on what he imagined to be their moral superiority:

“We beat fear with hope. We beat cynicism with hard work. We beat negative, divisive politics with a positive vision that brings Canadians together.”

The rest of the speech extended this theme: what good people Liberals are; and by easy inference, what bad people the Conservatives they defeated. There was nothing gracious or magnanimous for relief. Yet it sounded so sweet, so innocent, so naively “damp behind the ears.” The young cherub actually does not realize that he is promoting: fear, cynicism, and negative, divisive politics. That he is expressing himself in a passive-aggressive way.

Had Harper won, as he might have had he had the wit to make the campaign shorter, he would, as in the past, have avoided this kind of moral posturing, simply because it is ugly and crass — as it would have appeared, coming from his mouth. He would have spoken well of his opponents, and congratulated them on a good fight. He would not have continued kicking the opponent he had defeated — because he is an adult, and has some decency. For that matter, Martin, Chrétien, Mulroney, Pearson, would not have done it either. (Of the elder Trudeau, one could never be sure.)

Charity and civility alike require that these “innocents” be admonished — in the hope that, eventually, they will acquire the first glimmer of self-knowledge.

To my mind, it is often wrong to let the moment pass. We should prick their bubbles. Stop trying to play “nice” with people who do not play “nice” with us; stop conceding their self-conceits. This might even be a moral imperative: to stop confirming the crazed in their delusions.

“While Mr Trudeau is the product of two political families — his father was prime minister — he came to politics late, after working as a snowboard instructor.”

A friend in Washington ping’d me this webpage snip from the New York Times this morning, together with his condolences. It captures, perhaps, more adequately than the editors realized, the mindset of our prime minister-elect.

We are in a new political era, not only in Canada I’m afraid. I think of Obama in USA, Trump and Sanders rising; Corbyn across the water; the various “national front” and regional separatist parties now topping the polls in Europe; governments like Syriza’s re-elected in Greece.

What do they all have in common?

Ideologically, one might say they are all over the map. Moreover, self-serving malice and incompetence are normal in politics; it would be unreasonable to present either as an innovation. I am not looking for the kind of commonplace that applies to politicians in all places and times.

Yet we were once dealing with a class of political tradesmen who had clawed their way up the ranks. They arrived in office with some notion of how things work. In the case of Canada’s outgoing prime minister, there was some appreciation of economics, or accountancy. Much as I despised his Liberal predecessors, they also knew what a budget was, and could discern differences between large and small numbers. The elder Trudeau, genetically half-Scotch like me, was a notorious tightwad with his own money; his contrasting extravagance with the public purse showed that he was at least sharp enough to tell them apart.

By extension, these “old style” politicians were also mentally fitted out with clues to what other departments of government did, or tried to avoid doing. There was a certain “professionalism,” a painfully-acquired knowledge of the ropes, and how to pull them. Prime Minister Chrétien, for instance, I despised as a man, in a personal way, given dealings between us; but I could admire him as a political craftsman. Many others, likewise, including Harper most of the time. Cynical or sleazy they might be, but some knowledge of “the system” was de rigueur. The elder Trudeau had spent most of his adult life preying at the edge of the Dominion bureaucracy; he (alas) knew what he was doing when he went in to ravage Canada’s justice system.

Now we have “airheads.” The term is perhaps over-colloquial, but I think it best expresses the quality our new leaders share, wherever they might fall on the old left-to-right spectrum. While some (like the younger Trudeau, or Bill Clinton’s wife) come from political families, or have had (as Corbyn) a life-long obsession with madcap political schemes, the connecting bits are missing in their overview of governance. Mrs Clinton’s embarrassments with email make a good example. The shocking thing is not that she broke secrecy regulations that have landed lesser government officials in gaol. It is that she truly did not know any better.

The Trudeau boy is a generation younger. In addition to snowboarding, his experience includes nightclub bouncer, and teaching high school in Vancouver. To many (me for instance), his father was a devil in human flesh, his mother demonstrably insane, yet the lad was not really exposed to politics until it came into his head, or into the heads of Liberal Party organizers, that thanks to his family connexion, he could probably get elected to Parliament, in Montreal. This happened in 2007; he now has approximately eight years of bewilderment under his belt. His acceptance speech last night was sort-of sweet; it showed him still quite damp behind the ears.

I don’t think he is especially malicious. He has plenty of old-school party advisers to surround him like bodyguards along his way. Indeed, through a leak we discovered they were already dividing the spoils of government contracts, as victory in Quebec came into view. The lad himself has the media savvy of the selfie generation, and can more or less handle the bofferball questions from a sympathetic press. His sincerity shines when it comes to a small range of policy enthusiasms, such as the legalization of marijuana and brothels, and he is visibly convinced that peace is much nicer than war. His promises of “hope and change” may be content-free, for the time being, but I’m sure he “believes” in the drivel he is mouthing. I expect he will prove more used than using, as his government agenda falls into place.

Perhaps I should explain what I mean by “drivel.” I could write, “lies,” but these are only possible to those who have criteria for the truth. Drivel is what people talk who have no such criteria. “Bullshit” is the interchangeable term. The fact that what they’re saying may be true, or untrue, is of no significance to them. It is enough that it sounds plausible. The truthful man knows when he is lying; the post-modern neither knows nor cares. He can believe himself “good,” as drivellers will do, because truth doesn’t come into it.

The old-style politician told knowing lies. The new-style politician does not know what “lies” are. He uses the term rhetorically, against anything he does not want to hear. The old-style politician would back down when confronted with the truth. The new-style politician does not know what you are talking about. He assumes you are only trash-talking him.

“The people” believe in drivel, too, as they have just proved. As I’ve mentioned before, the overwhelming majority of the general, voting population have been morally and intellectually debilitated — “idiotized” is my preferred term — by post-modern media and education, and by spiritual neglect within (often broken) post-modern homes. Large vested interests can lead them by the nose, even while they imagine themselves victims of conspiracy.

For his very numeracy, the outgoing Harper seemed like a Machiavellian conspirator to them. He lacked the warm, mooshy qualities that the “compassionate” politician learns to fake on television. The media told them that Harper was a manipulator, a cold hard calculator, a baddie, a blue meanie trying to keep taxes down for his friends — even though he didn’t have any.

According to polls, only a tiny minority “trust” the honesty of the media; and yet almost everyone today is supersaturate with the products of that media and entertainment industry — in which our new political order is subsumed. Verily: the idea that the media can’t be trusted is a constant media meme. But again, the category of actual “lies” is absent. The people mean “untrustworthy” in another sense; in the sense of, “conspiring against us” — the black hats against the white hats, in that Hollywooden manner.

There are no conspiracies; or rather, none can be successful for long. Those with some knowledge of the world will appreciate the aphorism, that a secret can be kept between two people, only if one of them is dead. (Or if they are married: according to the traditional definition.) Conspiracies fade in the morning light; the perpetrators must fall back on armed tyranny, or nothing.

It only appears that there are vast rightwing conspiracies, or leftwing conspiracies for that matter, because an other-worldly conspirator is at work. He was known as the Devil in former Christian times. He is the primary exploiter of the idiotized — who do not even know he exists.

Two events to mention in the Greater Parkdale Area, today.

By far the most important, in the view of most citizens, will be the baseball game at the former Sky Dome (can’t remember what they call it now), between our Blue Jays and the strangely-named Kansas City “Royals.” As monarchists, we are pleased when any Yanquis genuflect, though puzzled given republican tendencies in the rest of that country.

On looking it up, I discover that the name derives from the American Royal, a livestock show and rodeo in that Missouri port, dating back to the nineteenth century. Now all I need to know is why they called that “the Royal.” …

Aha, goddit. … Rivalry was being offered to the (rather older) livestock show (less rodeo) of the (English) Royal Agricultural Society. … There is a “Royal Welsh Show,” too, which includes falconry and racing events such as four-in-hand that must resemble a rodeo; so why not also a “Royal American Show”? All my Loyalist ancestors approve.

I thought the Kansas City baseball team were called the Athletics, but silly me. That one apparently moved to Oakland, California, forty-six years ago. We all know what Gertrude Stein thought of Oakland. And now we all know that my own interest in baseball fizzled at the age of fifteen. My heart does, however, still rise to some results in “the insect game,” as my Chief Texas Correspondent calls it. He refers to the noble game of cricket: descended, I think (though nobody else does), from the old Roman Harpastum, played with something the size and density of a softball.

As we are reminded by the current Rugby (Union) World Cup, being played over there, the ancient Romans and Alexandrian Hellenists also played a masculine bladder-ball game, involving more gladiatorial collision. The description in the Deipnosophists sounds very much like rugby à quinze. Galen thinks it might be good exercise; Martial mentions it in an epigram; Cicero somewhere describes a freak accident when the follis (football) came through the window of a barber shop, surprising the barber, who then cut the throat of the customer he was shaving. (Well, I share Cicero’s taste for sick humour.)

Nothing is new under the sun, except, the prospect that the Blue Jays will be taken by the Royals in four straight, which would sadden my countrymen, but delight me, as it would prevent the Jays from winning or losing the so-called “World Series” — with all the riots and property damage that implies. Long story short: game three of the qualifying series happens tonight, and if the bat of our swaggering José Bautista (a legal Hispanic immigrant) isn’t swinging correctly, Toronto’s windows may yet be saved.

On the other hand, repairs after public violence and bloodletting are good for the GDP.

*

There is also a “federal” (i.e. Dominion) election today, which will give my fellow citizens something to do with their time while waiting for the big game to start.

Had the baseball match been last night, instead, I’d have been cheering fulsomely for the Jays, knowing that victory would make people feel good about themselves, and thus vote for Harper, swinging perhaps thirty close Ontario seats, and keeping the Conservatives in power. As it stands, the glumness and anxiety are likely to push them the other way, so that we wake up tomorrow morning with little Justin Trudeau (son of the Antichrist) elected to the prime minister’s office. Which would be all very well if you happened to live in another country.

No point in voting here in inner Parkdale, where the contest is only between the two Cloud Cuckoo parties, and no politician even partially sane (Rob Ford comes to mind, in the moments when he is off crack) will long flourish. Too, this is so in the heart of every modern Western metropolis, outside the USA, where there is no competition, and all the mental and material underclasses vote for one and the same godforsaking party. (I find it takes at least three to divide this constituency effectively.) The Trudeau child has already won the hearts of Canada’s sentimental female electorate, so the only question is how many men will be voting.

I could explain to gentle foreign reader how sad this all is, but hey, you don’t need to know. All I can do is express my envy for you, being at a distance; and recoil in my usual way from the poisoned fruits of “democracy.” Alas, they ask voters for photo-ID up here (unlike down there in the Natted States Merica), which makes stuffing the ballot box damnably hard.

Just before attaching him to the helium balloon, that will carry him eastward towards China, I should like to explain to some gentle readers why a certain beloved Pope Benedict, who knew a certain Cardinal Kasper to be an heretick, did not have him defrocked and excommunicated, but rather left him in position as a (prominent) bishop in Holy Church.

I have mentioned previously that in my humble, though authoritarian opinion, there are worse heretics that Kasper among the cardinals today. He has often boldly stood various orthodox Catholic red lines, which migrant liberals were trying to cross. That is a long footnote I am not going to write this morning, however. O Lord am I not.

One of the things I have come to understand by perusing Catholic media in Germany, Switzerland, the Low Countries, northern France — is that guys like Kasper are actually conservative, compared with their laity. I’ve seen polls to suggest that large majorities of nominal Catholics wanted stuff like gay marriage yesterday, and can’t imagine a reason for not offering communion to anyone who walks in off the street. Once-Catholic Ireland gave us a plain taste of this, when “same-sex marriage” was put to the vote there. Wail as we might about the failure of Catholic discipline and education, this is among the hard current facts of life.

Mafella Mercans should not take any comfort from an invidious comparison. As we know perfectly well, a substantial majority of nominal Catholics on this far side of the ancient western sea, think like the northern Europeans. The Nancy Pelosis and Joe Bidens and little Justin Trudeaus who serve as nominal Catholics in very public places are, moreover, not unrepresentative of these airhead masses. I have myself mixed with the effectively lapsed “nominariate” on many social occasions. When those liberals claim that they speak for the majority, they are, for a change, not lying. And of course Pope Francis is extremely popular with such people who, giving him only half attention, conclude that he is a “nominal” too.

Nor is this situation new. Long before, decades before, finally becoming a “Dogan” myself, I was vividly aware of it. Indeed, upon my own definitive conversion to Christianity, in 1976, this knowledge kept me from the Catholic Church. Every Catholic I knew was lapsed, back in that day — including each of the priests I consulted in England. It was why I found myself praying with the (beloved) high-church “Anglo-Catholic” fruitcakes, when not with the (beloved) low-church Evangelical nutjobs, in the carefully niche’d Anglican communion. A convert does not want, after all, lukewarm broad-church tea. (Soon after I discovered, however, that there were also some Catholics discreetly hidden within the Roman communion.)

I make this point at tedious length, because the full tedium must be appreciated. My fellow orthodox “holy rollers” tend easily to overlook the great white shark in our swimming pool. The masses in Africa may be drawn to the life-giving truth of the Catholic faith; the dwindling congregation in the modern West expect, when they whistle, that the faith will come to them. It is why the fatuous image of the “field hospital” rather appeals. It is the Holy Father’s way of saying, “I hear you whistling.”

Pope Benedict XVI, and John Paul before him, were not stupid men. They were trying to put a Church back together which, in “the spirit of Vatican II,” had all but fallen apart. The Hippocratic principle, first do no harm, was before them daily and Sundays. Both put up with a great deal of nonsense, that neither would have tolerated through breakfast in other circumstances.

Bishops like Kasper had to be endured, to avoid provoking open schism in such long-established Catholic realms as Bavaria and Flanders. Both popes worked with a “gradualist” strategy, in which the proclamation of a new and orthodox Catechism played an important part. The idea was to resume actually teaching the faith, with ever-increasing precision and energy, and let the heterodox die out. Only in the most extreme cases, of open defiance, did the gauntlets go down. Hans Kung, for instance, was too much for them.

To be sure, these were judgement calls, within a whole strategy that was a judgement call. It was like the classic accounting strategy, of eliminating a deficit not by cutting expenses, but by constraining their growth while revenues grow faster. This requires not only delicacy but patience. Had we continued to get popes in the mould of Wojtyla and Ratzinger, it had some chance of working.  Instead we now have a pope in the mould of Bergoglio, whose basic instinct is to blow the bank.

But we will see what is coming. For the opposite strategy, unthinkable at the moment, in the way in which War is unthinkable, may in the end prove the only sensible course. It would be for some future, muscular pope, to lay down the law from Rome, in unmistakable terms, and save the Church as she was saved in the course of many previous centuries — by the kind of “reform” that is designed to cut all the rot away. Rather than “pastorally accompany” the nominals farther and farther from received Catholic doctrine in faith and morals, we would “pastorally accompany” them to the door.

Or to vary the metaphor yet again, save the ship by dropping the deadweight overboard. (See Matthew, 18:6.)

As I say, this is unthinkable — not to the traditional Catholic mind, but to the unmanly sentimentalism of the post-modern. “Shape up or ship out” is not what we say to our sensitive, delicate flower children in this age of effeminate degeneration — unless, of course, we want them to shape up.

I had better stop following the news from Rome, before I have an aneurysm. May I recommend the same to gentle reader: that we ignore the Synod, including the “backstories” now emerging about the Thirteen Cardinals, &c, Blase Cupich, &c, the “Shadow Synod,” &c, &c, and rather invest the time more worthily in telling our beads. To which end I have just deleted my draught of today’s Idlepost; because, frankly, it couldn’t do nobody no good. Those accustomed to a daily dose of David Warren Thought will find that two other essays of my composition are posted at other websites, today. (Here, and also, here.) Surely that will do.

Verily, I have just decided that, in future, I will take Sundays off. There will be no Idleposts on that day. I need to clear more space for prayer; and book-reading.

Too, my most obsequious apologies to the many correspondents awaiting replies from me. I have fallen several weeks behind the front edge of incoming mail, and cannot seem to catch up. God willing, I will find a way, soon.

Now, while this anti-blogue is not really designed as a medium for prayer and donation requests, I should like to make an exception for these friends in Chicago (see here), whose church has burned. Of course, churches are burning across the Dar al-Islam, and we can do little about it. But let us at least start rebuilding in Chicagoland.

Meanwhile, if thou canst still spare an Ave, say it for my elder son’s fiancée, struck down with a serious pulmonary embolism after they were mountain climbing in the Andes; currently recovering in a Greater Parkdale ICU. Nice Catholic girl; and indomitably cheerful.

Finally, a belated request to Saint Teresa of Avila, whose feast I failed to acknowledge yesterday. My favourite, even among the beloved Teresas. May she pray for us where her spirit must still reside, in the rugged outback of Castile; from that mystical interior bastion of hers; in Las Moradas:

— I saw an angel beside me toward the left side, in bodily form. He was not very large, but small, very beautiful, his face so blazing with light that he seemed to be one of the very highest angels, who appear all on fire. They must be those they call Cherubim. I saw in his hands a long dart of gold, and at the end of the iron there seemed to me to be a little fire. This I thought he thrust through my heart several times, and that it reached my very entrails. As he withdrew it, I thought it brought them with it, and left me all burning with a great love of God. So great was the pain, that it made me give those moans; and so utter the sweetness that this sharpest of pains gave me, that there was no wanting it to stop, nor is there any contenting of the soul with less than God.

How beautifully Spanish, and immortal.

The more I read about the Synod in Rome, the less I know, and the less I am tempted to make any prediction. Attempts to subvert Church doctrine I can see, along with attempts to subvert the law of non-contradiction. In neither case are they likely to succeed. The Synod is a talking-shop only, a purely advisory affair, of no doctrinal significance whatever. Nothing it decides can encumber the pope in what he decides after it is over. Our worries could therefore easily be misplaced.

Disputes over the writing up of any final relatio, as over the substance of the Synod’s instrumentum laboris, are indicators only of chaos. The draughting committee is stacked with known “reformers” and incompetents. Baldisseri and Forte made fools of themselves, tampering with the preparatory Synod last year; it is hard to imagine why their appointments were renewed. If the purpose of the Synod were to hear out bishops, it is hard to explain why the pope would substitute unrepresentative reformers for the men chosen by several of the bishops’ conferences. It looks so obviously a fix.

Because the discussions are conducted in unprecedented secrecy, and reported only through interested parties (including the Vatican Press Office, which seems to have doctrinal positions of its own), we work with rumour and surmise. The rules governing the discussions seem to change day by day, and have changed at least once by comprehensive papal intervention; the final voting process remains unclear, two-thirds of the way through. And so on. Surely, no plot could be so transparent.

For the Catholic faithful, as I know from my inbox, as well as by touring the blogs, this is very discouraging. Matters fixed for centuries seem up for negotiation every day. All need remember that Christ does not change, in doctrine or praxis. Therefore anything we view to the contrary can be only the confusion, malice, and ineptitude, to which humans are notoriously prone. Alas, the entire hierarchy consists of humans. If the Holy Spirit has any role in their deliberations — and we as Catholics will say that He does — there is a plotline we cannot possibly follow. Yet how often, in this universe, order has suddenly emerged from chaos.

The most positive, accidental effect I have seen is the bringing to the world’s attention of a score of cardinals who are solid and reliable in the faith, and courageous by disposition. Several now strike me as papabili. Only under these circumstances could they have been discovered. One could never expect such men to be a majority in any hall; to find so many in this one is remarkable. Should they remain fixed in their orthodox positions, the majority, who are anchorless, will begin to swirl around them.

It is possible, perhaps even likely, that we are witnessing not something right going wrong, but something terribly wrong being painfully corrected. My speculation is that by “making a lío” (Argentine slang for a “mess”) the pope has done, whether or not intending, just what God wanted: to expose the rot in the Vatican and hierarchy to universal public view; to make it so apparent that something will have to be done to claw it out. But of course we cannot judge the movement of wheels within wheels within wheels, and I am only speculating. We know that God does not work according to our schedule; that everything might be transformed in a day, or in a thousand years. Too, that He gives us, invariably, much better than we deserve.

The best way to make a lío, if one is in charge of almost any human enterprise, is to try to give everyone what he wants. While I have entertained the notion, I do not think the current pope is plotting to undermine the Catholic faith it is his duty to uphold. Nor do I think he entertains, secretly, any consciously heretical position. Given the right audience, he will, as he said in an aeroplane recently, recite the Creed correctly. But he will then tell another audience what he thinks they want to hear, fatally raising their expectations. In this sense, if he is unkind or unmerciful, it is to the “progressive” factions. He cannot deliver what they have been taught to expect, except by an error that will turn loose irresistible forces against him. And I mean this charitably: the “reformers” cannot understand this. For if they understood, they would desist.

I do not hate this pope, incidentally, and for the record, I do not even hate Cardinal Kasper, though he makes me angry. I think Kasper is invincibly wrongheaded, and capable of personal animus, of vanity and hypocrisy, like other men; but also that he sincerely thinks he is serving the Church by putting forward his “proposals.” Also, that as Cardinal Danneels and many of the other reformers, he is too old to change his views, formed not only decades in the past, but confirmed for him daily in the lay and ecclesial environments through which he has moved, wherein he is almost a conservative. From listening intently to him speak, I sense some real loyalty, some real faith, along with logical disorder, and perhaps even desolation. He seems a man who is caught in an elaborate trap of his own making.

The former Cardinal Bergoglio, who is now Pope Francis, I simply cannot read. Perhaps as a creature of “North,” he is too “South” for me. Each of the little theories I’ve constructed to explain him to myself, has been blown away by subsequent events. To say that I do not trust him would be not exactly right; rather, I have come to trust that he will contradict tomorrow what he says today. The only observation of which I feel certain is that he cannot know what he is doing; that he is not mentally well organized; that he is out of his depth, in an office to which he is unsuited. He may have an “agenda,” but it is not thought through, and no amount of cunning or charisma can compensate for the mental clarity, and genuine humility, that his two most recent predecessors brought to that high office.

All of which might — just might — make him the very pope we required, to slay “the spirit of Vatican II,” while trying to revive it.

Perhaps the word they are looking for in Rome is clemency. Or, clementia, should we wish to be late mediaeval about it. Merciful, if you will, with respect to Catholic doctrine, since it is mercy in itself. Imagine now, gentle reader, a full year in which the “we” of the Church (and any well-wishers) will be gentle, mild, and humane. I was thinking, especially towards faithful Catholics, who have suffered enough through the last couple of years, or rather, the last half century. Rome could let up on them for a while.

The pope himself might wish to spend the whole of the year, not saying anything. Let things pass. When asked, for instance, leading questions by the media, while aloft in aeroplanes — above 30,000 feet, where the air pressure might contribute to a certain dangerously giddy whimsicality — he could smile benignly. Let them mistranslate that. Bless them, perhaps: for they are so much in need of blessings, these poor journalistic souls. Smile, then put on headphones, and listen to Gregorian chant.

Or much better it would be, to stay out of aeroplanes; to stay home; for instance to relax at Castel Gandolfo. There are swans there, I understand: one might watch them glide on the Lago Albano. Or if no swans, surely other elegant birds. There are walks to take in the Alban Hills. There is even a golf course, I am told. And too, the remains of the Villa of Domitian to explore. Let us reflect, after all the cruelty of his first-century persecutions: that Domitian is dead. And that we have his Villa.

Too, we have the fine baroque collegiate Church of Saint Thomas of Villanova, designed by the sublime Bernini. It was this Saint Thomas who compared Our Lady’s Heart to Moses’ burning bush: alight, yet not consumed. Days could be spent contemplating that: a light that perpetually illuminates our darkness. The idea of Light, as opposed to noise.

No conferences, no “synods,” no talk to speak of. Rather than make new statements, we could focus on worthily re-publishing the old.

And the Curia going quietly about its business, looking for things lost under cushions, and at the backs of drawers. Let no one be fired for the entire Year of Clemency. Let the baddies be quietly identified, and simply eased out of any significant employments. Let them occupy their time doing Latin crosswords. Let all pause frequently for the Angelus: five times daily and a sixth on Fridays, in the gladdening tradition of Reconquista Spain.

Father Zed said recently that Pope Pius XIII will be so quiet, and make himself so invisible, the media will be circulating rumours that he has died. But why wait until his election? We have the technology to do this now.

Such rumours could be fed by transferring the Wednesday audiences away from San Pietro, to quiet corners in the Vatican gardens. Perhaps ask the Emeritus, beloved Benedict XVI, to resume his wonderful Wednesday “catechisms,” in his gentle, Peter Lorrie voice, expounding Scripture and the Lives of the Saints to little clumps of people who happen to be interested. And the Cardinal Vicar of Rome could be delegated to bless the small crowds of tourists and the faithful in Saint Peter’s Square, Wednesdays and Sundays. By such means, the Holy Father could be kept hidden away.

Of course the bishops of St Gallen would mutter and gripe, demand this, demand that, and possibly the other. But let us suppose no one is returning their phone calls.

Imagine for a moment our Holy Church less like a busy field hospital, full of carnage, and more like a chapel for pilgrims. Let those who wish to come, come; let those who wish to go, go.  As an act of clemency, or mere trial if you will, let us spend a whole year communicating, not by public gestures on the public stage, but through the bells, the bells.

Thanks to hydrogen fusion and chemo-synthesis, it will be possible by 1984, or soon after, to make food from rocks. Thanks to other technological advances, it will cost less to fly to the Moon, than to Australia. Human body styles will change with fashion, as genetic couturiers go in and out of style. Soviet socialism will bury American capitalism. Medical science will allow people to live for about two hundred years. …

Robots will take over simple manual tasks, and render the lower grades of humanity obsolete. Unnatural sex practices will become ethical, legal, and even socially accepted. The arbitrary barriers between men and women will dissolve, along with the arbitrary bonds of marriage. Universally available contraceptives and antibiotics will remove the fear of pregnancy and venereal disease. And meanwhile, we will be able to watch “the same old small-screen slop” on giant, high-resolution television screens. …

These predictions came from a panel of twelve celebrated science fiction writers, in Playboy magazine, in their July number of 1963. And thanks to the Internet (which none of them predicted), I was able to find the article in Flickr somewhere, by entering a few search terms.

I remembered it well, from childhood. My father bought a copy of this number from the Rexall Drug Store on Main Street, Georgetown, Ontario. He was spotted doing so, and as a consequence I was ragged by a nasty little mob of schoolboys, telling me that my dad was a “prevert” — a term they had apparently just acquired from their own parents. I furiously denied that my father would ever buy a pornographic magazine — and told him about the heinous accusation when I got home. Papa calmly said the allegation was true, and asked if I would like to see the magazine — after my mother, who was currently reading it. He mentioned the scientifictional panel, which he thought might appeal to me.

Robert Heinlein: “What will our children accomplish? Take the wildest speculation, square it, cube the result, and the answer still won’t be big enough to match the truth.”

Yes, the predictions were as fatuous as that, except, as gentle reader will observe, some of them came true. On revisiting that Playboy number, however, I was struck by a quote from William Tenn, the pseudonym of the expatriate British author, Philip Klass (1920–2010), a notorious Roman Catholic:

“I can think of no potentially great advance in technology or human relations which man won’t find a way to subvert into a historic step backward.”

This elitist writer is among the few “futurists” I can endure. (Walter M. Miller, Jr., and C.S. Lewis, probably complete the list.) His lovingly acid, high satirical humour turns the cheap genre into something resembling literature; his familiarity with human nature distinguishes him from the mere technophiles. Though as gentle reader may speculate, I have not read widely in the science fiction genre.

*

From the news this morning, I see that Playboy magazine still exists, that Hugh Hefner is still alive, and that he founded it in 1953, the year of my birth, not in the early ’sixties as I had supposed. Since pictures of naked women (in poses much crasser than Playboy ever dared) — are now available instantly for free, across the Internet, the magazine has changed its photographic policy. Henceforth, its models will be more generously clothed. With a paid circulation only a small fraction of what it had at peak in the ’seventies, it will try to retrieve its old reputation for faux sophistication.

A pop culture theoretician of my acquaintance is of the view that Playboy always offered “soft” pornography. From its first centrefold of Marilyn Monroe, apparently lifted from a contemporary gas-station calendar, its models were more “nude” than “naked”; it left the pervert’s obsession with lingerie until late in the day. Hefner’s babes all looked milk-fed and freshly bathed, as opposed to, say, weird, dirty, French, and too easily available. She was the girl next door in the American male’s fantastical imagination. This corresponded to the international idea of the American girl, and Playboy Clubs with the tuxedo rabbit logo — a mark of faux sophistication — sprang up all over the planet. Add in the interviews with famous people, background lavish interiors, and mildly naughty cartoons, and everyone could find an excuse for buying it.

The great secret of Playboy — and I tell this at considerable personal risk — is that women read it as often as men. For women are more interested than men in the female body (witness the contents of women’s magazines), and more curious about what makes the other sex tick (ditto). Men rule the world because we are much less competitive, more cooperative therefore (“teamwork”), and more interested in rule-based things like football and engineering. Too, our adolescent fascination with undressed women is more biological than cosmetic; more pneumatic than analytical. It does not consume scarce brainpower.

But that leads us towards another topic — the battle of the sexes in which the man’s superior size and strength have seldom proved a match for the woman’s psychological dexterity.

*

Instead, I wanted to address, this morning, the conventional view that Playboy was the flip side of second-wave feminism. The enterprising periodical, which would have been called Stag Party, had it not been for an early lawsuit from the publishers of a similarly-named men’s hunting magazine, gave its name in turn to a fashionable type of male “swinger.” Pierre Trudeau, for instance, was able to sweep to power in Canada in 1968, on the strength of his “playboy” charisma. His son, little Justin Trudeau, threatens to become prime minister next week, thanks to the same mastery of the women’s vote.

The popular belief that women are repelled by promiscuous male behaviour is false. Or rather, it is true only of a small minority of the unpleasant. Many women are scandalized by gratuitous male advances, but that is another thing. And the loss of that feminine self-possession is a feature only of the later, fin de siècle depravity. The women of my own youth — the “hippie chicks” I fondly remember — were still at least capable of situational chastity.

No: I deny that women (except a few of the shriekie sisters) hate to be loved or desired by men. What they do not want is for the men to diminish them by being jackasses about it, or otherwise to inconvenience them by their extravagant attentions. Most women I have met would not mind being quietly adored by innumerable men. This can even become a source of corruption.

A better argument for the morally degenerative effect of Playboy, on the female sex, would be that it presented the new “playboy” male, not as a “male chauvinist pig,” but instead as androgynous. The politics were always liberal, and where context required, consistently “sensitive.” These were men who cared a great deal about fashion and self-presentation; men who were successful in a rather feminine or feline way, striking poses and expecting to get things both ways. They could play at being smart polished “gentlemen” in one moment, and voyeurs in the next; and really they were both, and a few other incompatible things (always fake) in the same package.

James Bond was the ultimate exemplar. I think he got the tuxedo from the Playboy bunny, and not vice versa. He could be four years old, or forty, simultaneously; he could indulge childish wishes, and make them pay. And women would accommodate him, because he was so impossibly “attractive.” He knew all about women, in a way his male ancestors would have concealed. And he put what he knew shamelessly to work.

The notion that what is good for the goose, may also be good for the gander, takes hold from there. As we know from Chaucer, the female desire for “the soveraineté” is not new; it is a staple of literature in all times and places. The question has ever been, not whether they want it, but whether they can get it. The answer, not only in Western Civ, but in all the other higher civilizations, has been resistance, on grounds that when women do rule — not subtly behind the scenes, but overtly without restriction — the world goes promptly to Hell. As Doctor Johnson put it, “Nature has given women so much power that the law has very wisely given them little.”

So-called “second wave feminism” did not begin with the sick ravings of Betty Friedan, but with the existential hallucinations of Simone de Beauvoir. (Her 1940s book, The Second Sex, was translated into American in 1953, and published just as Playboy was first appearing.) Ms Friedan’s derivative bestseller, The Feminine Mystique, appeared a decade later, just as The Pill was arriving on the mass pharmaceutical market.

The idea that pregnancy, lactation, and menstruation should not deprive women of “equal rights” (invariably code for the soveraineté) was not the new thing at all. Instead it was the sudden collocation of ends and means. The Pill could “make women equal.” They could henceforth become androgynous themselves, and as it were, Playgirls, no longer constrained by the fear of maternity, nor the taint of prostitution.

Like the kind of man promoted by Playboy, they would never have to grow up. Everything in life would now become “an option,” and in the future, the options could only grow; science would guarantee that, and solve any of the technical problems along the way.

In this sense, the Sexual Revolution was not thesis and antithesis (feminism in reaction to masculine excess), but a synthesis from the start. What began “underground” in the 1950s, with such as Hefner and de Beauvoir, appeared overground in the Swinging Sixties. It was an explosive development, so that by 1968 — the year of Humanae Vitae — the whole idea of returning to the “traditional” order of civilization and human decency had become, for the young in body or in mental attributes, inconceivable. The outcry against that document, in America, was extraordinary. (There would have been none, ten years before.) Pope Paul was simply not James Bond, and that was sufficient ground to condemn him. “Civilization” and “repression” were now, as for Freud, interchangeable terms.

While the scientifictionists interviewed by Playboy may have been stunningly obtuse in considering the consequences of what they were predicting — as well as ludicrously optimistic on much of the “science” — I think they captured more exactly than the contemporary “social scientists” the tenor of that age. With the singular exception of Mr Glass, they were prophets of the new “liberation,” in which everyone could have everything all ways. And indeed, it was the very shallowness — its moral, intellectual, and spiritual vacuity — that made Playboy such a powerful instrument of the Sexual Revolution.