Blog description.

Accentuating the Liberal in Classical Liberal: Advocating Ascendency of the Individual & a Politick & Literature to Fight the Rise & Rise of the Tax Surveillance State. 'Illigitum non carborundum'.

Liberty and freedom are two proud words that have been executed from the political lexicon: they were frog marched and stood before a wall of blank minds, then forcibly blindfolded, and shot, with the whimpering staccato of ‘equality’ and ‘fairness’ resounding over and over. And not only did this atrocity go unreported by journalists in the mainstream media, they were in the firing squad.

The premise of this blog is simple: the Soviets thought they had equality, and welfare from cradle to grave, until the illusory free lunch of redistribution took its inevitable course, and cost them everything they had. First to go was their privacy, after that their freedom, then on being ground down to an equality of poverty only, for many of them their lives as they tried to escape a life behind the Iron Curtain. In the state-enforced common good, was found only slavery to the prison of each other's mind; instead of the caring state, they had imposed the surveillance state to keep them in line. So why are we accumulating a national debt to build the slave state again in the West? Where is the contrarian, uncomfortable literature to put the state experiment finally to rest?

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Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Bloody Jamie Oliver Cashing In On Food Wowserism.



UK Telegraph columnist Allison Pearson reckons the celebrity chef’s idea of taxing sugar a good one:


Why Jamie Oliver's sugar tax is a good idea

The Government should forget about industry lobbying and act on the national scandal of sugary food and drink …


Pearson joins a long line of MSM journos who love pushing the line of wowserism, which serves none of us well. Below is the comment I posted to Pearson’s thread.


I'm so over this food fascism.

Questions on the State attempting to change our diets via the tax surveillance state - one of the most ruthless surveillance states in our history - are not a matter of science (even if the science was certain, which it's not: for example, the same people who would tax sugar would tax some forms of fat which are good for us). These are questions of philosophy.

A tax on food choice is a tax on choice, period; it's an atta(x)k on our individual freedom. I love Jamie, but I'm angry with him on this one. And the author of this piece can jackboot herself off the scene too, please.

One of the biggest threats to our liberty, in the details of the minutiae of our lives, is wowserism. Every time you find yourself about to voice an idea, or write an article, that would have the state force an individual who is doing you no harm to live according to your own (selfish) edicts … stop. Don't do it. Because you're being a prick.

And let me end on this point.

Jamie was aired on New Zealand TV over the last week: I noticed he's much 'bigger' than he used to be, especially around his neck and jowls.

I put it to Jamie one of the issues with his obvious weight gain may be all the (lovely, sumptuous) pasta in his cookery books (and his restaurants), which is fattening. So be careful going down this route, Jamie, you don't end up on a hellishy boring diet, thus reduced quality of life, served up on your own petard.

Proof?

Thin Jamie with chin:



Plump pasta’ed Up Jamie:


 

Addendum:

Further comments on this thread & my reponse:

Well if you demand total freedom of choice, the so be it. You can then also be responsible for the costs of the consequences of your free choice, not the rest of your community. Is it not reasonable for the community to encourage good behaviour for the benefit of all of the community, especially the young?


A long range Dutch study proves the obese and smokers cost public health systems less as they tend to die quickly, and younger, whereas the lingering long lived - who still die - use health services longer. So cost is not an argument for sugar taxes.

But yes, speaking as someone who eats healthily, hasn't had a soft drink for over 30 years - but loves alcohol - and is the correct weight for my height et al by application only of self-discipline, let's privatise health so we cop the consequences of our choices. Obesity is at the hands of Nanny State that breaks that vital link.

Though, bottom line - hang on, got to refill my wine - I'm sick of the arrogant, and the self-anointed arbiters of my happiness who would force me to live by their joyless dictum a long lived, sober, low calorie life is somehow better than a happy one.


Related:


Friday, August 28, 2015

Reply to Chris Trotter: The West is Not Capitalist - Keynesian Big Statism.



New Zealand Progressive commentator Chris Trotter, who wants our Inland Revenue to squeeze the rich until their pips squeak, is advancing collectivism by crowing the disasters of capitalism which he thinks is leading to another bust bigger than the Global Financial Crisis out of 2008.


ROUND AND ROUND AND ROUND it goes, and where it stops nobody knows! You might think that ordinary human-beings would have tired of Capitalism’s cyclical catastrophes by now. But our capacity to absorb these entirely man-made calamities appears to be no less impressive than our ability to cope with the genuine disasters nature sends our way. Indeed, Capitalism’s longevity is, almost certainly, attributable to its success in convincing us that it, too, is a force of Nature – something far beyond our feeble strength to influence for good or ill.

It was not always so. Eighty years ago, with the world in the clutches of another capitalist catastrophe, human-beings somewhere found the collective strength to denounce this “force of nature” falsehood. They decided that what humankind could ruin just by “letting things go” (laissez-faire) it could rebuild by replacing the “invisible hand” of the all-powerful capitalist market with their own.


And then Chris warbles on about Roosevelt’s New Deal, oblivious to the fact that grand piece of interventionism extended the harmful effects of the Great Depression by upwards of a decade. Chris should also read up on how it was US government interventionalism leading up to the Great Depression which was in large part culpable.

Anyway, I couldn’t let Chris away with this nonsense regarding the modern-day Big Brother State West, so posted the below quick reply:


The West is not capitalist, Chris, no more than China has an actual sharemarket. The West is crony capitalist, which is totally crippled markets ruled by government interventionism that has broken market coordination and the quick liquidation of malinvestments of a true laissez faire system. Through centrally banked command economies which print fiat money while playing loose with interest rates, to fund the Huge State model where state spend is close to 50% of the entire economic activity in Western economies, out-of-control and God help me, well-intentioned politicians, only build asset bubbles, then grow them bigger and bigger by trying to cap the chaos caused through socialising what should remain private sector losses.

But I say private sector, which denotes property rights, and where it's important, we don't have those anymore.

It's Keynesian socialism and though it doesn't destroy lives, thus liberty and the quality of living as directly as the straight out communist gulag economies did - those paragons of collectivism - it still achieves that in the long run. Indeed economystic JM Keynes has managed what the Soviet Union couldn't: total destruction of classical liberalism, and with that the West itself.


[And not forgetting Keyne's awful legacy in enslaving the arts to the state, and thus taming it as a vital market of ideas in resistance to the modern day abuses of state power.]

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Book Review: That Bastard Hamish Clayton & His Genius: The Pale North.





The publisher’s blurb for Hamish Clayton’s novel, The Pale North reads:


1998, Wellington. A series of catastrophic earthquakes has left the city destroyed. Returning to the ruin from London, a New Zealand writer explores the devastation, compelled to find out for himself what has become of the city he left years ago. As he drifts through the desolate streets, home now to the shell-shocked and dispossessed, he finds among the survivors a woman and a child. And although they are haunted, hostile and broken, the strangers feel eerily familiar to him: as if they promise the answers to the mysteries he once swore to leave behind.

A layered meditation on love, history, creativity and loss, The Pale North is an audacious and disarming novel, a forensic journey into one writer's short but singularly brilliant body of work.


At the end of my review of Greg McGee’s The Antipodeans, like a dumb, impetuous clever dick prick, I wrote this on reading merely 17% of Hamish Clayton’s second novel (ebook format) The Pale North.


17% into The Pale North and the words in my mind so far are: over-worked and arty sentimentality. Our individual reactions to a worthy work of art are subjective: some works will transect with our experiences and aesthetics and speak to us, some won’t. There’s a lot of book to read yet, however, as I crustify into my middle age years, I like a starker prose than this, with harder edges.


Thankfully I redeemed myself (a bit) at 25% by writing an addendum, formatting it in bold trying to recover my soul:


25% into The Pale North, I retract the above. I'm getting it now, the words occupying my mind have changed to 'aberrant; beguiling; singular talent, and treat'. Also, sentimentality is the point; Mr Clayton has cracked through the crust. Indeed, beginning to view this novel as a stunner. Looks like Wulf remains on the reading list.


Noting the review of art is all about me – it has to be because I’m the point and then the filter - can I excuse my rashness into that first statement? It's interesting Clayton was prescient to the response of the premature half-wit reviewer:


… But then he asked me what I’d remembered of that first exhibition [snip]. I described what I’d seen as clearly as I could remember, but Colin only narrowed his eyes as he listened, focusing on some far-off but internal horizon, scanning for meaning and finding my account wanting on some score or other. He listened in silence as I revered what I could recall of those photographs: their calm, arcane order, the sombre grace of their elegy. He seemed unmoved but then sighed and turned away.

I asked him what I’d missed and he laughed quietly and said, ‘The whole point.’


I’d been in a ruthless stage of editing my own script, trying to pare it down to concise sophistication, and was initially immune to Clayton’s swirling ordinary words and the humanity which lives too easily (damn it) in them. Mea culpa.

I don’t know if what I write is any good – see, me again. After realising I couldn’t write a short story – either I didn’t like the form enough, or perhaps I was just useless at it - I never submitted the first novel I wrote – it’s awful, so never will – and am at sea on the one being rendered down; the only solid fact being I have no judgement on assessing my own work (none at all). And so – Murphy’s law - at this tenuous time, crashing from his celestial orbit above my fragile confidence too easily tipped into paralysing self-doubt (please forgive me Mike Hosking) comes Hamish ruddy Clayton and his bloody masterpiece that creeps up on you, The Pale North. Clayton is a dangerous man because he makes me want to stop reading. He makes me want to stop reading, because he is so good he makes me think I must stop writing for all is hopeless in the face of his words … but then what would I have left without writing?

Wine. Yes. But wine alone is not enough, certainly not the next morning. Please realise Mrs H and I live in a house, three in fact (one munted thank you, no fuck you, EQC – [from the Big One out of Christchurch]), wearing our happy domesticity and well-worn love (and better, friendship) like a glove over top of the world I otherwise live in words, so that doesn’t count, I don’t think.

If I could read Clayton’s human stories, imagery and busted Wellington without an ego, and a need, I reckon the overwhelming residue would be the word warmth from a finely honed artistry and a love of art, despite he references the winds from Antarctica in The Pale North too much – three times by 44% in (there, see, I can still be critical).

Damn that man. Utter bastard. I say beguiling, the publisher says disarming … you should read him; two novels so far, Wulf, followed by The Pale North, though I can only recommend the second (highly), I’ve not read the first, yet.