Assassins

<< The duck from Tom & Jerry: Since you ask, he's against the reclassification of cannabis, but would like further research into the effects of prolonged use

Apologies firstly to Claire, my diligent partner in learning, who sent a first-class fact to my sick bed this morning to ease the creative process for me. Regrettably, I randomly stumbled upon another topic that is just too intriguing to pass up, so I'm going to have to pass on Servite's 'fact of the week', for this week at least. Man, I feel really bad. OK, here's what I've got.

The first use of the word 'assassination' in the English language is in the Shakespeare Play, MacBeth.

We've covered MacBeth before, of course, way back in January, when I discovered that only a real pussy would stoop to calling it 'the Scottish play'. Also, it's perhaps no revelation that a word made its first appearance in a Shakespeare play - if you look hard enough, you can even find 'iPod', 'cheeseburger' and 'fisting' in the second half of Troilus and Cressida. Maybe. No, the interest here comes from another fact, one that I sadly could not prove - that the word 'assassin' is derived from the hashshashin, a sect of 11th century Shia Muslims who were probably a great deal scarier than they sound (their name does sound like assassin, albeit if it were enunciated by the duck from Tom and Jerry).

There is uncertainty over whether the hashshashin lent their name to the modern term 'assassin' (which is odd, given that it's basically the same word, and they used to assassinate people quite a bit). What's also up for debate is what hashshashin originally means - it could mean 'followers of Hasan' or could mean (slightly more topical, this) - 'hash eaters'. So the word 'assassin' could basically mean 'pothead'. Anyone out there trying to enjoy a nice FBB in the afternoon sun can now feel just that little more like a criminal, following the government's decision to upgrade cannabis from a Class C to a Class B drug, against expert opinion and despite any hard evidence of the dangers it poses. It's got to the point now where people at my work, who actually have to help people with all kinds of substance addictions, think that cannabis actually gives you paranoid schizophrenia. I can only respond that the dangers are being wildly over-exaggerated through gritted teeth, and then they all react like I'm Jimi fucking Hendrix, sparking a 12" all-herb doobie whilst torching my guitar.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, assassinations. It's an odd word because it's kind of subjective as to when it can be applied. Assassination is basically the killing of a high-profile person, usually for ideological or political reasons - so JFK and Benazir Bhutto both clearly fit into that category. But John Lennon's killer basically shot him because he was a first-class nut, but this would still be called an assassination - so basically it boils down to the level of fame of the unfortunate victim. Was Jill Dando assassinated? What about Versace? I'm sure there are celebrities out there who, should the unthinkable happen, head straight to the news aisle of the great supermarket in the sky to see whether they were assassinated, or plain old killed...

Stop Press: Extra fact for your time today - in sourcing above photo, I have discovered that the impudent duckling from Tom & Jerry is in fact named Quacker.

Islanders

<< Bishop Rock: So small

Heady days indeed here at Knowledge Towers - it appears my third consecutive rant about Boris Johnson drew a comment... from someone I don't already know in real life. Wooh! What a rush. OK, so it was a slightly weird comment along the lines of 'thank God Boris isn't a communist' (slightly misjudging the political leanings of this blog) followed by a haiku, of all things, but it looks like construction work has started on the road to widespread acclaim. I don't know though, this new-found fame has its perks, but there's pressure too. It appears my blog may actually be being read by people - I have to actually think about what I'm writing. I might get negative feedback. God, it's like I've got a million eyes on me. Why won't these people back off?! Every one wants a piece of me and it's too much. Hand me that crack pipe, I need to get so high I can't feel the eyes of the world burning into my beautiful face.

Nice to know people are reading though. I'm going a bit back-to-basics today, following the discovery of a nifty 'did you know?' site, which could easily keep me in facts 'til 2012. Following some fairly lackadaisical mooching around it's annals of fact, I stumbled upon this:

1 in 10 people in the world live on an island.

Funny that the idea of living on an island brought to mind images of palm trees and building shelters out of bamboo and remains of the plane wreckage. I, of course, live on an island, namely Britain, the nation for which the phrase 'island mentality' was surely invented. Until recently, I lived in Portsmouth, an island city that had a mentality all of it's own. The most remote inhabited island in the world is Tristan de Cunha, 1600 miles away from any other inhabited place and with only a couple of hundred. Given how weird the Isle of Wight is despite it only being about 5 miles from the mainland, god knows what this place is like. The smallest island in the world, as recognised in the Guinness Book of Records, no less, is Bishop Rock, one of the Isles of Scilly. Apparently, an island has to be habitable to count, and Bishop Rock comes equipped with a bloody great lighthouse, and not a lot else. It's uninhabited now, but the most important thing is that it could be. Did they make someone live there for a week to prove it? Crazy bastards.

Meet the Cyruses

<< Miley and father: "You did what?"

The cold's not gone and the article's way past due, so it's lucky I learnt something in the early hours of this oppressively hot spring day:

Miley Cyrus is Billy Ray Cyrus' daughter.

In case you don't know, Miley Cyrus is otherwise known as Disney starlet Hannah Montana, and has been touted as the new Britney Spears (a recent South Park episode demonstrated the grim consequences this might have for her). Britney became the acceptable face of paedophilia, prancing around in a school uniform in her first video. Miley's tried a similar trick, posing in a sheet for Vanity Fair, or Rolling Stone, or some magazine that really should know better. There has been outcry over the picture because Cyrus is only 15. I wonder when people think it would be acceptable? Give it 12 months.

The one saving grace for Miley, who is officially changing her name to, um, Miley Cyrus from her birth name, Destiny Hope (yeesh), is that her uber-hick one-hit-wonder pa hasn't seen the magazine yet. I don't know how she could break it to him. I guess she could tell his lips. Possibly his fingertips. But she should probably steer clear of telling his achy, breaky heart...

Psychedelic Vegeburger

I have a stinking cold and have been trying to write an article for a competition that has to be in on Tuesday. I've assembled 2,400 words in various quotes, notes and other doodlings, for a 1,000 essay that I haven't even started. I also know that I'm going to feel even worse tomorrow. So to be honest, I've never been closer to not doing this bloody blog at all. But in amongst trying to scroll through papers on international development whilst simultaneously blowing my nose, I managed to discover the following:

An LSD trip led to the creation of the vegeburger.

It's inventor, Gregory Sams, first turned against mainstream cuisine following a trip-and-a-half with his brother Craig, who went on to found Green and Black's, possibly after an almighty ketamine binge . I wonder if an LSD trip right now could either a. give me some new insights into the relationship between international development and social protection, or b. stop my nose from running...

Hot In Here

I'm too pissed off and sweaty to be doing with this today - it's only springlike weather outside, but the fact that all but 2 windows in this stupid flat are painted shut, I'm sweating like Brian Paddick every time he has to give an opinion. So here's today's fact - it's the third day I've referenced London's new leader, Boris Johnson, but there's no way I can talk about him in any detail, lest I get into an injustice-based stew that will only worsen my already overheated and clammy state:

Boris Johnson's real name is Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

Would anyone have voted for Alexander de Pfeffel? Didn't think so. I'm also hugely depressed because the BNP have managed to get a seat on the Assembly, and even beat the Green Party in a lot of areas. Airport expansion? Climate change? Fossil fuels running out? Who the hell cares, so long as we can have a pop at the blacks. It's absolutely disgusting - people crawling into a little booth to vote for those racist bastards, instead of just trying to get on with one another. Uh-oh, I feel a stew coming. Why is it so fucking hot in here? Sort it out, Boris...

Inter Bee Combat

<< Bertie "The Pollenator" Bee, 76 fights, still undefeated

An easier Friday entry today, as I've had the day off to savour every last minute Boris Johnson isn't mayor of London (three hours and counting now). I watched a bit of the snazzy 'London Tonight' ITV news show from City Hall, which featured Police Camera Action legend Alistair Stewart asking who exactly was going to help Boris to run London, implying that if it was left to him then the capital would literally grind to a shuddering, comical halt. This was interspersed with reportage claiming that Boris Johnson was actually winning the election. All that remained was for Stewart to turn to the camera and conclude, in the richest, most gravitas-heavy tone he could muster, "So, today London elects a mayor that nobody believes can do the job. My final question tonight is for the people of this great city. Are you fucking mental."

I can't think about it any more - I need to turn my thoughts to simpler ideas. Like the one that occurred to me during last night's ultra-tedious election coverage (at one point, I thought Dimbleby and Nick Robinson might try televised sexual intercourse in a bid to add some spice): can bees sting each other? And here's the answer:

Bees can sting each other.

This is most apparent in the stinger of the honey bee, which is the only type of bee, wasp or hornet that perishes when its sting breaks off in the arm of some poor toddler who got in too deep. This is because tge honey bee's sting isn't designed for attacking little kids - its meant only for what Wikipedia describes as 'inter-bee combat'. That's right it's Bee vs Bee, Part II: This Time It's Personal. When bees go skin-on-skin for the freedom of the hive, the stings can slide straight in and deliver a knockout blow without breaking off. Bees will only sting non-bees when they feel their hive is under threat - a swarm of bees isn't dangerous as they are homeless, and have nothing to fight for. Sad I know, but it's still a swarm of bees, so don't stick around too long feeling sorry for them.

Queen bees may kick back in the hive 99% of the time, but they also indulge in inter-bee combat, using their smooth, reusable sting to take down challengers to their throne. I have imagined being the size of a bee, and watching the Queen execute a pupating rival with a well-aimed sting through her stripey abdomen, and I feel a bit frightened. It's almost as frightening an image as Boris Johnson sat in the mayor's office, smoking a fat cigar and shouting 'what do those bloody gays want now?' down the phone...

Fear Boris

<< Boris Johnson: Don't say I didn't warn you

The polling stations are closed, so it's sadly too late to issue a final cry to the good people of London to please, for the love of God, not vote for Boris Johnson. All we can now do is wait and hope. If you have been foolhardy enough to vote for him, I'd just like to point out why you shouldn't have. If you're gay, poor or an ethnic minority, he doesn't actually like you very much. If you're an ordinary working London resident, you could do a better job than him, because you a. work and b. live in London. His ideas include cutting crime (no explanation as to how), improving transport (see cutting crime) and bringing back Routemaster, for fuck's sake. It's embarrassing for the other candidates, particularly Ken Livingstone, that he's got so far on a silly haircut and absolutely no decent policies.

Anyway, I didn't vote for Boris, as you may have guessed, but I did vote - I went along to the weird village hall, got told not to fold my ballot papers at any cost (were they booby-trapped?) and placed my vote with a broken pencil. I would never not vote in anything, because it may be a futile choice between a dubious champagne socialist, a floppy-haired tool or someone who won't win because the media won't even allow the idea to enter people's heads, but it's our right in a democracy, and it's a right we have a duty to accept. I even voted in European elections, for christ's sake. After all, democracy depends on people voting to elect their government, doesn't it? Well, not necessarily.

Demarchy is a system of democracy without elections.

Demarchy uses sortition, which is effectively a kind of tombola, to elect individuals, rather than having votes between selected people. It's admittedly not a widely used or particularly feasible way of governing a nation, but it was used in Ancient Greece, and in Canada to create Electoral Reform. Closer to home, how do you think you end up getting called for jury service? Because your name comes out of a giant judicial hat, that's how. Maybe it's worth a shot. There's 8 million Londoners - put all their names into a sizeable trilby, and pluck out a new mayor at random. Could they really be worse than Boris Johnson?