Tag: Cyrus Bozorgmehr

Definitely feels like the tectonic shift of the last few years has been factual relativism – where objective truth as a barometer of shared reality has morphed into subjective truth as a totem of tribal identity.

It’s pretty clear that despite all the fake news warnings – people still defer to whatever unsourced version of reality they most identify with – but couldn’t help thinking about how science itself can be warped to legitimize a socio-political agenda – partly by conspiracy and partly by cock up.

Amazing how ‘Survival of the Fittest’ – a questionable term in itself – has managed to embed itself into the very architecture of late capitalism. That idea of evolution as competition does make sense on a species level – the most adaptable rather than the most rigid live on – but within a species – the idea of competition driving progress is arguable at best.

The reason humans dominate the planet is precisely the fucking opposite of competition – it’s co-operation. Through our shared abstract constructs – money / god / law etc we manage to co-operate on a mass scale and build endless new layers through sharing ideas, knowledge, networks and resources.

Communism unfortunately fed into the logic of competition as progress because it was a fucking disaster – but just because paternalist statism doesn’t work doesn’t mean cutthroat social Darwinism does.

Add in an adversarial legal system where objective truth is measured by competing sales pitches, and the patterns within our ‘Western model’ do sharpen into focus.

And yet – the grown up part of me can’t help admitting that competition probably isn’t all bad and probably does drive some elements of progress – it’s just tragic that co-operation has been cast in the role of do-gooding bollocks rather than a core evolutionary engine, while competition is fetishised into ‘the natural order of things’.

Surely the greatest achievement of the human race is creating structures that enable co-operation?

After years in imminent danger of being found dead in a hotel room from heart failure, I got back from Australia 16 months ago with a switch flicked and a new connection with my physical self.

Since then – I’ve managed to shed 26 kilos (4 stone) without having to resort to reckless, unscientific fads like exercise and managed to cheat just often enough on my diet to still feel like a rebel unchained.

Here are the before and after shots – I’m particularly pleased with the third one – taken just today which really highlights the transformation.

To my wife Madeline Williams Bozorgmehr – we tried you and I – but I’m thin now (ish) so I have to follow my destiny. Have left a pie in the oven as a final farewell as I elope with my new love.

Javier understands me. We tango, meditate and do capoeira together. He calls me ‘Gran toro con los pezones duros’ and I call him Susan.

It’s been emotional – but as I jog into the sunset without instantly collapsing, I bid you Adios and hope you too can find happiness.

 

Covered myself in glory yet again. After a complex morning negotiating the Kafkaesque architecture of the state and its automated phone minions, I headed out to a disconcertingly civilised lunch.

Washing the cares away with several bottles of a questionable local vintage, things got flamenco really fucking quickly. By the time my daughter had arrived from school, I was wearing an improvised belly dancing outfit held together by gaffer tape and denial, introducing the neighbours to Rick Astley and generally smashing the shit out of the afternoon.

Having clocked that Zara (my daughter) seemed a touch underwhelmed by her father’s magnetic charisma, I downed three sambucca shots and set out for the building’s swimming pool, strapping a small, tinsel dressed Christmas tree to my head and belting out ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’.

Despite my conviction that she’d beam with pride as her friends queued up for autographs, it turned out that I’d misjudged the tone of the swimming pool. Met with a wall of confused stares and a daughter mouthing ‘Fuck Off’ from behind her hands, there was only one thing for it….. Double down hard with a frisky Irish jig.

Now I don’t know if Guinness has some sort of stabilising enzyme in it, but sambucca and dodgy plonk definitely do not. About 7 seconds into the jig, I went for a bit of cultural fusion with some freeform ballet leaps, and while they were undeniably graceful as fuck, the timing may have been a fraction off.

Long story short, I ended up in the swimming pool, fronted it out with a half drowned rendition of ‘The Boys are Back in Town’, pretended it had all been part of the plan and then exited stage left by taking multiple bows to a group of deeply sceptical children.

It wasn’t until about ten minutes later that I realised the Christmas tree was AWOL, and while heading out sheepishly to retrieve it, I discovered that it had been adopted by a 3 year old called Taha – who had – no word of a lie – named the Christmas tree ‘Silly Fat Santa’

I think my work here is done.