rARsh!

Trout live in trees

Displaying cigarettes in shops could be banned under government plans being considered in a bid to reduce smoking and discourage children from starting.
- BBC News

Ah yes, I remember all too well how the pretty packs in the newsagent made me start smoking all those years ago.

Public Health Minister Dawn Primarolo said it was “vital” to teach children that “smoking is bad”.

I don’t disagree with that.

“If that means stripping out vending machines or removing cigarettes from behind the counter, I’m willing to do that,” she said.

Ok. Now she’s lost me. What possible logical link is there between those two quotes. I wonder whether she’s familiar with the logician sketch from the Monty Python and the Holy Grail album:

Good evening.

The last scene was interesting from the point of view of a professional logician because it contained a number of logical fallacies; that is, invalid propositional constructions and syllogistic forms, of the type so often committed by my wife. “All wood burns,” states Sir Bedevere. “Therefore,” he concludes, “all that burns is wood.” This is, of course, pure bullshit. Universal affirmatives can only be partially converted: all of Alma Cogan is dead, but only some of the class of dead people are Alma Cogan. “Oh yes,” one would think.

However, my wife does not understand this necessary limitation of the conversion of a proposition; consequently, she does not understand me. For how can a woman expect to appreciate a professor of logic, if the simplest cloth-eared syllogism causes her to flounder.

For example, given the premise, “all fish live underwater” and “all mackerel are fish”, my wife will conclude, not that “all mackerel live underwater”, but that “if she buys kippers it will not rain”, or that “trout live in trees”, or even that “I do not love her any more.” This she calls “using her intuition”. I call it “crap”, and it gets me very *irritated* because it is not logical.

“There will be no supper tonight,” she will sometimes cry upon my return home. “Why not?” I will ask. “Because I have been screwing the milkman all day,” she will say, quite oblivious of the howling error she has made. “But,” I will wearily point out, “even given that the activities of screwing the milkman and getting supper are mutually exclusive, now that the screwing is over, surely then, supper may, logically, be got.” “You don’t love me any more,” she will now often postulate. “If you did, you would give me one now and again, so that I would not have to rely on that rancid Pakistani for my orgasms.” “I will give you one after you have got me my supper,” I now usually scream, “but not before” — as you understand, making her bang contingent on the arrival of my supper.

“God, you turn me on when you’re angry, you ancient brute!” she now mysteriously deduces, forcing her sweetly throbbing tongue down my throat. “Fuck supper!” I now invariably conclude, throwing logic somewhat joyously to the four winds, and so we thrash about on our milk-stained floor, transported by animal passion, until we sink back, exhausted, onto the cartons of yoghurt.

I’m afraid I seem to have strayed somewhat from my original brief. But in a nutshell:

Sex is more fun than logic — one cannot prove this, but it “is” in the same sense that Mount Everest “is”, or that Alma Cogan “isn’t”.

Goodnight.