My Birthday


It was my birthday on Boxing day. I am a few years shy of 40.

I share a Boxing Day birthday with a number of interesting people, including poet Thomas Gray, Jared Leto, and Dermot Murnaghan. I was born on the same day as Czech porn actress Lea de Mae, who died in 2004.

It was a day spent taking stock of my life. I feel I have found a nice plateau, and I am happy with what I have. I think I have reached a point in life which most people reach when they get into their fifties, whereby I don’t really want to do much at all, but want the rhythm of life simple pleasures to remain uninterrupted. I am happy with my career and my home life. I have plenty of hobbies and friends. I’ve been in lots of relationships and have made some money. I have a busy social life which involves doing lots of interesting things and attending interesting events. I have plenty of entertainnment and and allowed to talk to whoever I like. I was the youngest of four children by quite a gap, and have lived most of my life being doted on by people. When I look inside my brain I don’t see any pressures or drivers that make me want to change into anything else.

The big Four-Oh is fast approaching for me. I don’t feel particularly old, in fact I still look like I’m about 26 years old other than for the few grey hairs on the sides of my head. I think in a couple of years I will be a very young 40 year old. Turning 40 is traditionally the point when people have a long think about where they have been and where they are going. I’m happy to say that I’ve done almost all of the things I wanted to do in life. There are dimensions of my life that don’t really fit into the overreaching narrative quite just yet, and in some of these dimensions I’ve done completely incredible things and had incredible successes.

There is a motorway one hundred feet behind the back garden of my wife’s house. It is raised on pillars to about sixty feet above street level, and runs through most of North Birmingham in this way. You might think that such a thing would be a tremendous eye sore, and that it would be a horrible place to live. But to illuminated people like me, the motorway is a wonderful spiritual thing, and a beatiful poem in my soul. A road is a narrative, taking people from one place to another. I often thing about the people travelling on the motorway. I only really know them by the sound of their car engines, but in my minds eye I think of their dreams and ambitions, their hopes and desires. It is like having spiritual river running past your house, that you can look to for inspiration and as a balm for the soul. I think motorways are sort of beautiful things and I think I am lucky to live by one.

I suppose that now I am in my late thirties I am reaching the halfway point in my journey down Life’s road. I have very good health and many friends. I’d love to be very rich indeed but I’m sort of already bored of buying expensive things – I know money can’t buy you much at all in life. Just enough to keep buying Fly London shoes and Ed Hardy T-shirts is working out very nicely for me at the moment.


Majid Salim


Roger Scruton in today’s Guardian (20/12/2012)


I was surprised by Roger Scruton’s article in the Guardian today. Like a lot of philosophy it was a difficult read; it was not really geared for the intelligent general reader, and I am speaking as someone with an undergraduate degree in Philosophy.

Scruton’s main thesis in this article is that ‘real’ culture is being eroded by a culture of intellectual fakes. I think there is a degree of sophistry about his article because Scruton does not evidence his thesis with concrete examples of what he is saying, but rather appeals to his reader to share his generalised sense that this is true.

In fact, in the whole article, Scruton only gives on example of how high culture has been eroded by fakery, and this it kitsch. A lot of people believed kitsch art was a threat to culture and a sort of false consciousness that distracted people from their own species alienation. Scruton does mention that he believes Althusser and Lacan are fakes, but a couple of paragraphs earlier he described Rorty as a genuine scholar and intelligent writer who believed we are entitled to dismiss the opponent of our academic belief because truth is negotiable. Then could not Althuser and Lacan apply Rorty to Scruton in order to defend themselves from the accusation of being fakes, according to the logic of Scruton’s own article?

It is obvious that Scruton is mainly talking about people as fakes in this article, and he gives no examples of any theorists or critics who he believes are fakes that are debasing high culture, that hold water according to the internal logic of the article. As such his article relies in the whole on the evidence of kitsch as an example of fakery, and as such the intellectual presentation of his argument mixes apples and oranges. This article is not so much the presentation of an intellectual argument as fallacious appeal to a sense of tradition amongst readers he might perceive as sharing his values, with a view to defending their culture against some alien phenomenon or other.

He repeats several times his belief that high culture has been ‘eroded’ or ‘corrupted’ by fakery, but crucially he does not define what a ‘fake’ in his theory is. How can we tell if an academic, theorist of philosopher is a fake, other than by asking Scruton? If they have had papers published and so have contributed to the body of literature for their field, does that not mean they are the real thing?

And what does Scruton have to say about his own false positives, people who he would only too enthusiastically include in his retinue of high culture practitioners, but who have never had anything published and so have never contributed to culture in any real or concrete sense? Surely culture can only be objectively defined as the work of published arts professionals? Or does Scruton oppose any objective definition of culture, preferring instead a subjective definition that he defines in tandem with people who share his values? If that is true, how isn’t Scruton just as guilty as anyone else of an academic Newspeak whereby his argument refers to itself alone as a defence against critical assault?

I said earlier that Scruton does not give any specific examples of people who are fakes, despite the whole article being an attack on the psychology and mindset of fakery. Perhaps we are supposed to read between the lines and work out who the fakes he is talking about are.

He does state that ‘the fake intellectual invites you to conspire in his own self-deception.’ It does strike me that the burden on proof is in this article is on the reader to prove that Scruton is wrong and there are no fakes – rather than documenting and evidencing his thesis, he simply states it and then if we challenge it the assumption is we must belong to the culture of fakery he is so vociferously attacking. I do have a problem with Scruton’s reasoning in this article. There is a sense that he is creating a false dilemma, similar to Tony Blair’s ‘Forces of Conservatism,’ that might not be considered valid in many other arenas. There is a sense that spite is being presented as evidence in this article (‘He is the teacher of genius, you the brilliant pupil…’).

Scruton believes that fakes earn their academic careers by ‘combining [ideas] in the impenetrable syntax that hoodwinks the person who composes it as much as the person who reads it’. He believes fakes are deceiving themselves as much as anyone else. I think Scruton is labouring under some real and serious misconception about the nature of work, academic achievement and language. People are allowed to recombine old ideas or take other people idea’s one logical step further in order to produce original research – this is perfectly acceptable so long as all referenced works are properly cited and the work presented is sterilised of any potential plagiarism. In fact in a very real sense I believe the only intellectual fakery which matters is plagiarism. Scruton might see original pieces of work as describe them as fakes because they are written by people who do not share his value system, but I believe that so long as such works are plagiarism free and the original work of the author they are valid and should be welcomed into whatever intellectual arena they were presented to.

It could be that if Scruton ever sees this critique of his article he might not deign to respond. Perhaps the only reason he wrote his essay was because he wanted to address some subtext or other, and as such he might not be interested in defending his article against critiques of what it is ostensibly saying. I would be interested in seeing what third parties think of my response to Scruton’s article. If they believe I have effected a competent dismantling of Scruton’s thesis then perhaps they at least won’t call me an intellectual fake myself.


Majid Salim

Another weekend in London


This weekend was an amazing weekend. It was spent in London with various people in the media. I was worried that the December weather in London would be below freezing as we had been promised -15C temperatures all week. But luckily the sun shone for most of the weekend, and the weather was balmy by winter standards.

I got into London at midday on Friday, and took a taxi from outside Euston straight to BBC Broadcasting House on Portland Place. The staff in there were friendly and welcoming – one of the receptionists expressed admiration for my blog and twitter feed. I was there to attend the recording of the BBC Radio 4 Front Row quiz, hosted by Mark Lawson, and with contenstants including Julian Fellowes and Maureen Lipman.

Mark Lawson was a very interesting person to watch. He is a consumate and respected broadcasting professional, and watching him chair the quiz was a masterclass in radio technique. The audience were warmed up and laughing at his jokes and asides. At several points he made eye contact and smiled, suggesting to me we may have met before although I can’t remember having done so. During the recording he was polite and funny, making jokes about new young celebrities in the media. Julian Fellowes made jokes about budget hotels. I don’t think he would be impressed if he had seen the budget hotel I was staying in with his own eyes, although I’d like to think I could convice him my choice of hotel was clean, comfortable and fun. The other audience members were fun to talk to, and during the recording we discussed matters such as what the BBC think of me and the strangely private way I seem to know absolutely everybody.

After Front Row I had a couple of hours to kill, so I went to the cafe in Russell Square near my hotel and had lunch. After lunch I got ready to go to Union Chapel in Islington to attend the Save The Children Christmas Tree Sessions. They were being complered by Lauren Laverne, a broadcaster and DJ who I greatly admire and consider very cool and talented. Also turning up there was Caitlin Moran, Stuart Maconie and Myleene Klass.

On my way to Union Chapel I walked through Islington. London strikes me as city where young people have lost their way a little. There was plenty of them sitting in coffee shops on their laptops, not talking to anyone. Maybe they are all young professionals who have moved to the city but not made any good friends yet. It must be a depressing life being a singleton in London.

Union Chapel is a beautiful buiding, and I was sat on a pew right at the back of the church, with my glasses on so I could see everyone on stage. It was nice seeing Lauren and we exchanged a smile. Caitlin was hilarious and a lot of fun to witness in the flesh, she is a like an oversexed ball of fun. Stuart Maconie looked a little nervous about being in the same room as me but his reading was very enjoyable. I got retweeted by Save The Children and had two weeks worths of hits on my blog in one night. Myleene was a pleasure to watch playing piano. At the end of the evening I was going to say hello to Lauren but the brooding look I got from her entourage whilst I considered interrupting her DJing made me change my mind. So instead I called it a night and walked back to my hotel.

Saturday morning was spent on a long walk to Tate Britain. On the way I tweeted a picture of the Shard and a picture of Brian Haw’s peace memorial outside the Houses of Parliament. Then I went up Oxford Street to the posher parts of London where I talked to some old friends. Saturday was a day spent with members of the public in London, rather than the media.  I struck up a short but enjoyable friendship with a woman who was either Italian or Spanish. I took an afternoon nap and spent the evening in Camden, which was a bit somnolent. I spent Saturday night talking to a very old friend of mine from a private part of my life.

Sunday morning was spent enjoying a large and delicious breakfast and checking out of my hotel at 10. I hung around in Kings Cross for a couple of hours. I telephoned the Guardian from outside Kings Cross station and asked if I could visit the office. They told me that even though I had been awarded press passes to their events and been published in the newspaper, I still couldn’t visit the office of a national newspaper without something like that being arranged beforehand.

‘We’re only a sketeon crew here today,’ she explained apologetically, ‘so I doubt you woud meet anyone you know anyway.’

I thanked her and ended the call. It was a shame as I would like to have visited Kings Place, it is a beautiful building with a lot of interesting artworks in it. I have heard the coffee is great in the cafe and the washrooms are deluxe.  Outside Kings Cross I met a couple of Guardian staffers coming out of the station. I chatted with them whilst smoking a cigarette and made friends with them pretty much instantly, something I knew I would do with a lot of people once I met them face to face. The man I spoke to from the Guardian said he had heard of me and congratulated me on making it into the media. He said he thought I was a very cool guy and that I had a design for life which was  inspirational to lots of people. I didn’t catch his name but he was wearing a checked shirt and jeans.

My last couple of hours in London were spent Euston Square drinking coffee, eating amaretto biscuits and luxuriously creamy chocolates in Cafe Nero. I think Cafe Nero is easily the best coffee shop, and a quick chat with several journalists on Twitter seemed to confirm this as established media opinion. I think they were looking dfor a replacement for Starbucks anyway, which seems to be in the media’s bad books for not paying tax.

Then it was the train home. I chatted to people on the train about life as we hurtled up the track to Birmingham. Overall it was a very enjoyable weekend and I’d like to thank London for being an amazing city.