Jim and Paul (dot) Net

Natural reactions to the drink known commonly as ‘gin’ have been noted to be varied and wide-ranging, but with a predisposition towards a maudlin feeling, or one of being unwanted. The drinker will often mix the gin with ‘Tonic’ and slices of citrus fruit to make the dreadful taste of the native gin at least a little bearable. This has to lead any rational man of science to come to the question: Is it the gin itself that makes the drinker miserable, or is the drinker a naturally miserable person? Does the drinker loathe themselves so much that they feel that the only right way to drink is to imbibe such a foul, bitter mixture?

We asked one hundred people on the streets of London exactly what their attitude was towards Gin, other drinks and their opinion of themselves. Every single person responded by saying they were unhappy with life and they regularly partook in extended sessions of drinking Gin, either neat or as part of a mixed drink.

Conversely, in Bath, the first and only person we spoke with had no recollection of ever having tasted gin, although they were aware of it as an alcoholic drink. When queried as to their own satisfaction with the nature of their own existence, this person responded in a generally positive manner, citing the regenerative nature of the local geothermal springs when bathed therein.

This is inconclusive and begs for further research in to the matter. The Londoners were undoubtedly very low, perhaps on the brink of or deeply within a state of depression, but it can’t at this stage be defined that the cause of this is prior to – or following – the dependence on gin. Also the individual in Bath who was clearly extremely happy with life wasn’t a keen drinker, and had never tasted Gin itself. He also regularly undertook to clean himself in the local waters. There are too many variables at large here to reliably form an honest scientific opinion.

I therefore propose to further investigate a different, statistically significant selection of people in the Northampton area, with the hypothesis that in this area one should find a mix of people who may be a) ignorant to the wiles of gin, b) in the depths of a gin-binge, and c) at various stages of the oft-witnessed collapse into the reliance on said drink.

Further results shall be posted upon this messaging board as soon as they are available.

Not ossification, the process by which bones are formed, but classification, an ancient science practiced by humans which involves the creation of arbitrary dividing lines and thinking up names for ease of identification of things.

Take, as a pertinent case study, ‘The Smallest House in Great Britain’, located in Conwy, North Wales. Children and adults alike have been having their photo taken in front of this house for as long as there has been a sign on the house declaring it as such. Proud faces look up in wonder and think to themselves:

“How blessed am I to be in the presence of such extreme housing. The Smallest House in Great Britain. Wow.”

The first thing we notice is the sign. If you can go one step above naming something, then throw a physical label on it. Like the man with branded skin who stepped across the line from ‘decent citizen’ to ‘criminal’, the house is immediately recognisable even without an intimate knowledge of the relative sizes of the rest of Great Britain’s housing stock. Because there is a big sign with writing on it above the window (there isn’t room above the door).

But what does it all mean?

That it is the smallest house is of significant meaning, in that there are no houses smaller. We are not really in a position to question this, and for the purposes of this article I will assume that it is a true statement. I’m happy we are straying from the arbitrary, with such deliciously absolute statements.

But what we don’t know in all this is how they choose to classify a ‘house’. Dictionary.com gives a simple definition as “A building in which people live; residence for human beings.” This leaves the sign open to challenge immediately. Their ‘House’ is the one of Children’s sketchbooks – with red bricks, a chimney and maybe a little yellow flower out front. The house of a rational man could be a bus shelter, underneath a park bench or even the shed at the bottom of a garden where a disillusioned husband sleeps. My mind starts to ache at the confusion that is beginning to creep in here.

Of course the lines of Great Britain are equally blurred, with some no doubt even questioning the existence of this as a political entity. It would be nice if this refers to the geographical land mass including Scotland, England and Wales located above the normal sea level. This is reasonably absolute – although over geographical time also relatively meaningless. I would argue the use of the word ‘in’ Great Britain associates itself more with the political meaning. Which is a shame, ‘on’ would have potentially been a better word.

So it might not actually be what we think it is, as there are no doubt smaller residence buildings within the confines of the bit of land poking above the sea where England, Scotland and Wales are currently politically defined. We also probably have to consider the top corner of the Irish land mass as well. But this is the point where we take a step back, and we take a considered view on classification. We are happy to accept it as the ‘smallest house’ because it is a harmless bit of fun, and the house is really cute, to boot.

So what’s the point of all this rambling?

Classification is entirely necessary in any sort of functional, usable language, and understanding how to convey maximum meaning in minimum words, with minimal explanation, is a tremendous skill and not to be undervalued.

I’ll leave arguments about taxonomic classification for other fora, but here are a few examples of easy ways to classify members of Homo sapiens by their recent cultural / political / national heritage:

Jew, Muslim, American, Indian.

It’s in interpreting that information that we must not take short cuts.