I bought a book in a charity shop in Porthcawl last week called The Red Queen by Matt Ridley. One of my favourite things about being surrounded by books are that you always have the freedom to get yourself interested in things you're not interested, purely by the benefit of something being well written. This year as I've no doubt repeated and repeated and repeated like a stuck stuck record, I've immersed myself in Daily Mail sport anthologies, the horrors of the holocaust, 18th century murder mysteries, Brian Clough and now this, a lengthy analysis of evolution and the necessity of sex in this process, the hows and whys of why chosing partners for sex. All fascinating stuff, especially since I'm not in any way interested in genetics, chromasomes or evolution in any way whatsoever. But it's a well written book, that doesn't assume I was even in Mr Sharmas biology class where supposedly I learned the difference between meiosis and mitosis but I don't remember that class at all. I remember seeing posters up in the science labs at school which explained the difference, but I don't remember actually ever being taught it myself. 'Meiosis and Mitosis' sounds like it could be a pretentious metal band though. But yeah, it's a fine book, that doesn't assume I've got the intellect of a plum grape, but at the same time explains evolutionary genetics in pig English just in case I do. One of the best £1 coins I've ever spent, especially because I got a Dave Eggers book I'm never going to read thrown in free.
But I have spent my walks to and from work since trying to apply Ridley's ideas of mating and the choosing of sexual partners to my own tepid gene pool of South Wales, and most of it rings true. The survival of the fittest theory, which is all running like a greasy-smooth prick and works fine. Ridley argues that acquired intelligence doesn't play much of a part in the choosing of mates, which is also true, but humans are regularly lead to disbelieve that being witty and able to outsmart another is a great predatory tactic. Not so, as any internet message board or group of adolescents bantering about Star Wars will ultimately testify, wit just isn't sexy anymore. Take two of the last centurys greatest wits, Oscar Wilde and to a lesser extent, Stephen Fry. No evolution there. At least they've had the decency to mix up a cocktail of madness, homosexuality, celibacy and/or death to help the witticisms go down. No, fabricated intelligence resulted in nothing for either person here other than acquring the common sense not to impregnant anyone. The other thoery, that the survival of the fittest, adding hilarious inverted commas either side of fittest to make a statement about how shallow and empty the world is, is also true. But as Ridley has in a vague sort of way explained, and I'll use the analogy of the film The Hottie and the Nottie, that it's a perfectly natural to want to have moronic, exposive sex with Paris Hilton rather than her toe-faced corn-encrusted toad friend. Although I used to think this was merely because people found it more excusable to be a morally slack ho-bag with attractive people because, you know, it doesn't count if they're good looking, but not any more. I think it's because people want to have children with attractive people so they can force their children into modelling at an early age and scrounge off their Hollywood earnings without having to work hard themselves. Similarly rich people. Identical twins where one is a doctor, and the other repairs bicycles, nine out of ten people would end up with the doctor after ten minutes of conversation, because they're lazy. Even if the two stood up and doctor revealed themselves as a totally sexist bigot, a serial cheater who likes Scouting For Girls, they'd still win. It's more survival of the laziest. Attractive people think they have it easy, and in many cases they're right. Not always though, but attractive people definitely have it laziest.
Similar interests, in the grand scheme of things are drivel. I've touched on this before, but seriously, all similar interests do is fill up voids of silence. The reason mushrooms produce asexually and don't give a hoot about who with is because they don't have in rely depth conversations about Fun House and read Lord of the Rings to get through the day. We're the only species in the world who could ever allow something as trivial what radio station their partners car is tuned into dictate whether to add another generation to their family tree. It's only one thing, but I've known people to have not persued relationships any further because their boyfriend slurped his drink once, or because, well, it was just a bit of fun. No other animal gets bothered by casual sex, which is of course, the real issue here. Because mating doesn't necessarily have to result in procreation, it means the selection process can be freestyled however you want. The mating ritual is like a combination of tricks on a trampoline, eventually resulting in a triple somersualt of coming off the pill, and hey presto, the next generation. Basically, as Matt Ridley explains using the title of the book, sex and evolution is all ridiculous, because ultimately, all the adaptations a species makes and supposedly enhances, is eventually going to ruin us all. Admittedly human beings haven't got much in the way of predators right now except each other, but like an opponent in a chess game or a football match, the more obvious the tactics we eploit, the more likely it is that one day evolution will catch up with us and end the human race. And as I walked home along Windsor Place and saw awkward couples with nothing to say to each other except how nice each other looks pouring into bars to talk about work and drink away the days until one of them cheats, and I remember how easy and natural and it is to want to be there, and I start to think that day can't some soon enough.
But I have spent my walks to and from work since trying to apply Ridley's ideas of mating and the choosing of sexual partners to my own tepid gene pool of South Wales, and most of it rings true. The survival of the fittest theory, which is all running like a greasy-smooth prick and works fine. Ridley argues that acquired intelligence doesn't play much of a part in the choosing of mates, which is also true, but humans are regularly lead to disbelieve that being witty and able to outsmart another is a great predatory tactic. Not so, as any internet message board or group of adolescents bantering about Star Wars will ultimately testify, wit just isn't sexy anymore. Take two of the last centurys greatest wits, Oscar Wilde and to a lesser extent, Stephen Fry. No evolution there. At least they've had the decency to mix up a cocktail of madness, homosexuality, celibacy and/or death to help the witticisms go down. No, fabricated intelligence resulted in nothing for either person here other than acquring the common sense not to impregnant anyone. The other thoery, that the survival of the fittest, adding hilarious inverted commas either side of fittest to make a statement about how shallow and empty the world is, is also true. But as Ridley has in a vague sort of way explained, and I'll use the analogy of the film The Hottie and the Nottie, that it's a perfectly natural to want to have moronic, exposive sex with Paris Hilton rather than her toe-faced corn-encrusted toad friend. Although I used to think this was merely because people found it more excusable to be a morally slack ho-bag with attractive people because, you know, it doesn't count if they're good looking, but not any more. I think it's because people want to have children with attractive people so they can force their children into modelling at an early age and scrounge off their Hollywood earnings without having to work hard themselves. Similarly rich people. Identical twins where one is a doctor, and the other repairs bicycles, nine out of ten people would end up with the doctor after ten minutes of conversation, because they're lazy. Even if the two stood up and doctor revealed themselves as a totally sexist bigot, a serial cheater who likes Scouting For Girls, they'd still win. It's more survival of the laziest. Attractive people think they have it easy, and in many cases they're right. Not always though, but attractive people definitely have it laziest.
Similar interests, in the grand scheme of things are drivel. I've touched on this before, but seriously, all similar interests do is fill up voids of silence. The reason mushrooms produce asexually and don't give a hoot about who with is because they don't have in rely depth conversations about Fun House and read Lord of the Rings to get through the day. We're the only species in the world who could ever allow something as trivial what radio station their partners car is tuned into dictate whether to add another generation to their family tree. It's only one thing, but I've known people to have not persued relationships any further because their boyfriend slurped his drink once, or because, well, it was just a bit of fun. No other animal gets bothered by casual sex, which is of course, the real issue here. Because mating doesn't necessarily have to result in procreation, it means the selection process can be freestyled however you want. The mating ritual is like a combination of tricks on a trampoline, eventually resulting in a triple somersualt of coming off the pill, and hey presto, the next generation. Basically, as Matt Ridley explains using the title of the book, sex and evolution is all ridiculous, because ultimately, all the adaptations a species makes and supposedly enhances, is eventually going to ruin us all. Admittedly human beings haven't got much in the way of predators right now except each other, but like an opponent in a chess game or a football match, the more obvious the tactics we eploit, the more likely it is that one day evolution will catch up with us and end the human race. And as I walked home along Windsor Place and saw awkward couples with nothing to say to each other except how nice each other looks pouring into bars to talk about work and drink away the days until one of them cheats, and I remember how easy and natural and it is to want to be there, and I start to think that day can't some soon enough.
1 comment:
I read that book. And Ballboy are playing London tomorrow. SYNCH.
I'd sooner shag a peacock than a peahen, does that make me gay?
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