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What would we ever do without scientists?  A person’s way of eating eggs ‘can predict personality type’.

Thank Heavens!  Here are the results:

Using sophisticated maths and a process known as data mining, scientists have uncovered a statistical relationship between a person’s character, lifestyle and social class and whether they like their eggs boiled, fried, scrambled or as an omelette.

In the new study, the research team found that poached egg eaters are outgoing, listen to upbeat music and are happier, boiled egg consumers are disorganised, fried egg fans have a high sex drive, scrambled egg aficionados are guarded and omelette eaters are self-disciplined.

But wait, there’s more!

It was discovered that the average poached egg-eater is likely to have two children and no more than one sibling and is more likely to be a woman than a man.

Boiled egg-eaters had a tendency to be careless and impulsive.

Fried egg-eaters are most likely to be younger and male and most frequently found among the skilled working classes.

Scrambled egg-eaters are more likely than other types to be in managerial or senior-level jobs and also to own their own home, and omelette eaters are likely to have a tidy home.

Well, now.

As it happens, ol’  Robbo’s favorite way of eating eggs is fried and served on top of toast so that when you cut into them the yoke sops into the bread.

I won’t say anything about the study’s predicted correlation with my, ah, drives, since that is classified information.  I will point out instead that my egg preference  is simply a result of the fact that that’s the way I had them virtually every morning of my misspent yoot and thus is much more likely an acquired rayther than an innate preference.

What do you suppose the scientists would say about my preference for having my coffee black?

And since I can’t resist the gunnegshun, let’s roll the videotape!

I noted over on Facebook yesterday the obituary of unabashed Marxist and much ballyhooed British historian Eric Hobsbawm, quoting from the article. “In 1994 he wrote that, on balance, the achievements of the “shining light” of the Bolshevik Revolution and the subsequent dictatorship of Stalin had been positive.”

To which I added the remark,  “12 million starved Ukrainians could not be reached for comment.”

Following up, a friend of the decanter sent along a linkie to a republished WSJ review by Michael Moynihan of one of Hobsbawm’s later books, How To Change The World.  Moynihan writes:

One wouldn’t know it from “How to Change the World,” but Mr. Hobsbawm wasn’t always convinced that the Soviet Union, along with its puppets and imitators, was misunderstanding the essence of Marxism. He never relinquished his membership in the Communist Party, even after Moscow’s invasions of Hungary and Czechoslovakia. Indeed, he began his writing career with a co-authored pamphlet defending the indefensible Soviet invasion of Finland in 1939. “To this day,” he writes in his memoirs, “I notice myself treating the memory and tradition of the USSR with an indulgence and tenderness.” There was some ugliness in the socialist states occupied by Moscow, he admitted in 2002, but “leaving aside the victims of the Berlin Wall,” East Germany was a pleasant place to live. Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?

In a now infamous 1994 interview with journalist Michael Ignatieff, the historian was asked if the murder of “15, 20 million people might have been justified” in establishing a Marxist paradise. “Yes,” Mr. Hobsbawm replied. Asked the same question the following year, he reiterated his support for the “sacrifice of millions of lives” in pursuit of a vague egalitarianism. That such comments caused surprise is itself surprising; Mr. Hobsbawm’s lifelong commitment to the Party testified to his approval of the Soviet experience, whatever its crimes. It’s not that he didn’t know what was going on in the dank basements of the Lubyanka and on the frozen steppes of Siberia. It’s that he didn’t much care.

It is, perhaps, unseemly to speak ill of the recently dead, but such a blasé attitude, which I have sometimes come across in histories of the Stalinist and Maoist regimes themselves, fills me with a horror far beyond my response to ordinary human villainy.  It is one thing, when confronted with the facts and figures of massacre and holocaust, to try and deny them or even to burst out in sinister, blood-lusty laughter.  Those responses can be explained by ignorance, gullibility or derangement.  It is an entirely different level of evil to look blank, shrug and say, “So what?”

The opposite of love is not hate but indifference.   Many Hobsbawm apologists like to try and paper over his more outrageous positions by labeling him merely as “controversial” or “colorful” or “iconic”, as if to make him sound edgy, almost roguish.   But let’s be clear about what is what: Such a complete lack of sympathy for the millions upon millions of victims of this wretched philosophy to which Hobsbawm linked his lot is, literally, Satanic.

I suppose that I’m on about this because I was forced to read a goodish bit of Hobsbawm’s “history” during my time in the People’s Glorious Soviet of Middletown.  I know how his Marxism influenced his interpretation of Western Europe.  (At one time or another I was made to read his Age of Revolution, Age of Capital and Age of Empire.)  I know the rock star-like status he had and still has among faculty and other members of the intelligentsia both here and abroad (among whom there is no doubt much wailing and gnashing of teeth at the moment.)  I know how these people pass on such enthusiasm to the younglings under their tutelage (most of whom are too ignorant to know when they’re being brainwashed and horn-swoggled), and continue to provide pseudo-intellectual cover for those still intent on carrying out Stalinist strong-arm tactics.   Thus, I am motivated to thump the table, spilling port and scattering walnut shells in the process, and declaim, “This man was a monster!”   And it’s no good arguing that he was just an armchair Marxist who never actually killed anybody himself.  As a cheerleader for the Cause, and a very influential one at that, I see him as an accomplice and every bit as morally culpable.

To be charitable, one can’t know anything of the circumstances of his end, but one can at least hope that he somehow finally “got” it and repented before he died.  May the Lord have mercy on his soul.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!  May I indulge in a little celebration?

Yes, with a loss by the Braves last night (thank yew, Bucs!), Robbo’s beloved Nationals O-fficially have won the National League East championship.  First title since 1933 and hopefully of many more to come.  Woo Hoo! 

My heartiest congratulations go out to all the boys, who I had thought had a pretty good shot as far back as February.  (Granted, I predicted between 85 and 95 wins and a wildcard slot.  I also predicted they’d clinch next year instead of this.  They’re sitting on 96 wins with 2 to go.  No harm in low-balling it.)

Frankly, at this point I’m still trying to take it all in, having never had this experience before.  So all I can really do at the moment is look forward to the playoffs and say again GO, NATS!!!

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