.Perhaps you prefer the lightly fictionalized version?

Let me explain something to you, Carol - Carol Black or Carol Lenz, either will do.  The Sumerians are credited with the invention of writing, but such a broad statement really doesn't get down to the nitty-gritty.  One day a little Sumerian said to himself something like it's all very well recording bags of grain by marks on a stick (not sure what they actually did previously) but I need more detail.  Yes, if you write things down, you don't have to rely on memory to recall what happened 20-30 years ago.

Or maybe you prefer Doc Hollowhead.

Finally, no, not finally, but critically, there was the waif, employed to analyse milk-yield, but the waif had said insufficient data were available. Strange that, there were the cows, but no-one questioned. Guess who did the work. Of course she did her own job as well. It worried no-one except Dez that the waif was paid full-time to do the project. Dez worked over the Christmas and New Year break, and then it seemed to her she was getting flu. She bought patent remedies and retreated to bed. The next day she could barely get up to go to the lavatory, but it was a Sunday. On the Monday she forced herself onto a train, one of the benefits of hospital employment being on-tap doctors. Chest x-ray revealed pneumonia. She collected her prescription and retreated to bed. After a couple of days she felt fine but then those wonderful drugs you can nowadays which happened to be the wrong wonderful drugs began to give up an unequal struggle. Death stood in the doorway. No! she said. Death shrugged. Not yet. Hell, you mean not yet. Death has a taste. This is it. You may think you have never tasted anything so virulently revolting in your life. Unfortunately, if you don’t taste it, you don’t have a life. When consolidation has nothing better to do, it deconsolidates and floods your lungs. Drowning is not a viable option. Dezzi learned terror. Terror is not closing your eyes in case you don't wake up again. Terror is the inexorable closing of the wind-pipe, as though someone has pulled the plug on your life. This is significant for what follows: after you have nearly died, you are remarkably hard to frighten. They decided she had cancer. It was easier than finding out what she did have or changing the drugs. She was admitted to the Royal Brompton, put on intravenous antibiotics, and got better. Nursey slowly chewed a thin strand of dirty hair, the days long gone when hair must be up, off the face, off the collar, tightly secured by a pristine cap. She hobbled slowly down the corridor, dragging the bloat of her self-importance, frowning. The fascistic Tory press had insinuated nurses couldn't be trusted with extended powers of diagnosis and prescribing. It was speeshus, that's what it was. Nursey prided herself on her wide vocabulary. Thirty years ago Nursey had had to restrict herself to tying down psychiatric patients. Sixty years ago, she had been a concentration-camp guard. Ourwonderfulnurses.com let Nursey out of her cage and allowed her to flourish. There were few limits to the venomous stupidity that shone in those pale piggy eyes and Nursey was especially good at a frothy self-righteousness. Her pigling cheeks would redden. Nursey was a profeshnal. Nursey had a degree. She understood what was what. Standards had to be maintained. It was not acceptable. Something had to be done. (Sometimes. When your old mum rings for a nurse and the Nurses’ Station is deserted, it’s because Nursey is far too important these days to attend to the bodily needs of old ladies.) When really distressed she would screw the little eyes up, the whiskers would twitch. I am fewurious. The little eyes would water. She would dab at them gently and try to be brave. Everyone understood. Nursey was a good person, so caring. Nursey had many roles and a host of helpers. Dezzi had many roles, amongst which helping. On the far side of the white picket fence you harness a championship filly to a milk-cart while the milk-cart pony waddles ahead crowing. Of course finally the filly rears up on her hind-legs and batters the pony. Justifiable equicide I calls it. They had other words. It was the egos that did it, the putrescent smear over the walls, the floors, a spreading stain of mustard yellow and purple, so Dez saw it. That’s what artists do, poor bastards, see, then everyone jumps down their throats because they don’t like the pictures. We're all perfickly normal people here. Turning-points in history are rarely noted until later. Universities were for abnormal people, the academic, the bookish, the reflective, the inquisitive, the very bright. Then they weren't. Sometimes they were for the earnest and well-meaning. In this case they were for the thick and greedy.
Dezzi said, the last time I did three jobs so other people could do half a job I ended up on a drip in the Brompton, I am not going down that road again. They piled the work on. She became difficult, if not impossible, made up rude rhymes. It was interesting, being forced into work every day of the Easter break, while the ghoul took yet another extended holiday. It was then that she threatened legal action. Obviously if she was going to be difficult, she had to be framed. The mental rape began in earnest. What the hell were they looking for, going through her files? She cracked. 'Show me the way to go home! I'm tired and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink or five or six and they went right to my head!' Sometimes all you can manage with the last shreds of resistance that remain is to say fuck you. In academic book-shops, in the University of London Library itself, full-scale war had broken out. Giant rainbow comets swooped between the stacks looking for their prey. Alerted by sudden terrified screams from Hansard they landed like a fireball in the midst of Politics: 20th Century, tore into the Fog. A little 'debate' lay curled under one of the desks, whimpering, “It got him, it got him.” There was a cackle of triumph from the Fog. The comets tore into it but it fled through the window and sped down Gower Street, tried to turn left, but the British Museum Library was ready for it. It ran then, west, along New Oxford Street and down the Charing Cross Road. It took shelter in a sex-shop. The Thai babes stirred uneasily in their cradles. The Fog laughed again and began to whine tunelessly. Down will come baby, cradle and all. It screeched suddenly as though pierced with red-hot daggers. The ghost in the machine was riled. Dez knew what she had said, though she hadn't yet grasped the extent to which it was a threat. Something about babies and bath-water, having thrown out mind along with religion. It was only later she realized the bit about the College of Cardinals had been so deeply wounding (there are intelligent people who argue for determinism just as there are intelligent people who thresh out Catholic theology; the average technician or physician has the in-depth comprehension of the Sicilian peasant). Exit, pursued by a bear (or a dragon). It was ridiculous. How ridiculous? They were the wrong kind of snow. At first she had no more idea what she meant than Railtrack. At second and third she had no more idea, but remember the infant Dezzi had been dandled on the knees of future leading Maoists. The Stepford Wives Left was alien and she – she had reacted like Fiver in the Death Warren. Senior academics of the University of London do not recognize the value of a University of London degree. They are therefore raving bloody mad. Medics are not supposed to destroy health. Clearly they are raving bloody mad. They are straights, they are uneducated, they are stupid, oh God how stupid they all are. It's a one-off. She didn't see her way to being driven out of her own university by the stupidity of a nurse and a typist. Nothing computed: she’d already been desperately ill and they deliberately… She got pneumonia. Again. After some days of pretending she didn’t, staggering into work with a cough they would have found disturbing in Spikey’s Row, because she couldn’t have, it was unbearable. With it came £67.35 in sickness benefit for two weeks without pay. After it, her carefree temping career and all the things she’d been going to explore were destroyed by the energy levels of a dead cat. She settled to earning 5p an hour in a local corporate events firm. Ask her about it some time. They were a jolly set of wide-boys. After her second attack of pneumonia, she was vaccinated and subsequently merely suffered not-pneumonia, often, a series of repulsive and exhausting chest infections. She deduced the existence of the swamp, a puddle at the bottom of the lung, right at the bottom, from where she coughed. Infections went not to her chest but to her waist. When the infections depart, there is an itching sensation, irresistibly reminiscent of a scab, and so a healing, but who wants a scabby lung. Dezzi furious, Dezzi emotionally and physically bruised, Dezzi hopping along trailing a broken wing, trying to tell herself all this was chance, to which the only possible response was that it was and it wasn’t. If people set on you intending to wreck your health, your health gets wrecked. They don’t inject you with pneumonia. They don’t have to.
'Dear MI5-person, It's a bad idea to be bright in the University of London today.' It was a strange letter she composed to the agents of the fascist bourgeois imperialist state. No, she didn't expect them to do anything. Someone should know. When she reviewed the letter later, she realized how deeply she had assumed that the relevant names were known already Trust the University? You’re kidding. Who else was there? Feedback: none. She hadn't expected any. She did one other thing. She commented on her new Website. Feedback: none. Slowly she regenerated. She didn't yet understand she was unhomed, deemed an offence that may not be allowed to exist. It had been clear for some time that the words were upset and not just the big imposing intellectual ones. 'The' and 'and' chirruped uneasily on hoardings. Headlines describing bomb-scares smoked uneasily, then burst into flame. Mediaeval assemblies appeared at Baron's Court, with armoured knights and rich hangings. Ladies in wimples clutched at their skirts as they edged their way up the rickety stairs, while an emerald mist oozed in along the track from Turnham Green, where fat olive porkers snuffled. Words have ways of making their feelings known. A riot broke out in the Buttered Parsnip when a reedy little 'precision' looked over his pince-nez and said there were too many weasel words. Been reading the Wind in the Willows too much, toady! Words should not be badgered. Nasty little rat he was. Well! That was bad enough! It was when he said we have to consider if there is a mole that the floor became a volcano of erupting mole-hills. Moley is the best! Good hard-working, honest - making a mountain - the mole-hills grew with terrifying speed, barrels of ice on the bar became vast glaciers inching their way towards each other. There was a horrifying tearing sound as they collided. The landlady sighed. Going to have to get the writers in to calm 'em all down. Behind the bar (or where would have been behind the bar if it hadn't been an alpine pastoral idyll) was transformed into a great peacock-tail fan. One by one the quills stepped out. Everyone fell quiet. We seem a little bristly tonight, wrote one quill carefully. The matter is in hand, wrote another. We should all calm down and go to our homes, wrote a third. The largest quill from the peak of the tail had stood aside. Now it wrote: We should not get het-up. Nothing untoward is happening. Precision, unlikely rebel with his thinning hair and stiff collar, made his way back to the Academician's study, badly shaken. He walked into the dictionary, for it is only there words bereft of writers can function rationally without the devastation he had just witnessed. He asked a question: Suppose the writers do not have our best interests at heart? It is the story of our lives, sighed history. Unexpectedly they were interrupted. I am the definite article, said the. We understand, said history gently. The words were frightened. They needed to assert their meaning. The Chorus of the Moles continued in the background. ‘We dig, dig, dig. We are moles, moles, moles.’ Imagination is not their forte. In academic book-shops, in the University of London Library itself, full-scale war had broken out. Giant rainbow comets swooped between the stacks looking for their prey. Alerted by sudden terrified screams from Hansard they landed like a fireball in the midst of Politics: 20th Century, tore into the Fog. A little 'debate' lay curled under one of the desks, whimpering, “It got him, it got him.” There was a cackle of triumph from the Fog. The comets tore into it but it fled through the window and sped down Gower Street, tried to turn left, but the British Museum Library was ready for it. It ran then, west, along New Oxford Street and down the Charing Cross Road. It took shelter in a sex-shop. The Thai babes stirred uneasily in their cradles. The Fog laughed again and began to whine tunelessly. Down will come baby, cradle and all. It screeched suddenly as though pierced with red-hot daggers. The ghost in the machine was riled. A confused little monkey in a white coat sat in a lab in Oxford and it beat in his brain, there is no god but DNA and Dawkins is his prophet. He looks at his god and his god is all and all are equal, all are identical, and there are no love, sex, pain, death and the whole damn‘ thing, there is no ‘human‘, there is only biochemistry, and we must all react in the same way and feel the same thing and cannot question what we think and what we feel and cannot change it, and if we do not react in the same way and feel the same thing that is false consciousness and bourgeois conditioning, and if we say we do not react in the same way and feel the same thing and we can change how we react and how we feel and each of us is different, that is bourgeois conditioning, because we are all equal, we are all the same, and the humanities terrify the little monkey by reflecting on love, sex, pain, death and the whole damn‘ thing, and our current ills are not the fault of liberty but the fault of failing to encourage people to exercise their hearts and minds because their hearts and minds don‘t exist and people who are emotionally whole do not break up their housing-estates and their fellow-humans who live there and people who do are not exercising their freedom but being slaves of the god but the confused little monkey knows better. The confused little monkey isn’t capable of taking into account the pain of people at seeing things smashed up, the distress of people at not being able to use the ‘phone box, the pain of people who are bruised and bleeding. The confused little monkey knows that bourgeois law exists solely to perpetuate the economic status quo. There is no activity of heart or mind in the confused little monkey’s world.
But don't wrangle with us so long as you apply, to our intended abolition of bourgeois property, the standard of your bourgeois notions of freedom, culture, law, etc. Your very ideas are but the outgrowth of the conditions of your bourgeois production and bourgeois property, just as your jurisprudence is but the will of your class made into a law for all, a will, whose essential character and direction are determined by the economical conditions of existence of your class. Marx and Engels: The Manifesto of the Communist Party
Law, morality, religion, are to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as many bourgeois interests. Marx and Engels: The Manifesto of the Communist Party
But the little monkey is frightened – sheesh, it lives in a permanent state of terror. People go on exercising their hearts and minds anyway and they come up with ideas and empathy and, worst of all people who don’t smash telephone boxes because they see it is unconstructive, unhelpful and possibly lethal, think they’re an improvement on those who do and criticize and are judgemental and condemnatory and it beats in the little monkey’s brain that we’re all equal and such people must be eliminated (and of course the telephone-box smashers aren’t at fault because they are the victim of economic forces) and he’s a right case. But people fall on their knees before him anyway, because he’s a scientist and a rational man. You think it’s called dialectical materialism, scientific socialism for nothing? 98% of my DNA shared with the chimp! And I brachiate! It really obsesses them. Clearly the goal of biological evolution is strap-hanging on the Victoria Line.
Don’t want literate people, do you. Don’t want people able to express themselves.
Being able to type salpingo-oophorectomy at 70 wpm, thinking herself safe as a temp, Dez had drifted back into the world of medicine. Now, safe as a temp, she found herself at the Hospital. It seemed different, sufficiently so for her to accept a permanent job as a PA. She promptly acquired a particularly virulent bout of the Trots, her manager not the civilized medics with whom the job had been negotiated but a gingery little nurse. She was turned into a porter and a filing-clerk and stashed in a shabby leaking attic with a woman who did little and was frequently visited by a friend who did even less. Both happened to be black, and so, it was thought, Dezzi wouldn't dare comment. The attic was on the sixth floor of one building. The clinics she was to type were on the fourth floor of a building on the other side of the road. Cancer patients have multiple volumes of heavy hospital notes. She had to collect and return all the notes in a large supermarket trolley. Someone from her former place of work had, she guessed, come a-whingeing to her new employers. She was running on one kidney, one whole lung and one with a hole in it and a spine held in place by an alloy rod. She was 45. Of course no-one asked if she was up to heavy physical labour; everyone knew she was not. It is frightening to know that malice is on your back and no-one will do anything about it. She called him Fury after the persona in the Julian May books, it being shorter than you depressing, limited and essentially evil stinking lousy c*** of a cephalopod, you. Besides, c*** is hard to pronounce. She got very upset and complained about everything in sight to everyone in sight. A new manager had been appointed, a jewel of dynamism and probity known as the Vicious Quean. It awas said his partner beat him up and he dealt with it by bullying the women under him. Who could wish for a more perfect boss. He asked her how she felt able to criticize a senior nurse-manager and she did not answer because he’s a moronic criminal. When she had refused to shut up, she had been summoned to a kangaroo court. A vampire emerged from its office. Clearly this creature, pasty-faced, thin-lipped never saw the light of day. Where was the nearest cemetery, out of which tomb had it crawled? Dezzi wondered where they were recruited from, the exit-gates of Holloway and the Scrubbs? The interrogation proceeded. The room swirled. We are in Moscow. The year is 1917. The apparatchik speaks coldly. "Your attitude has been noted, comrade." I do hope so, she thought, I do hope so. As with all show trials, the verdict was a foregone conclusion. She had made unfounded allegations. She was guilty of improper use of e-mail. Her grading was not an issue. What was interesting about them, she decided, was that they appeared not to know what shit they were. Foregone conclusion or not, when she received the letter from the Kuomintang, she lost her temper, publicly, and when some little sniveller reported her the VQ rang her up to lecture her - lecture her on confidentiality forsooth for it is given that no-one should know how vermin behave - and at lunchtime on Christmas Eve he had had delivered by hand to her a threatening letter. It failed to ruin her Christmas.
If ever again there should be in my life So much as a hint of you guys you’ll wish That you had never ever been born The sword does not defeat the pen If there is anything I despise It’s fat little cowards who deal in lies Dealers in innuendo will find Innuendo of another kind. It will make one hell of a story Chinese post-doc in Prof’s property Forging links with the Soviets Repeated employment of lame ducks I am going to rock you!
Rock and roll has come of age when it is to prove essential to the defence of the realm. Dear me, the purge of the intellectuals has begun in earnest. Some people might think the first duty of management to seize upon talent as an asset to the organization. Dez shakes her head violently. Don’t wanna be purged.
Dez had taken the precaution of establishing that heavy manual work presented a threat to her spinal fusion. When this penetrated the unicellular organism that constituted the brain of management, she was moved to an area the width of a chair, hemmed in by desk-units and beset by manual handling hazards. The office was not merely shabby; it was squalid. Dark stains spread across the carpet. Obsolete and broken equipment festered in the corners. Somewhere in a parallel universe the mass consultative exercise was taking place. Tell us what YOU think about the NHS! Here management had circulated the Health Service Circular on the Disclosure in the Public Interest Act, and helpfully appended Guidelines. She considered their words carefully. The only legitimate court of appeal against those who are beating you up is their colleagues, approaching even the House of Commons a breach of confidentiality for which one may be disciplined. Their supreme confidence in the dominance of norms other than those of liberal democracy underwhelmed her. Here it was one minute to midnight and outside the fascist bourgeois imperialist state apparently went about the business of liberal democracy largely unimpeded by the carrion voices and so she dwelt in two worlds. In fact of course there were three.
About a year ago it challenged me Just the possibility Stupidity, spite, naivety Shielded a harsher history Might it not interest HMG Corruption in the university And so I wrote a little letter At least it made me feel better The matter then was off my mind And now I am not pleased to find Once again there is strife You wankers appear to be back in my life And I am going to rock you!
So I’ve died and gone to Trot Paradise. What am I going to do about it? Their confidence, she thought, came, had to come, from certainty that the acolytes of the little red god abounded in the corridors of power. She wondered what would happen if she shook the tree and wrote to her MP with a copy of the summary to the Secretary of State. After all, New Labour hates Trots.
I have been bullied according to the Trust's own criteria (removal of areas of responsibility and giving menial tasks), victimized, reprimanded for telling Consultants management's cavortings ('improper use of e-mail') and threatened with disciplinary action if I again told the truth ('unfounded allegations'); my spinal fusion has been jeopardized by routinely pushing a supermarket trolley full of notes between two sites, work that ceased only after a letter from RNOH indicated the risk and was replaced by being put in a space barely more than the width of a chair, hemmed in by desk-units and manual handling hazards, part of a larger office easily altered, in which I have been for six months without a connection to PAS or the network, so impairing my ability to do my job.
Many vivid accounts have been written about being buried alive, faces contorted by terror, bleeding fingertips, though presumably one has to awaken pdq after the last clod has settled, for if not dead to start with one must be after some hours in a heavy wooden box from which oxygen is absent. Nonetheless these accounts support the new eco-friendly cardboard coffins and perhaps six feet under is excessive. The question arises of the urban fox. Priorities must be balanced. Is the possible rescue of one thought lost sufficient compensation for the scattered remnants of hundreds of others? There was little else the worms could do to Dezzi's body bar open criminal assault, as her anger threatened to tear her apart. She wanted to stand in the middle of the room and scream 'fuck you!' but somehow didn't think that would do any good. She had somehow to channel the energy. Perhaps when everyone had finished palpating reason would prevail. She didn't really believe that, which was just as well because it didn't happen. Worms, like humans, are good and bad. Dezzi befriended nice worms, Worminmould and Wormingum. They tried valiantly to sheer away the edges of the coffin but there is only so much a worm can do. Dezzi thought of chain-saws and wasn't sure it was the desk she had in mind. Channel the energy. Mice, prisoners ought to have mice to feed. She could leave, couldn't she. She applied for a couple of jobs and realized she couldn't. One's reputation precedes one. Bastards! It irritated her that they thought she could be cowed. It irritated her that they thought they could shut her up. It irritated her that they were leading lights in a free country. An irritated poet is dangerous. Indeed there are now two nations. No-one went about proclaiming we detest democracy, we loathe individual liberty, meritocracy is disgusting; people just ran on other rules. It was a bit scary. It had irritated Dez, of course, being frightened. After a while she decided fear was a luxury, a self-indulgence granted those not in the firing-line, who could witter, bad business! what a shame!
Let me offer to you, babies, alternative realities I have dealt with you mildly I know you do not easily Grasp that world from which I come One dominated by the pen But if you wish to argue with me Have the guts to do it openly If you cannot make up rhymes There are always the columns of The Times The Washington Post, the Jo’burg Mail Then nobody can possibly fail To grasp the great lucidity With which you defend what happened to me I am going to rock you!
How desperately you hate creativity, little monkeys, how truly desperately you loathe mental engagement other than with good solid practical tasks such as how best to destroy writers. Probably you hate the universe for being other than clear-cut, other than as depicted in the Middle Ages, heaven up there, hell underneath. How you hate anything you can’t put in a test-tube or see under a microscope, anything you can’t control. How you hate human.

ME CHARM; YOU JUST STRANGE

 
Such a clever little molecule.  And so photogenic.  My own of course is unusual by any standards.  How about a West End spin off with a stage-set of giant fluorescent double helixes, like a trapeze act in a circus, with all the little doctors and nurses swinging gracefully from one to another,  thereby  demonstrating how truly exquisitely they  brachiate.
 
As those who can actually read know, I have lots to say about the morons of biology.  One Ring to rule them all, one Ring to find them, One Ring to hold them all and in the darkness bind them.   Do you think it's called scientific socialism, dialectical materialism for nothing?  If you think, of course.
 
Mind sits anterior to data. Mind sits anterior to data, questioning, synthesizing, comparing, creating and of course checking on the reality quotient.  The upper level of mentation, the capacity to select, order, analyse, question  and synthesize information and that faculty called imagination which breaks down what is into its constituent parts and remakes it as something new in the world,  has been denied.  Call it the upper storey.  They do not visit the top floor.  This is what I mean by the abolition of intellect (have to spell these things out for the brain-washed).  They can function, so far as they can be said to function intellectually at all, only within a given frame of reference. They are incapable of handling questioning of the frame of reference.  Indeed they are the brightest stars in the University's firmament. Mind is evident in the world.  Religious freaks call it the work of the devil and commie freaks call it insanity. 
 
And by the Triple Breasted Whore of Eroticon Six you can tell when it's not there. 
 
Imagination is that without which nothing man-made: no towns, no drains, no books, no plays, no planes, no trains, no rhymes, no electric light, only lots and lots and lots of grass and trees and a few guys and girls called Urg and Urga who are just about to develop the capacity to imagine how things could be different around here.
 
If you do not know the relationship between a molecule and changing, questioning, creating, then the honest response is to say so. I don't know the relationship either. That's for you biologist chappies to discover. That a free and functioning mind can be annulled by fear is old news and indeed observable but to say no-one has one is pathetic.
Which is as much as to say that the war between the lame-brained and intelligence, creativity, imagination which is NOT 'merely' the creation of works of art but which is without which nothing, the ability to see how things could be different around this joint, to see things which are not there, but could be, visualize that fallen tree as a pair of wheels (offend against the gods), has been going on since the first members of homo sapiens stood on their hind legs, and one said oh, but it is raining, therefore we shall get wet, and the other said fuck that for a game of soldiers, I'm going to build a shelter. Imagination look at what things are, takes them apart and puts the pieces together in a different order, adds new pieces, jettisons superfluous pieces, makes things different. Imagination does not practise given ‘skills to benefit the economy’. Imagination looks at how things are done and finds different, better ways of doing them,
 
Let me (once again) annoy the shit out of you by quoting Peter Medawar.
 
I do not suppose that anyone could propound a hypothesis of the nature of creativity more likely to arouse a derisive titter than the idea that in the act of creative imagination we are mouthpieces of divinity - how could anyone entertain a concept so far removed from science - a concept lying so far on the wrong side of the tracks created by Karl Popper's line of demarcation between the domain of, on the one hand, science and common sense and on the other hand, of religion, metaphysics and imaginative literature.  Let us have a good laugh - but only in the vivid consciousness that we certainly cannot do any better and that the explanations of creativity by psychologists and the machine intelligence boys are in their own way just as inadequate.
Peter Medawar: 'Creativity - especially in science' (1985) in The Threat and the Glory: Reflections on Science and Scientists, OUP, 1991
w from, among other places, the Lascaux cave illustrations of 17000 years ago that there were creative, artistic cave-persons, and we know also by deduction that there were cave-persons
 
Thus Doc Hollowhead
The pressing reason for kicking medicine and other biological sciences out of the university is of course the abolition of mind. If you do not believe mind exists, it's hard to see what purpose you have in an institution dedicated to training it: the door is over there.
 
All those years in Medical School being told he shares 98% of his DNA with the chimpanzee have taken their toll on Doc Hollowhead. Knowing a little about chimps, he now thinks he knows everything about human beings. Fruit-flies are best, of course. Fruit-flies are a sure-fire guide. He looked around anxiously. Fruit-flies were reassuring, but alas there were none to be seen.

He therefore behaves like an ape. A bigger monkey has beaten his chest. Bigger monkey = power. Power = can hurt little monkey. Little monkey fwightened. Fear shuts down human mind. Being also human little monkey hastily attributes probity, rationality, goodness to bigger monkey. Bigger monkey can't possibly be lying or otherwise talking out of his arse. No need for debate. No need to check facts. Reality is whatever a bigger more powerful baboon says it is. What most people recognize about authority, namely its capacity to talk out of its arse, is lost on Doc who of course knows everything about human beings, being conversant with the DNA of the chimp.

There came the Enlightenment. What bloody garbage is this? they cried. Authority is a fellow-human. He may be right. He may be wrong. Fact and reason are the determinants. If he or she desires to exert force over you, he or she must give valid reason.

The unmitigated evil of orthodox religion is of course an equivalent reductionism: it reduces humans to helpless gibbering apes, terrorizes them into fearing thought and langugage. When a representative of the Pink Hippo speaks, there is instant suspension of all rational processes, all speech, instant suspension of all decency, all morality, because what the worshippers are taught is to be evil on command.
http://www.dillsplace.com/the-abolition-of-mind.html
 Don't suppose they have much time for Plutarch either: For the mind does not require filling like a bottle, but rather, like wood, it only requires kindling to create in it an impulse to think independently and an ardent desire for the truth.
 
How, after all, can they have trained minds, when they show no signs of having any minds at all?

Refusal to establish the facts, refusal to investigate - copious detail, evidence, a metal rod in my back - insufferable, intolerable and of course deliberate evil.  None of these creatures of course is fit to hold power in a democracy, starting with Carol Black and working down to the foul nonentities, stupid, vicious, ignorant trash, Linch's precious mutt-pack of sniggering evil. Why have any of these creatures be allowed to bother me at all, let alone wreck my body and destroy my life, from top to bottom the sick and the sad: the animal.  Here's me when I was 13 in hospital having my spine straightened, encased  in plaster from chin to hip for six months. You have of course seen it before, as you have seen nearly  all of this, certainly the essential points, before, for 24 fucking years and deliberately done  nothing, pretended nothing could be done, jabbered and babbled and whined your foul inane filth to each other behind closed doors like the stupid sick evil cunts you are.  I hope that hell of yours exists just for you,  you dirty filthy sick obscene repulsive vermin, so you can burn in it.  Especially you, Blair.  Here is a message to you from my grandfather from beyond the grave.  You're not Labour, you stinking dirty little fascist traitor, but then of course few people in the so-called Labour Party are.