JTaylor

Why not just say culture then?

ReallyReallyGoodMeat

I incorrectly assumed people knew what the word 'race' meant. I'll know for next time!

JTaylor

It's just so nebulous, RRGM. Even describing the issue as cultural lacks definition. Jack Straw pinned it; admittedly he felt the full weight of his Marxist compeers and the stabbing pain of their lies, but the man didn't shy away from broadcasting that which he perceived and reasoned to be the truth.

ReallyReallyGoodMeat

I would go as far as to say there's a high probability those named in the MEN article may descend from people originally from the Pakistan/Bangladesh region, and may even be muslim. They all have a relatively similar cultural background too. These are all ways of classifying race.

The BBC is keen to hide their names, implying they do not wish the reader to make such a connection of people of this race, to these kinds of crimes.
Therefore, it implies they think race is not an issue in these crimes.
Therefore...
To think otherwise would brand one a racist.

JTaylor

You don't realise it, but you're reinforcing the agenda of the people you criticise. By accepting the definition you're presenting cultural Marxists with a mandate to brand anyone who criticises a particular group as a racist. You've adopted the narrative of the politically correct cultural hegemon; the language of the Frankfurt School.

ReallyReallyGoodMeat

What other definition is there?

JTaylor

It should simply be phenotypic. Where people wish to discuss nationality or religion or an ideology they should do exactly that. And they should be accurate and honest about the nationality or religion or ideology they wish to discuss. Anything else is cowardice where consciously done and idiocy and ignorance where not.

DCI Gene Hunt

Bot, bot, bot.........

JTaylor

Orwell - 1984

hodgy0_2

this is the most stunningly beautiful section of 1984, where O'Brien is torturing Winston, and finally proves to him love is hate

simply breathtaking
____________________________

An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between O'Brien's fingers. For perhaps five seconds it was within the angle of Winston's vision. It was a photograph, and there was no question of its identity. It was THE photograph. It was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford at the party function in New York, which he had chanced upon eleven years ago and promptly destroyed. For only an instant it was before his eyes, then it was out of sight again. But he had seen it, unquestionably he had seen it! He made a desperate, agonizing effort to wrench the top half of his body free. It was impossible to move so much as a centimetre in any direction. For the moment he had even forgotten the dial. All he wanted was to hold the photograph in his fingers again, or at least to see it.

‘It exists!’ he cried.

‘No,’ said O'Brien.

He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole in the opposite wall. O'Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the frail slip of paper was whirling away on the current of warm air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. O'Brien turned away from the wall.

‘Ashes,’ he said. ‘Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does not exist. It never existed.’

‘But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it. You remember it.’

‘I do not remember it,’ said O'Brien.

Winston's heart sank. That was doublethink. He had a feeling of deadly helplessness. If he could have been certain that O'Brien was lying, it would not have seemed to matter. But it was perfectly possible that O'Brien had really forgotten the photograph. And if so, then already he would have forgotten his denial of remembering it, and forgotten the act of forgetting. How could one be sure that it was simple trickery? Perhaps that lunatic dislocation in the mind could really happen: that was the thought that defeated him.

O'Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More than ever he had the air of a teacher taking pains with a wayward but promising child.

‘There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the past,’ he said. ‘Repeat it, if you please.’

‘“Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past,”’ repeated Winston obediently.

“‘Who controls the present controls the past,”’ said O'Brien, nodding his head with slow approval. ‘Is it your opinion, Winston, that the past has real existence?’

Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Winston. His eyes flitted towards the dial. He not only did not know whether ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was the answer that would save him from pain; he did not even know which answer he believed to be the true one.

O'Brien smiled faintly. ‘You are no metaphysician, Winston,’ he said. ‘Until this moment you had never considered what is meant by existence. I will put it more precisely. Does the past exist concretely, in space? Is there somewhere or other a place, a world of solid objects, where the past is still happening?’

‘No.’

‘Then where does the past exist, if at all?’

‘In records. It is written down.’

‘In records. And—?’

‘In the mind. In human memories.’

‘In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all records, and we control all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?’

‘But how can you stop people remembering things?’ cried Winston again momentarily forgetting the dial. ‘It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!’

O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial.

‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘you have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.’

He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in.

‘Do you remember,’ he went on, ‘writing in your diary, “Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four”?’

‘Yes,’ said Winston.

O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.

‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’

‘Four.’

‘And if the party says that it is not four but five — then how many?’

‘Four.’

The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four.’

The needle went up to sixty.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!’

The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!’

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Five! Five! Five!’

‘No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four. How many fingers, please?’

‘Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!’

Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Brien's arm round his shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a moment he clung to O'Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that O'Brien was his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside, from some other source, and that it was O'Brien who would save him from it.

‘You are a slow learner, Winston,’ said O'Brien gently.

‘How can I help it?’ he blubbered. ‘How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four.’

‘Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane.’

He laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs tightened again, but the pain had ebbed away and the trembling had stopped, leaving him merely weak and cold. O'Brien motioned with his head to the man in the white coat, who had stood immobile throughout the proceedings. The man in the white coat bent down and looked closely into Winston's eyes, felt his pulse, laid an ear against his chest, tapped here and there, then he nodded to O'Brien.

‘Again,’ said O'Brien.

The pain flowed into Winston's body. The needle must be at seventy, seventy-five. He had shut his eyes this time. He knew that the fingers were still there, and still four. All that mattered was somehow to stay alive until the spasm was over. He had ceased to notice whether he was crying out or not. The pain lessened again. He opened his eyes. O'Brien had drawn back the lever.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four. I suppose there are four. I would see five if I could. I am trying to see five.’

‘Which do you wish: to persuade me that you see five, or really to see them?’

‘Really to see them.’

‘Again,’ said O'Brien.

Perhaps the needle was eighty — ninety. Winston could not intermittently remember why the pain was happening. Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of fingers seemed to be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and out, disappearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was trying to count them, he could not remember why. He knew only that it was impossible to count them, and that this was somehow due to the mysterious identity between five and four. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. Innumerable fingers, like moving trees, were still streaming past in either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut his eyes again.

‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’

‘I don't know. I don't know. You will kill me if you do that again. Four, five, six — in all honesty I don't know.’

‘Better,’ said O'Brien.

A needle slid into Winston's arm. Almost in the same instant a blissful, healing warmth spread all through his body. The pain was already half-forgotten. He opened his eyes and looked up gratefully at O'Brien. At sight of the heavy, lined face, so ugly and so intelligent, his heart seemed to turn over. If he could have moved he would have stretched out a hand and laid it on O'Brien arm. He had never loved him so deeply as at this moment, and not merely because he had stopped the pain. The old feeling, that at bottom it did not matter whether O'Brien was a friend or an enemy, had come back. O'Brien was a person who could be talked to. Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood. O'Brien had tortured him to the edge of lunacy, and in a little while, it was certain, he would send him to his death. It made no difference. In some sense that went deeper than friendship, they were intimates: somewhere or other, although the actual words might never be spoken, there was a place where they could meet and talk. O'Brien was looking down at him with an expression which suggested that the same thought might be in his own mind. When he spoke it was in an easy, conversational tone.

‘Do you know where you are, Winston?’ he said.

‘I don't know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.’

‘Do you know how long you have been here?’

‘I don't know. Days, weeks, months — I think it is months.’

‘And why do you imagine that we bring people to this place?’

‘To make them confess.’

‘No, that is not the reason. Try again.’

‘To punish them.’

‘No!’ exclaimed O'Brien. His voice had changed extraordinarily, and his face had suddenly become both stern and animated. ‘No! Not merely to extract your confession, not to punish you. Shall I tell you why we have brought you here? To cure you! To make you sane! Will you understand, Winston, that no one whom we bring to this place ever leaves our hands uncured? We are not interested in those stupid crimes that you have committed. The Party is not interested in the overt act: the thought is all we care about. We do not merely destroy our enemies, we change them. Do you understand what I mean by that?’

He was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous because of its nearness, and hideously ugly because it was seen from below. Moreover it was filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic intensity. Again Winston's heart shrank. If it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into the bed. He felt certain that O'Brien was about to twist the dial out of sheer wantonness. At this moment, however, O'Brien turned away. He took a pace or two up and down. Then he continued less vehemently:

‘The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious persecutions of the past. In the Middle Ages there was the Inquisitlon. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate heresy, and ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned at the stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed them while they were still unrepentant: in fact, it killed them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying because they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century, there were the totalitarians, as they were called. There were the German ***** and the Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the Inquisition had done. And they imagined that they had learned from the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial, they deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity. They wore them down by torture and solitude until they were despicable, cringing wretches, confessing whatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves with abuse, accusing and sheltering behind one another, whimpering for mercy. And yet after only a few years the same thing had happened over again. The dead men had become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once again, why was it? In the first place, because the confessions that they had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that are uttered here are true. We make them true. And above all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You must stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston. Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out from the stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and pour you into the stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a register, not a memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future. You will never have existed.’

Then why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a momentary bitterness. O'Brien checked his step as though Winston had uttered the thought aloud. His large ugly face came nearer, with the eyes a little narrowed.

‘You are thinking,’ he said, ‘that since we intend to destroy you utterly, so that nothing that you say or do can make the smallest difference — in that case, why do we go to the trouble of interrogating you first? That is what you were thinking, was it not?’

‘Yes,’ said Winston.

O'Brien smiled slightly. ‘You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are different from the persecutors of the past? We are not content with negative obedience, nor even with the most abject submission. When finally you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not destroy the heretic because he resists us: so long as he resists us we never destroy him. We convert him, we capture his inner mind, we reshape him. We burn all evil and all illusion out of him; we bring him over to our side, not in appearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one of ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that an erroneous thought should exist anywhere in the world, however secret and powerless it may be. Even in the instant of death we cannot permit any deviation. In the old days the heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming his heresy, exulting in it. Even the victim of the Russian purges could carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked down the passage waiting for the bullet. But we make the brain perfect before we blow it out. The command of the old despotisms was “Thou shalt not”. The command of the totalitarians was “Thou shalt”. Our command is “Thou art”. No one whom we bring to this place ever stands out against us. Everyone is washed clean. Even those three miserable traitors in whose innocence you once believed — Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford — in the end we broke them down. I took part in their interrogation myself. I saw them gradually worn down, whimpering, grovelling, weeping — and in the end it was not with pain or fear, only with penitence. By the time we had finished with them they were only the shells of men. There was nothing left in them except sorrow for what they had done, and love of Big Brother. It was touching to see how they loved him. They begged to be shot quickly, so that they could die while their minds were still clean.’

His voice had grown almost dreamy. The exaltation, the lunatic enthusiasm, was still in his face. He is not pretending, thought Winston, he is not a hypocrite, he believes every word he says. What most oppressed him was the consciousness of his own intellectual inferiority. He watched the heavy yet graceful form strolling to and fro, in and out of the range of his vision. O'Brien was a being in all ways larger than himself. There was no idea that he had ever had, or could have, that O'Brien had not long ago known, examined, and rejected. His mind contained Winston's mind. But in that case how could it be true that O'Brien was mad? It must be he, Winston, who was mad. O'Brien halted and looked down at him. His voice had grown stern again.

‘Do not imagine that you will save yourself, Winston, however completely you surrender to us. No one who has once gone astray is ever spared. And even if we chose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still you would never escape from us. What happens to you here is for ever. Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to the point from which there is no coming back. Things will happen to you from which you could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.’

He paused and signed to the man in the white coat. Winston was aware of some heavy piece of apparatus being pushed into place behind his head. O'Brien had sat down beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a level with Winston's.

‘Three thousand,’ he said, speaking over Winston's head to the man in the white coat.

Two soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped themselves against Winston's temples. He quailed. There was pain coming, a new kind of pain. O'Brien laid a hand reassuringly, almost kindly, on his.

‘This time it will not hurt,’ he said. ‘Keep your eyes fixed on mine.’

At this moment there was a devastating explosion, or what seemed like an explosion, though it was not certain whether there was any noise. There was undoubtedly a blinding flash of light. Winston was not hurt, only prostrated. Although he had already been lying on his back when the thing happened, he had a curious feeling that he had been knocked into that position. A terrific painless blow had flattened him out. Also something had happened inside his head. As his eyes regained their focus he remembered who he was, and where he was, and recognized the face that was gazing into his own; but somewhere or other there was a large patch of emptiness, as though a piece had been taken out of his brain.

‘It will not last,’ said O'Brien. ‘Look me in the eyes. What country is Oceania at war with?’

Winston thought. He knew what was meant by Oceania and that he himself was a citizen of Oceania. He also remembered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who was at war with whom he did not know. In fact he had not been aware that there was any war.

‘I don't remember.’

‘Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Do you remember that now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Since the beginning of your life, since the beginning of the Party, since the beginning of history, the war has continued without a break, always the same war. Do you remember that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Eleven years ago you created a legend about three men who had been condemned to death for treachery. You pretended that you had seen a piece of paper which proved them innocent. No such piece of paper ever existed. You invented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember now the very moment at which you first invented it. Do you remember that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just now I held up the fingers of my hand to you. You saw five fingers. Do you remember that?’

‘Yes.’

O'Brien held up the fingers of his left hand, with the thumb concealed.

‘There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?’

‘Yes.’

And he did see them, for a fleeting instant, before the scenery of his mind changed. He saw five fingers, and there was no deformity

joz8968

iTrader: (13)

I know David has issues with some of his customers at API, but that's surely going one step too far!

APIDavid

iTrader: (4)

Issues ? ISSUES ? me? with my reputation? Moi?

Shurely Knott !

David

The pen is mightier than the sword -- agreed, But nothing beats the sense of satisfaction, like giving a smack in the teeth with a basball bat.

joz8968

iTrader: (13)

lol

APIDavid

iTrader: (4)

Agreed, excellent piece and to the point. There is definitely a case where certain of the UK press makes a more prominent spread when Muslims are concerned than ' others' shall we say. Clearly, two of the Derby lot have foreign names, so need to be described as 'others' rather than British white etc., etc.

But what I find annoying and I suspect a number of others who won't say, is the hypocrisy attached to the Muslim folk involved. Usually.

By the way, I have a muticultural customer base and have no issue with whoever you are; colour or religion other than the usual rage that comes with injustice. Such as immigrants getting far more than tax paying pensioners in benefits etc., etc .

The Muslim thing centres [ for me ] around the fact that the guys in question are ' good Muslims ' who pray every day at the mosque and however many more times on a Friday etc. They aren't supposed to drink, but they do, They aren't supposed to go with other women, but they do.

So in fact they are much like the rest of us, getting on with life as it happens and if you want that kind of stuff, it is out there to be had. That holds good in any country of the world.

Take the case of Catholic priests, it is the same thing, Praying like crazy and interfering with the choir boys in the meantime.

It isn't a specific western thing, it is the way of the world in any of the five continents. So to blanket condemn Christians for their ' poor values ' is total hypocrisy.

I don't have anything to do with religion for that very reason, none of them are any better than anyone else, they just like to tell you they are ....

David APi

joz8968

iTrader: (13)

QED

Maz

iTrader: (34)

It's the fallibility of human nature David.

hodgy0_2

and interestingly what George Orwell was getting at in my previous (rather long) post

the beauty of human fallibility

APIDavid

iTrader: (4)

That must have taken hours to type out Hodgy - RESPECT

Turbohot

Good post.


I think its the fault of the religious; not of the religion. One need not bash one's head with a story book.

Religious texts are just there for guidance, and no mosque/church/temple goer should be expected to be whiter than white; unless it is a non-human entity. One can lead human life without pretending to be a super-human. Break rules, make mistakes, learn from them and do all sorts what regular humans do. I'm sure God will understand. We can always say to Him that it was His fault for making us the way we are.

Criminals e.g. terrorists and paedophiles should be punished by the human courts of law before they face the Almighty God up there. Yes, it is more hypocrital of them to commit such crimes under the disguise of the popes, pujaris and mullahs.

The acts like suicide bombing make the witnesses (direct or indirect/vicarious) question what motivates something as barbaric and as irrational as that. That's a big study, and the gospellic take of the religious texts is an aspect of it.

Certain ideology is always being questioned, and some people are determined to prove that every person under that specific ideology blanket bears some seeds of terrorism, destruction and world domination by multiplying. IMO not all people under that ideology blanket are that way inclined. That' my take.

APIDavid

iTrader: (4)

There is no such thing as a ' god ' it is a fiction perpetrated on the masses by idealogical control freaks, for the purpose of trying to keep the more unruly under control. It might have had a purpose several thousand years ago. In the modern world where we are all better educated, we now know better.

There is no ' better place ' when you die. This is it, life, live it, stick to what you know is right and wrong. Die happy. That'll be the end. Nothing afterwards.

My opinion, I'm sticking to it.

David

Turbohot

I appreciate your views. If you can lead your life with the common sense than God and after-life theories, that can't be less than sufficient.

I still have understanding for the ones who require God. For them, God matters, and that is fine. They are not necessarily 'mad, bad and degenerate' either. They are what they are, but IMO they shouldn't really follow story books literally. That's all.

JTaylor

Really? More equivalence and relativism and from someone who should know better! X

Turbohot

James, I am not in competition of knowing anything better. Not that these things in length haven't been discussed here before; over and over- like a broken record. I know one thing that not everyone takes story books that seriously. Not all, but some take the practical and inspiring bits out to use, and discard the airy-fairy and excessively passionate bull. That's all. X

APIDavid

iTrader: (4)

Sure, sure! I understand the basic insecurity of humans that must have something to cling to, rather than their own thoughts and deeds.

What l hate is the fact that ' their way ' is considered the only right way and they damn well try to convert you all the time.

Now that really gets me going .................

JTaylor

Re-read the highlighted statement, Swati. What if you're wrong? With if it's the religious ideology that's anathema and that its adherents are no more than unwitting carriers of a frighteningly brilliant memeplex? If the inverse is true, what then?

Turbohot

I did read it, darling. X What I am saying is that not all Muslims fanatically adhere to their written ideology, and not all are the unwitting carriers of a frighteningly brilliant memeplex. I know some non-fanatic Muslims in 3-dimensional form i.e. in real life. Unfortunately, they have no time and inclination to come on Scoobynet and talk. I'd also like to add that your 'memeplex' perspective is quite interesting. Perhaps this could be the topic for your research paper when you get to that, which will be very valuable for the theo-sociological field. That hopefully will lead to further studies to weigh 'what then'.

JTaylor

On the contrary, a Muslim carries the memeplex from the moment they're born. Why do you think apostasy (riddah) exists?

Maz

iTrader: (34)

Is this based on what you've read or from your own personal experience from interacting with muslims?

Turbohot

I do not disagree at all with you on criticising twisted practices, beliefs, orthodoxy and fundamentalism of any religion, and I appreciate your investigation for the grounds and roots of terrorism. But regardless of Riddah and Fatwa etc., not every Muslim has a wish to bomb the place down, nor does every Muslim have 20 children per head. However, this Riddah point that you make is also a valid point for the study.

About kafir status, doesn't Christianity say something similar for other religions?
Christianity may not order to read a death sentence against someone doing one from the Christian religion, but I clearly remember a protestant friend slating all other religions, and calling their believers devils with the invisible horns sticking out of their heads.

I got into a discussion with the Alpha course trainer when his sample teachings (that cliffs diagram to show the distance between the God and a human) seemed anti-human to me. He was saying that if one is on the way to the church, one needs to get to the church- no matter what. I asked him- "What if I find a life in danger on my way to the church? Shouldn't I miss the church and save him/her instead? Won't that be equal to worshipping God?" He firmly said- "No. You need to get to the church, if you want to get to God".

I just smiled. .>

JTaylor

What specifically?