Whitney Wisdom III - The Greatest Hyperbole Of All

It's been a bad week for Whitney - firstly, she only made the second spot on my Top Ten List Of Popular Songs Which Contain Changes Of Key. And now, while she is no doubt still reeling from this humiliation, it's time for Part Three in our increasingly periphrastic* exposition of the manifold doctrinal errors contained in the lyrics of her 1986 chart-topper, "The Greatest Love Of All".

In an effort to make this blog stand out from the millions of other blogs that are similarly presenting long-winded expositions of the doctrinal errors of 80s power-ballads, I'm going to attempt to weave in Adolf Hitler, Frank Spencer, The Apprentice, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, shoes, bludgeoning, Photoshop, Cosmo and Kate Bush. And if that isn't enough to make reading this a unique experience, I'll add in dwarves, petticoats and flat-pack furniture. It's going to be intense. Can you handle it? Course you can. Here we go.

Whitney's assertion is this: learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.

My assertion is this: it's really not.

Controversial, huh? For the prosecution's first witness, I'd like to call The Apprentice.

If you've not seen The Apprentice, permit me to explain: it's a show about a useless collection of selfish, self-obsessed, self-indulgent superiority-complex-wielding idiots, who run pointlessly from one embarrassing debacle to another, all the while bandying around phrases like "110% percent" and "Failure is not an option" and otherwise acting like miserably-deluded trumped-up self-important little snot-rags, while we watch them in the forlorn hope that at some point Sir Alan will snap, drag one of them into his boardroom, and bludgeon them to death with a vintage Amstrad PCW8512.**

The Apprentice, in short, is a demonstration of how badly wrong things can go when people really, deeply, love themselves. 

See, learning to love yourself is rarely going to be a recipe for honest self-assessment. It's the personality equivalent of "We'll fix it in the mix." It's the Photoshop of the soul. Bad source material? Add a bit of reverb. Model's got a zit? Airbrush it out. It's all about changing the image, not the reality. After all, changing the reality is hard. Changing how we see the reality is pretty easy.

Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that I'm habitually late for rehearsals (I am), that I'm profligate and stupid with money (I am), and that I need a hair-cut (allegedly also true). Now, in my honest moments, I can admit that being late isn't actually cute. And that filling my bedroom with expensive and un-played musical instruments is a waste of money. And that "Homeless Chic" isn't really a look that is going to have the girls lining up at my door. But here's the brilliant thing: years of musical training has revealed to me that I can simply wrap all these little character flaws up into an exciting, colourful package called "Artistic Temperament", and define that to be an integral and indispensable part of my character. It's Just Who I Am. Loving me now involves loving my flaws, and if I love my flaws, then any attempt to correct them becomes, by definition, an unloving act. So if we're dating, I'm going to turn up late and scruffy and you are just going to have to love it, otherwise you don't really love me.

The "greatest love of all" just became a licence to turn into an ass.

Fortunately, not everyone is an Apprentice-league candidate for the Amstrad PCW8512 bludgeoning party. On the other end of the spectrum are the poor souls who wrestle with low self-esteem. The people who, rightly or wrongly, feel like a loser. The second witness for the prosecution:  Frank Spencer.

To Frank and his ilk, the song would say "Just learn to love yourself, okay?" But how, exactly, do you learn to love yourself? What if you can't? It's the greatest love of all and it's easy to achieve, apparently, but there are millions of people out there who are trapped in a cycle of self-harm, who hate themselves, who can't look in the mirror and say "Today I will not walk in anyone's shadows" - who maybe can't look in a mirror at all. What could be more encouraging than to hear Whitney telling you to love yourselves? It's such a beautiful sentiment. Such a nice encouraging corrective against the demons of self-doubt and self-loathing. Have faith in yourself. Love yourself. It's the greatest love of all. Inspiring, yes?

Well, no. It's a horrible thing to say to someone. Let me try to explain why.

In my head, dear readers, you are all phenomenally beautiful people, so this is going to be a stretch of the imagination for you, but here goes: Imagine you are a lonely, single woman (or guy), working in an office full of incredibly gorgeous single men (or women). Inexplicably, not one of them casts you a second glance. After a few years of this you are probably going to be feeling pretty miserable. Now, one day you discover that there is a guy at work who thinks you are sensationally attractive - Dwight, the janitor's leprous, hunchbacked half-blind half-son who recently escaped from Fogg's Asylum for the Criminally Deranged and has been hiding out in the basement with his prized collection of toenail clippings, composing bad songs about the beauty of your shoes. Congratulations, you are loved! Feel better? Self-esteem boosted?

Similarly, if Kate Bush or Buffy the Vampire Slayer told me they loved me and thought I had great potential, I'd feel pretty good. You would not be able to get me to shut up about it. If Fred West or Adolf Hitler said the same thing... not quite so encouraging.

What I'm trying to say is that it's nice to feel loved... but only if we value the love of the lover. The love of a creep, a psycho or a loser is not going to do much for your self-esteem. Which is a problem if you feel like a creep, a psycho or a loser yourself. In that case, loving yourself is less a remedy and more, well, a confirmation of your darkest fears. And this song is saying that's the greatest love there is - in other words, that's the best you can hope for. Please enjoy your frictionless downward spiral into utter despair; try to keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

So, in summary: learning to love yourself may be a nice sentiment on the surface, but it's a bankrupt, hopeless notion if you don't value your own love, and it's an invitation to narcissism if you do. To self-loathers and self-lovers alike it offers no hope of change. I seriously doubt any of my erudite and staggeringly attractive readers are likely to make this mistake, but trying to live your life according to the advice of this song would be like taking Cosmo seriously.*** You will end up in trouble.

You may think I'm being rather harsh and hyperbolical. I am, of course. Most people are neither a Melody Hossaini nor a Frank Spencer. But if you are going to go around making hyperbolical claims like "this is the greatest love of all", you should probably be prepared to get some hyperbolical criticism. Otherwise what are we saying? That the greatest love of all is when people who are already reasonably well adjusted learn to love themselves an appropriate amount? Ooh, life-changing stuff!

I started this series of posts, waaaay back in 2011, because I wanted to explain why this song is number one in my pop-song heresy list. The reason is this: because the Bible's definition of the greatest love of all couldn't get much further from Whitney's, and because it is a claim that lies at the very heart of Christianity.

If you have read this far, thank you, you are beautiful, and I really hope you will come back and read the next post, when I'll hopefully, finally, miraculously... maybe... get to the damn point, and tell you what the Bible and I think the greatest love of all really is. I appreciate that you might not be especially interested in what the Bible has to say, but you've already waded through about seven thousand words to get here so it would be a shame to bail out now just when we're heading into the home straight. Besides, I have yet to get dwarves, petticoats, and flat-pack furniture into the argument. You wouldn't want to miss that, surely? Right?

(If you haven't read this far, then I can say anything I like about you, because you are not reading. Losers. Your eyebrows are too thick-set and you smell faintly of cardboard.****)  

Peace out.

PS: I really do love this song, by the way.

* Word of the day. Apparently not just invented by Blackadder.

** An old computer from the days before they invented small things. I never had one, but I've seen pictures on Wikipedia, and I reckon it would seriously hurt if you were hit by one.

*** I had a housemate who would occasionally leave Cosmo in the bathroom. In one issue, there was a terrifying story about a girl who had been drugged and raped whilst on holiday. In the same issue was an article describing how holidays should be a time for throwing caution to the wind and living it up. And the rest of the issue was devoted to helpful hints on how to get the perfect holiday beach body, and how to dress and do your make-up in such a way as to get the attention of any passing man. The thought that some people out there might actually take Cosmo seriously enough to follow its "advice" fills me with sadness and horror.

**** I have no sense of smell, so my "you smell of" insults are sometimes a bit hit-and-miss.

Whitney Wisdom Part Two - I Believe That Children Are The Future

It's Christmas afternoon, and that, of course, means the usual wall-to-wall litany of soul-crushingly over-repeated Christmas specials.  Morecambe and Wise, Dad's Army, Porridge... comedy classics all, no doubt, but the cumulative effect, hour after hour, year after year, and at the ear-drum-splitting levels of volume required by my dad's poor hearing, is enough to drive a man to drink.  So in a vague effort to stave off the inevitable trip to the gin cupboard, I shall attempt to distract myself by thrashing out the hotly anticipated second part of our ever-lengthening analysis of the theological soundness, or otherwise, of Whitney's gloriously inspirational anthem, "The Greatest Love Of All".  After all, what could be more Christmassy than that?

If you missed part one of this weighty and vital discussion, fret not, for it was largely dispensable preamble to the devastating pronouncement that this song is currently occupying the top spot in my list of all-time-favourite heretical pop songs.

You might wonder why I have a list of favourite heretical pop songs.  Some people just like to make lists, okay?  I have a list of favourite pop song key-changes too.  And a list of the least appropriate Bible readings to have at a marriage service.  I hope, one day, to draw on all three lists simultaneously and create the wedding day that no one will forget.

Anyway, back to the Pop Song Heresy Hall Of Fame, and the reason why this song is at number one: While other songs on the list are pretty narrow and unadventurous with their heresies - Berlinda Carlisle's "Heaven Is A Place On Earth", for example, can be refuted with a simple "Er, no it's not." - this one contains a splendid assortment of doctrinal fallacies, culminating in one that strikes at the very heart of Christianity.

You may not care much about doctrine, heresy, Christianity and the like.  You may be thinking "It's just a song man, get over it".  (In fact, I hope you are.)  But it's this or the gin, so I'm going to ignore the fact that testing an 80s power-ballad for theological soundness is an exercise in captiousness, and press gamely on.  And who knows, maybe it'll be fun.

So let us begin.

I believe that children are the future.

Okay, good opening.  I'm not sure what it means, exactly, but I guess I can share the sentiment.  I mean, my children, if I'm ever going to have any, are definitely in the future.  Then again, my own childhood lies largely in the past.  So I guess the jury is out on this one.

Teach them well and let them lead the way.

Less controversial - I'm all in favour of someone teaching them well.  As long as it doesn't have to be me.  Though I think it's probably a bad idea to let them lead the way.  When I was a child I wanted to change my name to Frodo.  Or Hazel.  I'm quite glad now that I didn't get my own way on that one.

Show them all the beauty they possess inside.

First off, euck, on the inside they are all blood and intestines, same as us adults. And if you start showing children their own intestines then you deserve everything that will happen to you. It's really not okay.

Secondly, here we are treading dangerously close to Implied Heresy Number One: The Innocence of Children.

Controversial news-flash: children are really not innocent.

I'm picturing howls of protest from the three of you who are kindly still reading.  "Children are surely innocent... at least until the point when they become teenagers.  And besides, Dave, you have none, so what gives you the right to claim such a thing?", I hear you say.

Well, this gives me the right to claim such a thing: the potential death-blow inflected upon my genitalia by a vicious little cherub with a folded up music stand one Saturday afternoon as I was idly enjoying some grown-up banter at a wedding, with my eyes at adult head-height, little suspecting that a two-foot terrorist wielding a heavy piece of metalwork was about to run under my radar, strike my wobbly bits with sufficient force to leave me curled up on the floor gasping for breath, and then run off laughing demonically.  Yes, my friends, that gives me the right to claim such a thing.

Mark my words, this was not the accidental attack of an innocent. This was a calculated experiment to discover the force required to render a grown man helpless.  And you should all be worried - because once news gets out that a folded music stand and a rudimentary knowledge of anatomy is sufficient to tip the balance of power between toddlerhood and adulthood, we are all in peril. I'm told that my attacker is actually a very charming child who is friendly and popular with his classmates.  Of course he is.  He's a strategic genius.  He's out there raising an army.

See, those who go about blindly believing in the innocence of youth are just asking to be dealt a painful surprise to the nadgers. Children are no more beautiful on the inside than adults. In fact, let's look at the scores: Number of times an adult has endangered my chances of procreating by brutally connecting the more dangly parts of my anatomy with a large quantity of rapidly moving metal: 0. Number of times a child has done the same: 1.

I think the figures speak for themselves, but more importantly, I have the Bible on my side - at least, I can't bring to mind any passages in the Bible which suggest that children are innocent.  Paul's terrifying indictment in Romans 3:10-18 - "None is righteous, no, not one; no one understands, no one seeks for God... no one does good, not even one..." - contains no meliorating footnote with the words "Oh, except for the children, of course".  In fact, the Bible repeatedly refers to us all as "children" (and "sheep", which are like children but fluffier and stupider) - and, since the message of the Bible is unequivocally that we are not innocent, it would be an odd choice of description if children were understood to be guiltless.  I think the Bible's view on children can (with some gross over-simplification) be summarised as: Vulnerable, yes.  Precious, yes.  Innocent, no.

You may think I'm laying this on a bit thick.  Let me just say, in my defence, that the impulse to cross your legs every time you see a music stand is not a terribly convenient burden for a musician to bear.

Moving on.

Give them a sense of pride to make it easier.

Well, we've veered straight from the Children-Are-Innocent heresy and into the Pride-Is-Good heresy.

Pride isn't good.  I know we talk about things like taking pride in your work, or making your parents proud, but really, when was the last time pride made you do something good?  Generally speaking, the only things pride makes easier are the things that, if we were in our right minds, we wouldn't actually want to do. Cycling twenty miles home instead of catching the train, for example.

I'm not saying we should crush the little children until they have no sense of worth. (Unless they are threatening your manhood with a collapsed implement for bearing sheet music, of course.)  But pride is bad. That famous quote about pride and falling comes from the Bible: "Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall" - Proverbs 16:18.  Indeed, the Bible has much to say on the subject, which can be summarised as: Pride Bad.  Humility Good.  (I recently read a book on humility, by the way.  It was pretty good.  But I could have written better.)

Next.

Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be.

I'm sure you can imagine what the mocking laughter of children reminds me of.  'Nuff said.

(Incidentally, for an update on the gin situation, it's now the day after Boxing Day, bloody Dad's Army is on the TV again, and we're well in to the second bottle of gin.  Cheers.)

Picking up the pace now:

Everybody's searching for a hero - okay...
People need someone to look up to - can't disagree...
I never found anyone to fulfil my needs - shame, shame...
A lonely place to be. - well, indeed.  Sad times.
So I learned to depend on... - here it comes...

ME.

I don't know what you thought of the Queen's speech this year.  The feeling amongst my evangelical friends was one of delight that Jesus actually got a name-check this Christmas.  The talk in the Bignell household mainly concerned the terrifying width of the royal bosom.  (I didn't start the conversation but I was forced to concede that it was, indeed, terrifyingly wide.)


Anyway, one of the things Her Maj mentioned this year was the fact that sometimes we can't actually sort things out for ourselves. We can't depend on ourselves. Admitting this lies at the very heart of Christianity.  What Whitney is advocating, therefore, is what I'm going to call the We Can Depend On Ourselves Heresy. I'm not going to explore this now, other than to say that if my closest friend had let me down as often as I've let myself down, I wouldn't trust him with anything.  If you've learnt to depend on yourself, then you are a better man than me, but I'm afraid you've been listening to the wrong teacher.


It's been a long post, you've been very patient, let's push on through now to the climax.

I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadows.We used to play a game like this in the school playground. It was really hard work and involved a lot of crazed jumping and running. It's no way to go through life, I promise you.

If I fail, if I succeed, at least I live as I believe.Yes, being led around by murderous children whilst trying to avoid their shadows.

No matter what they take from me they can't take away my dignity.You think?
Toddler.
Music stand.
Genitals.
I'll say no more.

Because the greatest love of all is happening to me.
Really? That's nice. What is it?

I found the greatest love of all inside of me.
Yeah, it's always the last place you look. But what IS it??

The greatest love of all is easy to achieve.
Awesome news! BUT WHAT IS IT???

Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.

<Insert sound of needle skipping off record followed by long empty pause>


Oh.


And there you have it. Ye Olde Loving Yourself Is The Greatest Love Of All Heresy. Possibly the Number One Top Heresy In Any Song Lyric Ever.


I'm sure by now none of you are dying to hear me explain why, so I hereby draw this missive to a close. But please do tune in again next time to read more tediously detailed arguments about Why Whitney Is Wrong.  Good night.