Watch the behaviour of my pigeons, as they decide whether or not to come down and have a much needed drink from my blanket-weeded pond, and then if so, how to go about it. It's high comedy, up there with the best of Buster Keaton or Jaques Tati. And the reason? They're not applying normal human rules of rational behaviour (well, they're not normal humans, to be fair - that applies to Keaton, Tati and the birds), and that makes them look funny. Comedians obviously know and exploit this (pigeons don't, they just do it because that's how pigeons are. So I shouldn't really laugh at them, but WTF.).
So it was interesting to read an interview the other day with Ricky Gervais, a comedian who has made a bit of a career out of that sort of (fictional) exploitation of irrational incongruity, in which he banged on at length, and quite funnily, about the sanctity of 'facts'. In a nutshell, you're allowed to say 'he wasn't funny' (opinion), but not 'nobody laughed' (fact; of course facts, as I understand the word, have to be verifiable, maybe actually nobody did laugh ... but that's leading me further into the murky streams of the scientific method than I have space to dip right now ...)
(the plain people of ireland : will ye come to the point now? We're tired of all this philosophisation.)
Oh yes, sorry. Rationality is the inability to hold six contradictory opinions before breakfast. Contradiction is easily detected, by the application of one or two elementary logical constructs, the best of which is the syllogism. So when Nick Clegg says that a) our troops will be out by 2014 (first premise), b) our troops will be out only when conditions on the ground permit (second premise), this syllogism leads to only one conclusion: conditions on the ground will permit withdrawal by 2014. No other conclusion is admissible. So why didn't he say that?
Two explanations are possible. One, he doesn't understand the simple rules of logic. Or, two, he's trying to disguise a lie with rhetoric. I suspect both.
Why isn't simple logic a mandatory subject on the national curriculum? Oh no, of course, they're abolishing that, aren't they? Just don't tell the pigeons.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Odd-numbered organs and octopi
I posted a few weeks ago to the effect that the bee might be the only creature with an odd number (greater than one) of organs, i.e. three eyes (turns out it's actually five, of two different sorts - thanks Sue!).
I now find, courtesy of Paul the World Cup predictor, that an octopus has three hearts. How about that for over-redundancy? Even BP didn't think of putting in more than one blow-out preventer. They do, however, meet the second definition of octopus in my beloved dictionary, which is "a person or organisation with widespread influence".
Chambers usually avoids value judgements, as dictionaries should, so isn't explicit about the nature of the "widespread influence" in question; but I imagine I can see or hear the raised eyebrow and the sniff. You wouldn't call BP an octopus as a compliment, would you? Actually, it's a slight - BP doesn't have even one heart.
Sadly, your average octopus apparently lives for only three to five years, despite all those hearts (it must be exhausting keeping all those tentacles going, though). This analogy is starting to wear a bit thin, isn't it? So, to close on a lighter note, a prize to the first to answer this question: "what's the plural of octopus?"
I now find, courtesy of Paul the World Cup predictor, that an octopus has three hearts. How about that for over-redundancy? Even BP didn't think of putting in more than one blow-out preventer. They do, however, meet the second definition of octopus in my beloved dictionary, which is "a person or organisation with widespread influence".
Chambers usually avoids value judgements, as dictionaries should, so isn't explicit about the nature of the "widespread influence" in question; but I imagine I can see or hear the raised eyebrow and the sniff. You wouldn't call BP an octopus as a compliment, would you? Actually, it's a slight - BP doesn't have even one heart.
Sadly, your average octopus apparently lives for only three to five years, despite all those hearts (it must be exhausting keeping all those tentacles going, though). This analogy is starting to wear a bit thin, isn't it? So, to close on a lighter note, a prize to the first to answer this question: "what's the plural of octopus?"
Monday, 12 July 2010
A visit to the Globe Theatre on the Occasion of the World Cup Final
ACT ONE
Tim:
Hot, how hot, how hot, how humid, hot!
And that’s just here in my cool windowed plot!
Withstand that walk to Great Western’s fell lair,
Train, taxi, sun on my thinning hair?
And that’s just Journey – then six hours or more
Of Good Will’s Henry, One and Two of Four.
How shall we survive?
Paul:
If England’s weak
Faltering knights by miracle should make
The semis, nay the finals, ‘gainst the Hun
(or whoso else hath made it through by then)
Faith, then I swear by fab Capello’s pox
At home I’ll bide and watch it on the box.
Caro:
Don’t be such wimps! The tickets all are paid
For, months ago, we’re seated in the shade
(I think), and at the breaks your fevered brains
By ale shall slaked be.
Rachel:
I’d prefer champagne.
ACT TWO
Tim:
How can these words so dry and old on th’page
I read last week, (to capture and assuage
The need, should heat o’ercome me, to attend) –
How a simple actor, Allam, doth befriend
Us, dry ‘Sir John’ to Falstaff’s wit-fired heat – ?
Rachel:
I thought it was really good.
Caro:
Me too. Let’s eat.
Paul:
Another?
Tim:
Sounds good –
Rachel:
I need a wee –
Ben:
Don’t tell me the score –
Tim:
– sounds good to me.
ACT THREE
Epilogue:
Proud Spain has won, the cup bestowed
Foul and fair, the plays are played
Great Western ploughs its weary road
Back to hotspurred homes – but stay!
Shall we replay, xenophobes?
Or
Shall we return to Shakespeare’s Globe?
Tim:
Hot, how hot, how hot, how humid, hot!
And that’s just here in my cool windowed plot!
Withstand that walk to Great Western’s fell lair,
Train, taxi, sun on my thinning hair?
And that’s just Journey – then six hours or more
Of Good Will’s Henry, One and Two of Four.
How shall we survive?
Paul:
If England’s weak
Faltering knights by miracle should make
The semis, nay the finals, ‘gainst the Hun
(or whoso else hath made it through by then)
Faith, then I swear by fab Capello’s pox
At home I’ll bide and watch it on the box.
Caro:
Don’t be such wimps! The tickets all are paid
For, months ago, we’re seated in the shade
(I think), and at the breaks your fevered brains
By ale shall slaked be.
Rachel:
I’d prefer champagne.
ACT TWO
Tim:
How can these words so dry and old on th’page
I read last week, (to capture and assuage
The need, should heat o’ercome me, to attend) –
How a simple actor, Allam, doth befriend
Us, dry ‘Sir John’ to Falstaff’s wit-fired heat – ?
Rachel:
I thought it was really good.
Caro:
Me too. Let’s eat.
Paul:
Another?
Tim:
Sounds good –
Rachel:
I need a wee –
Ben:
Don’t tell me the score –
Tim:
– sounds good to me.
ACT THREE
Epilogue:
Proud Spain has won, the cup bestowed
Foul and fair, the plays are played
Great Western ploughs its weary road
Back to hotspurred homes – but stay!
Shall we replay, xenophobes?
Or
Shall we return to Shakespeare’s Globe?
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Value for money
I heard yesterday that the careers advisory service in a local authority near me, which goes into schools and tries to help teenagers, not just to find a job but also to explore and maybe overcome the social, familial and personal impediments to this goal, is to be closed down, on the grounds that it is deemed not to deliver "value for money". In the conversation, I took an accountancy approach: I understand the money bit, it's their budget; but let's see the other side of the ledger, value: put a price, in pounds, on the swim or sink outcome, for the rest of their lives, of each of those kids, please - then and only then can you draw up that balance sheet. These bastards need to be challenged on their own ground.
O.K., that's straightforward enough. But, reflectively, I started to ponder this concept of "value". If we're to take this onslaught seriously, we need counter-arguments. And, given that by my own admission the "value" side isn't going to be couched in financial terms - I've just demonstrated the banal futility of that - then we need to shift the ground. You put your money down - I'll call or raise you with my value.
So, as I often do, I resorted to the dictionary. (Chambers, if you want to check up on me.) "Value" is of course variously defined, but the most apposite one here, I think, is "intrinsic worth or goodness". I'd settle for that, in a room with a bean-counter, but let's go a step further. "Intrinsic: genuine, inherent, essential". "Worth: moral excellence". Moral excellence: ponder that, bean-counter ... and also a definition of worth that teeters toward poetry: "deserving, justifying, meriting, repaying or warranting consideration, attention, the effort, the journey, taking some action ..."
I rest my case. And I didn't even get round to "goodness".
O.K., that's straightforward enough. But, reflectively, I started to ponder this concept of "value". If we're to take this onslaught seriously, we need counter-arguments. And, given that by my own admission the "value" side isn't going to be couched in financial terms - I've just demonstrated the banal futility of that - then we need to shift the ground. You put your money down - I'll call or raise you with my value.
So, as I often do, I resorted to the dictionary. (Chambers, if you want to check up on me.) "Value" is of course variously defined, but the most apposite one here, I think, is "intrinsic worth or goodness". I'd settle for that, in a room with a bean-counter, but let's go a step further. "Intrinsic: genuine, inherent, essential". "Worth: moral excellence". Moral excellence: ponder that, bean-counter ... and also a definition of worth that teeters toward poetry: "deserving, justifying, meriting, repaying or warranting consideration, attention, the effort, the journey, taking some action ..."
I rest my case. And I didn't even get round to "goodness".
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Funny how time slips away
A weird thing happened forty minutes ago (at least I think it's forty). I usually watch the BBC1 six o'clock news, which lasts for just under half an hour, when we get the weather forecast and then across to the regional news. (I'm sure you already know this, but bear with me, the timings are important, not least because the end of the weather is my Pablovian trigger to go and pour a G&T.)
Anyway, at 6.20, that's six twenty, Susan Powell was cued up to do the forecast, and George then handed us over to 'South Today'. I wouldn't have minded this, I am still capable of overriding pre-programmed synapses even at my age - maybe there was a party political or charity appeal coming up - except that George said, handing over to Sally Taylor: 'and now it's coming up to half past six, and it's time to hand over to ...'
I checked my watch. It's twenty past six. I checked several other time sources, which agreed. I switched off the TV, which was probably a mistake. The BBC has stolen ten minutes, I thought. I've just read 'Ghostwritten' by David Mitchell, which plays, amongst many others, with the idea that time is not necessarily absolute or sequential, according to the physics; which didn't help. But just for a moment there - and this is the good bit - I felt as if the ground, or the sky, or both, had tilted slightly as time momentarily slipped away.
Then I went and poured myself that gin.
Anyway, at 6.20, that's six twenty, Susan Powell was cued up to do the forecast, and George then handed us over to 'South Today'. I wouldn't have minded this, I am still capable of overriding pre-programmed synapses even at my age - maybe there was a party political or charity appeal coming up - except that George said, handing over to Sally Taylor: 'and now it's coming up to half past six, and it's time to hand over to ...'
I checked my watch. It's twenty past six. I checked several other time sources, which agreed. I switched off the TV, which was probably a mistake. The BBC has stolen ten minutes, I thought. I've just read 'Ghostwritten' by David Mitchell, which plays, amongst many others, with the idea that time is not necessarily absolute or sequential, according to the physics; which didn't help. But just for a moment there - and this is the good bit - I felt as if the ground, or the sky, or both, had tilted slightly as time momentarily slipped away.
Then I went and poured myself that gin.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Immigration, football: are they connected?
No more the vuvu's wild zanzara whine
No more the fumbled backpass into space ...
(Sorry, I've been rereading Summoned by Bells, so everything I think tends to come out as Betjemanesque blank verse ('weary and worried the supermarket queue' etc etc)).
But, I was hearing on the radio just now from a healthcare professional about the difficulty of recruiting staff from overseas with the required language and technical skillsets ... Well, lack of language and technical skill seems to be a required qualification in the English football context, doesn't it? It's not an exact parallel: in healthcare it's the more menial skills that are hard to import, rather than the managerial ones; and we can't import the menial workers (i.e. players), because that wouldn't be cricket, and we're not Germany.
But again, the common whinge about England's so-called team has been 'these are world-class players in the Premier League, why can't they perform as well in the national side?' The answer, of course, is that in the Premier League club team they're surrounded by proper world-class-plus players, who enable them to shine in their own modest way - and who all happen to be immigrants. Outside this sheltered world, they are revealed as, not so much professional carers, more the carehome patients they are, now, about to become.
Still, the Government is about to ban (well, severely restrict) immigration of skilled labour from outside the EU, so that should do the trick for 2014.
No more the fumbled backpass into space ...
(Sorry, I've been rereading Summoned by Bells, so everything I think tends to come out as Betjemanesque blank verse ('weary and worried the supermarket queue' etc etc)).
But, I was hearing on the radio just now from a healthcare professional about the difficulty of recruiting staff from overseas with the required language and technical skillsets ... Well, lack of language and technical skill seems to be a required qualification in the English football context, doesn't it? It's not an exact parallel: in healthcare it's the more menial skills that are hard to import, rather than the managerial ones; and we can't import the menial workers (i.e. players), because that wouldn't be cricket, and we're not Germany.
But again, the common whinge about England's so-called team has been 'these are world-class players in the Premier League, why can't they perform as well in the national side?' The answer, of course, is that in the Premier League club team they're surrounded by proper world-class-plus players, who enable them to shine in their own modest way - and who all happen to be immigrants. Outside this sheltered world, they are revealed as, not so much professional carers, more the carehome patients they are, now, about to become.
Still, the Government is about to ban (well, severely restrict) immigration of skilled labour from outside the EU, so that should do the trick for 2014.
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
How many eyes make five?
My Collins 2010 Diary has a trivia/pub quiz question for each day of the year, with the answer conveniently printed, upside down, below the question. The entry for 24 June is 'How many eyes does a bee have?' Answer: 5.
I passed this information on in a comment on a rather grumpy, bee-related post by a fellow-blogger, in the hope that it would cheer her up (I think it did!). But then I wondered: can this be so? If it is, then it's the only example I know of a creature having an odd number (one excepted, of course) of any organ. (My blogging partner obviously did some exhaustive research on this phenomenon, because her follow-up comment was 'How strange is that?')
Wikipedia is oddly (sorry, no pun meant) reticent on the subject. Its bee entry (which is suspiciously hard to find) doesn't mention eyes, except for a scary profile picture on which something called 'composite eye' is labelled. They don't tell you how many components there are to this, but assuming that our bee has two composites, it would have to be two-and-a-half for each, wouldn't it? This seems unlikely. Perhaps my diary only counted one eye. Hah, Collins!
The research must continue, given the power bees apparently have over the survival of our environment (not to mention the honey and its impact on bears of little brain). But I can't do it. My mind has shifted to the related, and equally challenging, topic of bee's knees.
Of course, the diary item was for ten days time, so as the Boss says, 'none of this has happened yet' ...
I passed this information on in a comment on a rather grumpy, bee-related post by a fellow-blogger, in the hope that it would cheer her up (I think it did!). But then I wondered: can this be so? If it is, then it's the only example I know of a creature having an odd number (one excepted, of course) of any organ. (My blogging partner obviously did some exhaustive research on this phenomenon, because her follow-up comment was 'How strange is that?')
Wikipedia is oddly (sorry, no pun meant) reticent on the subject. Its bee entry (which is suspiciously hard to find) doesn't mention eyes, except for a scary profile picture on which something called 'composite eye' is labelled. They don't tell you how many components there are to this, but assuming that our bee has two composites, it would have to be two-and-a-half for each, wouldn't it? This seems unlikely. Perhaps my diary only counted one eye. Hah, Collins!
The research must continue, given the power bees apparently have over the survival of our environment (not to mention the honey and its impact on bears of little brain). But I can't do it. My mind has shifted to the related, and equally challenging, topic of bee's knees.
Of course, the diary item was for ten days time, so as the Boss says, 'none of this has happened yet' ...
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Rhythm
As I lay awake in my bed in the caravan, breathing, unable to sleep for the sound of the waves crushing the pebbles on the beach down below, and the way they counterpointed with my heartbeat as it pounded up into my ear through the pillow, I thought about the pulse of life, and where it comes from. The sea, the breath, the heart.
We started in the sea, then crawled out, so that wave pulse must be somehow dissolved into our bodies. We grew lungs and hearts that have to breath and beat rhythmically, or we die. So those are where it comes from.
But then we learnt to walk! And once you no longer need to walk just to survive, eventually you find out how to dance. And once you've got the hang of walking and dancing, you have the fundaments of humanity. Everything else follows. So, civilisation is founded in the rhythm of the sea, isn't it?
I'll dance to that!
We started in the sea, then crawled out, so that wave pulse must be somehow dissolved into our bodies. We grew lungs and hearts that have to breath and beat rhythmically, or we die. So those are where it comes from.
But then we learnt to walk! And once you no longer need to walk just to survive, eventually you find out how to dance. And once you've got the hang of walking and dancing, you have the fundaments of humanity. Everything else follows. So, civilisation is founded in the rhythm of the sea, isn't it?
I'll dance to that!
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Caravan diaries
Remember this, anyone? When I was his age, I fought my parents for the right to go swimming before the end of May. Immersing oneself in icy water (and this was Bournemouth, tropical compared to Pembrokeshire) for hours on end was an essential desire. I'm inclined to think, now, that I must have been mad (I put my feet in for about thirty seconds last Wednesday afternoon, on a scorching hot day at Wisemans Bridge, and they went white); but Cyrus would've stayed there, jumping waves, until the sun had set. 'Aren't you cold?' I asked him when he eventually deigned to come out; I can't express in words quite how his 'no' made me feel: 'old' is one of them, 'mad' perhaps another. Are children madder than grown-ups?
The 50th birthday party on Saturday, in and around a caravan just up the field, was very Welsh. Wales had just lost honourably to South Africa at the rugby, which lent an air of, how can I put it, celebratory desolation to the proceedings. Ribaldry occurred (one lady, having selected a veggieburger and so accused of being a vegetarian, replies tartly 'I don't eat meat - ask my husband'), but the best part was the singing. Three old guys (who all turned out to be younger than me) did three part harmonies, in beautiful tenor voices, to everything from maudlin welsh-language valley ballads through Tom-Jonesish slush to Buddy Holly and the Evs. I joined in where I could, and was asked what I feel to be two highly complimentary questions: 'are you in a choir?' and 'are you Welsh?'
Main wildlife sightings: a little bird which I firmly believe to be a pied wagtail, though it doesn't wag as much ('incessantly') as the book says it should (perhaps it's reworking its image); and a baby rabbit, no bigger than your two hands, who bounced out from a hole onto the patio and then back, before I could grab it by the ears.
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Pythagorean plant?
Anybody know what this is?
(And don't say 'some plant' if you want to retain my friendship.) It seeded itself a few weeks ago and has been growing like a triffid.
The reason I mention it is that it's the only plant I've ever seen that has worked out what a right angle is. Take a closer look, from above:
Those leaves are at exact ninety degree angles to each other, in opposing pairs all the way down the stem, north-south, east-west, etcetera. This is extraordinary. Plants aren't supposed to be able to do geometry, are they?
Pythagoras discovered the right angle, on which, dare I say, much of human achievement has since been built. (If you don't believe me, read 'Why does E=mc squared?' by Brian Cox and Jeff Forshaw, which lucidly traces Einstein's theory of relativity directly from Pythagoras's famous theorem. (You'll have to work your brain a bit though.))
So, it appears that this humble weed has, all by itself, grown one of the greatest achievements of the human intellect. It deserves at least a name for that. Anybody recognise it?
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Caravan Diaries
Early on Friday evening I was sitting in the van, nursing a drink and studying the way the field slopes down to the sea, past half a dozen dark unoccupied caravans: at that time, I think I was the sole inhabitant of the park, something that always gives me a strange feeling, exhilaratingly creepy.
The field was full of rabbits. Rabbits of all sizes from new-born bunnies to grand old bucks. I counted 25, though that may include some duplicates. Without going all horribly Watership Down on you, I can provide you with the following guidelines should you ever need to impersonate a rabbit in the spring:
1. Make sure no humans are in sight, come out onto your field and start eating grass.
2. Another rabbit will soon emerge close to you. When this happens, abandon grass-eating and engage instead in acrobatic break-dancing with your partner, including somersaults.
3. For absolutely no reason, both abruptly cease leaping around and go back to eating grass.
4. Repeat until it gets too dark or a human appears (hint to humans: rabbits can't see through glass).
5. Scarper off to your burrow, presumably to do whatever it is rabbits do in the dark.
On Saturday, returned from a low tide walk over to Monkstone Point with my friends, I'm back in the van, watching again, when a partridge (not a pheasant, I looked it up) strutted across the patio. 'Oh, hello', I couldn't stop myself saying. The partridge looked superciliously up at me. 'And who are you, pray?' it said.
We also saw a daddy blackbird plucking worms from the ground and feeding them to his nipper, who was several sizes bigger than him.
Never a dull moment! And I haven't even started to tell you about the fridge.
The field was full of rabbits. Rabbits of all sizes from new-born bunnies to grand old bucks. I counted 25, though that may include some duplicates. Without going all horribly Watership Down on you, I can provide you with the following guidelines should you ever need to impersonate a rabbit in the spring:
1. Make sure no humans are in sight, come out onto your field and start eating grass.
2. Another rabbit will soon emerge close to you. When this happens, abandon grass-eating and engage instead in acrobatic break-dancing with your partner, including somersaults.
3. For absolutely no reason, both abruptly cease leaping around and go back to eating grass.
4. Repeat until it gets too dark or a human appears (hint to humans: rabbits can't see through glass).
5. Scarper off to your burrow, presumably to do whatever it is rabbits do in the dark.
On Saturday, returned from a low tide walk over to Monkstone Point with my friends, I'm back in the van, watching again, when a partridge (not a pheasant, I looked it up) strutted across the patio. 'Oh, hello', I couldn't stop myself saying. The partridge looked superciliously up at me. 'And who are you, pray?' it said.
We also saw a daddy blackbird plucking worms from the ground and feeding them to his nipper, who was several sizes bigger than him.
Never a dull moment! And I haven't even started to tell you about the fridge.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Head or heart?
I'd done the simple calculation ages ago: there was no way that the LibDem was going to overtake either of the others. The 2005 figures (rounded) were: Labour 19000 (45%), Cons 14000 (34%), LibDem 7000 (16%), on a turnout of 55% of an electorate of 72000. So I had to vote tactically - Labour in order to keep out the Tory. But it stuck in my craw. I was about to search out a suitable clothespeg.
But this afternoon I decided to have a closer look (well, it was that or wash the kitchen floor). I made a few not unreasonable assumptions, and came up with a surprising conclusion.
The Labour vote in 05 was 8% down on 01, largely as an anti-war reaction. That it wasn't down further was due to the popularity of our great constituency MP Martin Salter, who has now retired. So I thought it reasonable to assume that the new Labour candidate would lose this personal vote, especially as he's been helicoptered in from Essex. So, I thought, reduce let's Labour's share by another 12%.
Assume that the Tory vote here is more or less unchanged. 34% seems about right. The candidate is local, and seems unobjectionable (apart from his politics).
Apply the national swing to the LibDems, so up from 16 to say 28%. The candidate is, again, local.
All the above is based on the 2005 turnout of 55%.
But then, assume that turnout is going to increase dramatically. This is a politically aware constituency (personal knowledge confirms this). I have factored in a 75% turnout. I've also, controversially, applied the increase in the ratio of 25% Labour, 25% Tory, 50% LibDem. (I think this is ungenerous to the LibDems).
Running all that through the calculator, it comes out at near enough 17000 votes for each of the three parties. Would you believe it?
So, guess what I'm doing tomorrow morning? That's right, looking again at my maths, checking out the relative health of my head and my heart, then trolling across to Cranberry Road to cast my vote.
But this afternoon I decided to have a closer look (well, it was that or wash the kitchen floor). I made a few not unreasonable assumptions, and came up with a surprising conclusion.
The Labour vote in 05 was 8% down on 01, largely as an anti-war reaction. That it wasn't down further was due to the popularity of our great constituency MP Martin Salter, who has now retired. So I thought it reasonable to assume that the new Labour candidate would lose this personal vote, especially as he's been helicoptered in from Essex. So, I thought, reduce let's Labour's share by another 12%.
Assume that the Tory vote here is more or less unchanged. 34% seems about right. The candidate is local, and seems unobjectionable (apart from his politics).
Apply the national swing to the LibDems, so up from 16 to say 28%. The candidate is, again, local.
All the above is based on the 2005 turnout of 55%.
But then, assume that turnout is going to increase dramatically. This is a politically aware constituency (personal knowledge confirms this). I have factored in a 75% turnout. I've also, controversially, applied the increase in the ratio of 25% Labour, 25% Tory, 50% LibDem. (I think this is ungenerous to the LibDems).
Running all that through the calculator, it comes out at near enough 17000 votes for each of the three parties. Would you believe it?
So, guess what I'm doing tomorrow morning? That's right, looking again at my maths, checking out the relative health of my head and my heart, then trolling across to Cranberry Road to cast my vote.
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Can we have the election right now please?
Should be easy. There are red, blue and yellow buttons on my remote. There's even a green one. UKIP can press the 'off' button by mistake because they're pissed. Everyone else can apply for a postal vote.
I'm too tired to do an in-depth analysis of the content, so on artistic impression, in reverse order:
3: David Cameron. Sweaty and shifty. Consistently answered questions and challenges with evasions and accusations.
2: Gordon Brown. Second rather than last mainly because he didn't smile so much. But he did shake his head rather a lot.
And the winner is -----
1: NICK CLEGG. A pitch-perfect blinder of a performance. In a word, charisma.
So there we have it. As I said yesterday, now we've got that out of the way, this is where it gets nasty.
I'm too tired to do an in-depth analysis of the content, so on artistic impression, in reverse order:
3: David Cameron. Sweaty and shifty. Consistently answered questions and challenges with evasions and accusations.
2: Gordon Brown. Second rather than last mainly because he didn't smile so much. But he did shake his head rather a lot.
And the winner is -----
1: NICK CLEGG. A pitch-perfect blinder of a performance. In a word, charisma.
So there we have it. As I said yesterday, now we've got that out of the way, this is where it gets nasty.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Who's blown it best?
Given that we're in the most Presidential TV election ever (and I'm not just talking U.K. here), TV moments by the party leaders are much more important than they should be. So who's ahead on the gaffometer so far?
Well, Clegg did a pretty good job at the weekend, explaining that he'd never ever deal with a first-but-third-place Labour ('absolutely' was his actual word - I think that's longhand for 'yes' usually, but in this instance meant 'no'), then explaining that when he said Labour he really meant Gordon, then clarifying that when he said Gordon he really meant, well, something not quite that precise. So we'll wait and see on that one. But he did say it all on camera, and presumably knew this, even though he might have had an 'oh shit' moment afterwards.
This can't be said for Brown, and it makes it worse for him. Oh, when will they ever learn to make sure the mic is off before they show their true selves - in this case, tired, petulant, churlish, hypocritical and vindictive (but hey, we already knew all that, didn't we)? Ronald Reagan nuked Russia under similar circumstances, but at least when it was leaked we all knew (or prayed) that he was joking. Gordon wasn't joking, in fact I don't think he knows how to, unless running an accurately programmed and carefully tested brown-app. Which he'll contrive to screw up anyway.
As for Cameron, he hasn't had quite such an in-the-face TV moment as yet, more an accumulation of mini-ones, a sludge slide rather than a volcano. So the flop has yet to drop, at least until this time tomorrow. After that, they'll think it's all over, but I reckon the fun is about to start. Seven Days In May.
Well, Clegg did a pretty good job at the weekend, explaining that he'd never ever deal with a first-but-third-place Labour ('absolutely' was his actual word - I think that's longhand for 'yes' usually, but in this instance meant 'no'), then explaining that when he said Labour he really meant Gordon, then clarifying that when he said Gordon he really meant, well, something not quite that precise. So we'll wait and see on that one. But he did say it all on camera, and presumably knew this, even though he might have had an 'oh shit' moment afterwards.
This can't be said for Brown, and it makes it worse for him. Oh, when will they ever learn to make sure the mic is off before they show their true selves - in this case, tired, petulant, churlish, hypocritical and vindictive (but hey, we already knew all that, didn't we)? Ronald Reagan nuked Russia under similar circumstances, but at least when it was leaked we all knew (or prayed) that he was joking. Gordon wasn't joking, in fact I don't think he knows how to, unless running an accurately programmed and carefully tested brown-app. Which he'll contrive to screw up anyway.
As for Cameron, he hasn't had quite such an in-the-face TV moment as yet, more an accumulation of mini-ones, a sludge slide rather than a volcano. So the flop has yet to drop, at least until this time tomorrow. After that, they'll think it's all over, but I reckon the fun is about to start. Seven Days In May.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Effects of Ash
I visited the Datchet folk last night. Datchet is directly under what used to be the Heathrow flight path, about two miles out. The first time I went there, twenty years ago, was a hot Sunday in July, a barbeque lunch. We sat around sipping our Pimms and chatting. Suddenly a 747 roared overhead, so low you could have reached up and spun its wheels. I had to stop myself clutching my ears (and I've heard loud in my time, believe me) - but everyone else just carried on talking - they didn't even notice it! I thought then: what is this doing to these people's long-term mental equilibrium?
Last night, it wasn't like that. It was so quiet you could hear the racket of the birds as the sun set. And I thought: is the equilibrium being disturbed here? Are these folk going to suffer from this unexpected sensory deprivation? Will they be able to cope with the quietness?
They've gone to Jersey now, on a boat, to be introduced to a new puppy.
Last night, it wasn't like that. It was so quiet you could hear the racket of the birds as the sun set. And I thought: is the equilibrium being disturbed here? Are these folk going to suffer from this unexpected sensory deprivation? Will they be able to cope with the quietness?
They've gone to Jersey now, on a boat, to be introduced to a new puppy.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
The First Debate
Against the odds, riveting TV! I started, as did we all, waiting for the first gaff, sweaty moment or watch-glance. Well, actually, I think I saw Gordon check his watch whilst Dave was speaking, about 11 mins in - the first move, I reckon, in a strategy to rebrand him as a knowing post-ironic icon. His first joke, possibly the only one of the night, came six minutes later, thanking the Tories for showing him smiling in some of their hatchet-wielding posters; he did smile, over the 90 minutes, quite a lot more than the other two, often quite disarmingly.
So, how did they do? Well, all three very well, given the circs etc. Brown was as relaxed as I've ever seen him (I chose those words carefully). Clegg played to his considerable sixth-form debating society skills. And Cameron - well, he didn't come over as all that toffish really. Although, on body language, he was definitely the worst, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt here - whereas Nick and Gordon could turn sideways to give the impression of listening when anyone else was speaking, David, being in the middle, couldn't really manage this trick without giving an impression of a failed hula hoop player. But staring straight stonefacedly ahead did come dangerously close to a Nixon moment once or twice.
On content: I thought I heard a few radically new proposals from Gordon, but I'm afraid I haven't had time to read any of the manifestos yet, and there certainly wasn't any clear blue water (cliche-watch: nobody's said that yet!). The NIC/JobTax thingie came up a couple of times - I really don't understand why Gordon doesn't nail this once and for all by proving, as he can, that it will make hardly any difference to employment levels and is a blatant political ploy by the Tories' business allies - but that aside, the fact is that there really isn't much space for game-changing political tub-thumping manoeuvre. Not until we get this economy stuff sorted out, anyway. And then we won't need it.
The key buzz-phrase, though, does seem to have been 'I agree with Nick'. Let's see how that plays next time.
So, how did they do? Well, all three very well, given the circs etc. Brown was as relaxed as I've ever seen him (I chose those words carefully). Clegg played to his considerable sixth-form debating society skills. And Cameron - well, he didn't come over as all that toffish really. Although, on body language, he was definitely the worst, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt here - whereas Nick and Gordon could turn sideways to give the impression of listening when anyone else was speaking, David, being in the middle, couldn't really manage this trick without giving an impression of a failed hula hoop player. But staring straight stonefacedly ahead did come dangerously close to a Nixon moment once or twice.
On content: I thought I heard a few radically new proposals from Gordon, but I'm afraid I haven't had time to read any of the manifestos yet, and there certainly wasn't any clear blue water (cliche-watch: nobody's said that yet!). The NIC/JobTax thingie came up a couple of times - I really don't understand why Gordon doesn't nail this once and for all by proving, as he can, that it will make hardly any difference to employment levels and is a blatant political ploy by the Tories' business allies - but that aside, the fact is that there really isn't much space for game-changing political tub-thumping manoeuvre. Not until we get this economy stuff sorted out, anyway. And then we won't need it.
The key buzz-phrase, though, does seem to have been 'I agree with Nick'. Let's see how that plays next time.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Election trivia
Apparently, Gordon entered his manifesto launch on Monday to the strains of 'I'm a Soul Man'. (The laws of nature are obviously no impediment to British politics). Anyway, a Guardian journalist ascribed this song to 'Gordon's late cousin, James'. Not Marina Hyde at her best, but there's a wide open goal there which I aimed a letter at, to the effect that it was cheeky of Gordo to lay claim to this song when it so obviously belonged to Sam and Dave ...
The Guardian totally missed the point and published a po-faced factual correction the next day.
The Guardian totally missed the point and published a po-faced factual correction the next day.
Monday, 12 April 2010
Election reality fever
The options being lock myself into a cupboard for three weeks or engage, I chose the latter. It's too late to retrofit last week's hot number - national insurance contributions, in case you'd remembered to forget - (although, why not, just a quick reminder: 100+ 'business leaders' (out of how many exactly?) say that we must vote Tory otherwise they'll sack us because they can't afford the extra £50 or whatever docked from their bonuses/share options - even though they pay most of their staff less than the £20K cut-off level).
Anyway, there'll be regular, if not frequent, rants (raves unlikely, trivia probable) here for the duration. To kick off, did anyone (I ask the entire universe outside this room) see Paxman interviewing Clegg this evening? (Probably not, it clashed with Corrie). Well, Nick cleaned up! By the end, Paxo was reduced to on-mike spluttering and coughing, while Clegg landed delicately targetted judo chops (sometimes not so delicate - 'what planet are you on, Jeremy' - you could almost hear the missing f-word before 'planet') to the soft spots of the rabid pub-bore rottweiller. Lesson for Jeremy - when you've been outwitted, duck and move. I do wonder, however, why the Beeb staged the interview in what appeared to be a very clean multi-storey car park.
More next time.
Anyway, there'll be regular, if not frequent, rants (raves unlikely, trivia probable) here for the duration. To kick off, did anyone (I ask the entire universe outside this room) see Paxman interviewing Clegg this evening? (Probably not, it clashed with Corrie). Well, Nick cleaned up! By the end, Paxo was reduced to on-mike spluttering and coughing, while Clegg landed delicately targetted judo chops (sometimes not so delicate - 'what planet are you on, Jeremy' - you could almost hear the missing f-word before 'planet') to the soft spots of the rabid pub-bore rottweiller. Lesson for Jeremy - when you've been outwitted, duck and move. I do wonder, however, why the Beeb staged the interview in what appeared to be a very clean multi-storey car park.
More next time.
Monday, 5 April 2010
New caravan
The call came from Joseph last Monday. "The van's sited. Should be able to connect the electrics, probably most of the plumbing, and Phil's moving heaven and earth to get the gas up and running on Thursday, so ..." I said I'd be down Thursday. He said "what time?" I said late afternoon. I could hear the relief, an extra few hours.
I get there about 3.30. Joseph and Peter are crawling around under the van on tarpaulins, in Pembrokeshire rain. The entrance to this spanking new caravan is caked in mud. Nearly done, says Henry, few snags, sorry we can't connect the soakaway drains for the bathroom but the kitchen's OK. And look, here's Phil the gasman, and his lad, also called Phil.
I nod and smile, knackered after a wet four hour drive, and start to unload the car, across 100 yards of sodden grass. Normally I'd drive across to the van, but it's obvious that the car would sink in to its ankles if I tried, and I really don't want to ask Joseph to go and get the tractor to tow me out. (This happened once.)
So I unload and survey my domain while Joseph and Peter and the Phils do their stuff for me, outside in the rain. Finally everything's installed and tested, and I should be unpacking the four huge boxes and six huge bags which we parked in the living room three weeks ago when Linda, Alan and I downloaded the contents of the old caravan. That was difficult - I had to be a bit hard, discard some memories and mistakes. I told Linda to throw away a collection of champagne corks, each dated. (She didn't. The last one, I see, was September 2007.)
Finally, I'm installed, to basic camping standards. And now I can pour a drink, sit and remind myself why I did this. It's six-thirty, Thursday evening. The rainclouds have cleared and the sun is setting behind the trees on Peggy's Hill to my right, and before me is the sweep of Carmarthen Bay, from Monkstone Point across Worms Head and the Gower to the distant glow of Swansea thirty miles away - all through the panoramic picture front window. I could never be bored here. Just keeping up with the changes to the surface of the sea takes all your time.
I'll be back down there in a couple of weeks, to finish installing the fridge and the TV and the stereo. I might never come back. Come and visit me.
I get there about 3.30. Joseph and Peter are crawling around under the van on tarpaulins, in Pembrokeshire rain. The entrance to this spanking new caravan is caked in mud. Nearly done, says Henry, few snags, sorry we can't connect the soakaway drains for the bathroom but the kitchen's OK. And look, here's Phil the gasman, and his lad, also called Phil.
I nod and smile, knackered after a wet four hour drive, and start to unload the car, across 100 yards of sodden grass. Normally I'd drive across to the van, but it's obvious that the car would sink in to its ankles if I tried, and I really don't want to ask Joseph to go and get the tractor to tow me out. (This happened once.)
So I unload and survey my domain while Joseph and Peter and the Phils do their stuff for me, outside in the rain. Finally everything's installed and tested, and I should be unpacking the four huge boxes and six huge bags which we parked in the living room three weeks ago when Linda, Alan and I downloaded the contents of the old caravan. That was difficult - I had to be a bit hard, discard some memories and mistakes. I told Linda to throw away a collection of champagne corks, each dated. (She didn't. The last one, I see, was September 2007.)
Finally, I'm installed, to basic camping standards. And now I can pour a drink, sit and remind myself why I did this. It's six-thirty, Thursday evening. The rainclouds have cleared and the sun is setting behind the trees on Peggy's Hill to my right, and before me is the sweep of Carmarthen Bay, from Monkstone Point across Worms Head and the Gower to the distant glow of Swansea thirty miles away - all through the panoramic picture front window. I could never be bored here. Just keeping up with the changes to the surface of the sea takes all your time.
I'll be back down there in a couple of weeks, to finish installing the fridge and the TV and the stereo. I might never come back. Come and visit me.
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