newspk

got new fone n founf txt  gr8!!!  foud !!!s   !!!     gtr8.  hoo needs nglsh ha ha u no this nuspk innit.  cant do q marks yet but wrkin onit.  lol.  m i doin it rite. 2daloo.

Dagrademon? A grand dome? Moaned drag?

Nope, it doesn't work.  Can't even get the word 'anagram' out of it.  Total bish-up.  There was I, sat here at six o'clock, clutching my prized possession, expecting agony or ecstasy depending on whether I was in the right sort of cult - and, nothing!  An incoming email was the nearest thing I got to an earth-splitting apocalypse.

What went wrong?  I think we should be told.  Mr Camping, you owe us an explanation: you told us that your calculations were precise and conclusive, this time.  Happy to receive it in the form of a comment on this blog post (of which you will of course already be fully aware), either from you or any one of your fellow cu*ts.

And just to sum up ...

(Following on from the overwhelming non-response to yesterday's joke about Blogger:))

"For a successful technology, reality must take precedence over public relations, for nature cannot be fooled."
Richard Feynman, 1986.

Blogger off

Just now I posted a comment on Lo's post about the unintended consequences of Blogger's recent protracted outage and its uncovering of a hitherto unsuspected addiction, suggesting that we could develop a counter-addiction - to outages.  I think this idea merits further exploration.

For a start, we could immerse ourselves in the syntax.  Consider the fine distinction between BX-c20gmn and BX-d7hq04.  Then analyse the relative frequency of the appearance of these two informifacts.  (I can make up jargospeak with the best of them.)  A pattern will emerge.  Probably, it will provide the key to Voynich, and the untold secrets of the universe will throw their hands up in surrender, and all will be subsumed into the blinding light, and evil will no more exist or be done.

When we're through with that, we can open a book on how long the time lags will be between the problem first occurring, them noticing it, them starting to fix it, how many times they will start to fix it, progress updates on what's left of the help service ... Endless fun in there, surely?  (NB Anyone bidding less than twelve hours is disqualified.)

Of course, all this will have to recorded on wordpress.

I could go on, but it's my suppertime.

Two Halves

Clever-clocks

In 2005, someone invented a new kind of alarm clock, imaginatively called 'Clocky'.  When you hit the snooze button, Clocky (who you presumably have to leave on the floor) rolls away and hides somewhere in the bedroom, forcing you to get out of bed to find him.

I did not make that up.  But it got me thinking about other potential applications of this principle.  Car keys is the obvious one - they go and hide, or disguise themselves as a bowl of Twiglets or something, when they scent alcohol.  Any others?

I was also reminded of the classic 'Not The Nine O'Clock News' sketch from way back when cordless phones had just been invented.  Anyone remember that one?  It was funny at the time.

Ironing

This subject came up mainly because of what I was doing this afternoon, but also from a blog cruise just now.  I wrote this a couple of years ago.

Big Men Don’t Iron, right?

Wrong. A couple of years ago, there was a fad called ‘extreme ironing’. This entailed blokes doing ironing in extreme situations or locations. They had to transport ironing equipment – boards, irons – up glaciers, down ocean depths, across Antarctic icefields, into Outer Space on jetskis, onto the Colindale branch of the Northern Line, and then, well, iron something. (By the way, where do they get their electricity? Or do they also cart coal-fired forges, plus coal, to heat up eighteenth-century cast-iron flatirons?) Idiots.

Truth is, it’s a therapeutic chore, but still a chore. So minimise it. Consider the claim of any particular object to be ironed. You can rapidly eliminate the car, the carpets, other people – but be thoughtfully discriminating. Do you definitely need to iron the socks? The underpants? The sheets? Anything at all?

Well, yes. As a tenet (one of the few left) of 21st century civilisation, the following items must be ironed: shirts; trousers; bedsheets; pillowcases ... I could easily digress here into an attempt at a sort of unified field theory of ironing – but I’ll spare you that.

Yes, I did say bedsheets. Slide, late at night after your preferred enchanted evening, appropriately accompanied or sometimes gratefully alone, into a freshly minted bed lined with a) ironed or b) un-ironed sheets. Compare the sensations. Ironed, I think.

Do not despair, or even worry. You can cheat. You can be a sheet cheat, how ‘bout that!  The best way by far is a clothes line. This not only irons the sheet perfectly, ethically and for free, it also gives the sweetest bed you could ever wish for. Just hang the sheet over the line, making sure it’s evenly distributed and lined up; peg and wait until dry; fold it back on itself on the line twice, then lift it off over your forearm, keeping it horizontal and lined up, and further fold as appropriate. You should end up with a sheet which fits in your drawer/airing cupboard, and can be rapidly deployed in case of unexpected or scheduled or olfactory need.

This only really works when the weather’s right. A sunny, breezy, blue day, with a few fluffy clouds whizzing across the sky but not planning to rain on your clothespeg parade just now. Heat also helps. So if it’s cold, wet, or threatening, it’s probably not worth the effort.  In the winter, radiator ironing can work. Fold the sheets then stretch them, as smoothly and tightly as you can, across a radiator until they’re dry (it helps if the radiator is turned on).

Failing all of the above, you will have to iron the sheets with the iron, on the ironing board (which is, of course, as huge as you can accommodate and afford). Fear not, all is still not quite lost. Fold the sheet to, as near as possible, the surface area of your board. Make sure you can reverse and refold it, when you choose, so as to expose other facets. Then iron everything else on top of it. (You do remember everything else, don’t you? The trousers, the shirts, the pillowcases; the socks?)

P.S. It’s not critical, but if your sheet ironing turns out as four-square Navy fashion as you can achieve (edges lined up, corners correlated, etc), your bed-making will be that bit easier.

Referendum

Of course, that AV referendum wasn't really fair, conducted as it was under a first-past-the-post system.

The Road To Elsinore

Up to London yesterday to attend the two o'clock matinee of 'Hamlet' at the Globe, followed by 'The Fat Girl Gets a Haircut' at the Roundhouse in the evening - a real playathon of theatrical stamina.  But this isn't about those - you can see reviews elsewhere if you're interested.  This is about the journey to get there.

We had to meet some other people at the Globe at 1.30, so arranged to gather at Reading station at half-eleven.  Plenty of time, no?  Grab a beer and a sandwich when we get there.  Sure enough, the train to Paddington was pretty well on time so, as C doesn't like the Underground (who does, apart from some rather creepy people?), we grabbed a taxi. 

" Hope you've got plenty of time,"  the driver said.  (He could have added "and money".)  "Gridlock out there."
Really?" we said.  "Why's that?"
"Royal Wedding."
"But, um, that was last Friday."
He shrugged.  "Doesn't stop 'em."

By the time we reached Birdcage Walk we knew he was right.  We moved about twenty yards in five minutes.  This was something worse than simple post-nuptial fever (though we never found out what).  We had plenty of time to observe hordes of tiny tourists with pullovers tied round their waists, photographing each other in front of various kinds of pigeon, and long-lensing the demolition of the scaffolding on the other side of the Park. 

At about twenty to one, there occurred the first of the only two instances of altruistic London taxi driver behaviour I have ever experienced.

"Tell you what," said our driver.  "You'd be better off on the Tube."  Glances were exchanged.  "Just walk down there to St James's Park station."

C bit the Underground bullet.  "Okay, let's go for it."  We paid off the driver - he refused a tip: "No thanks, I didn't get you there, did I?" - and started walking down the alley he'd pointed us towards.

When we reached Victoria Street, which seemed relatively uncongested - they must have been making at least twenty yards a minute, I had a thought.

"Why don't we walk down to Parliament Square?  We'll be on the other side of this mess then, and we can pick up a cab there."

So we did.  As we entered the Square, noticing the queues for the Abbey which would have put the Uffizi in Florence to shame, a taxi drew up beside us and two passengers disembarked.  Not believing our luck, we climbed in.

"Globe Theatre, please."
The driver pondered, then altruistic act number two happened.
"In a hurry, are you?  It's gridlock everywhere.  They said it was the Royal Wedding, but ...  You'd be better off on the Tube."

Well, we got the Jubilee Line to Southwark and walked half a mile to Tate Modern and the Globe.  It was a quarter to two.  Our companions were waiting outside, checking their watches.

"We'd better hurry," said Ben.

Pseudopseudonym

I just tripped over this in an old copy of Schott's Almanac (I'm sooo busy!) and it kind of amused me.  You probably know it already but I can't help that.  I paraphrase:

Alan Smithee is a highly prolific Hollywood director who doesn't exist.  It is, or was, the pseudonym granted by Directors Guild of America to directors who, for reasons of artistic integrity or whatever, don't want their real names on the credits of a film.  So Smithee has probably made some pretty damn bad movies.

In 1997, the director Arthur Hiller made a film about a director who is actually called Alan Smithee in real life, and wants his name removed from a turkey he's made.  On release of his (real) film, Hiller was permitted by the DGA to have his own name replaced by Alan Smithee.

Summer food is back!

Serrano ham, marinated artichokes, salty anchovies, griddled chilli squid, pungent green olives, Spanish potato omelettes, sea-fresh sardines, garden herbs, rocket and chervil, watermelon, raspberries, luscious melting figs ...

Oh, and Scotch eggs and crisps, fresh crab salad, Pembrokeshire new potatoes, bitter brewed on the premises in the village pub at Llanddarog, line-caught sewin on the barbecue ...

That'll do to go on with.  Any other orders?

Aliens? Not yet

I'm indebted to a post called 'Rogue Planets' by Ann Finkbeiner of The Last Word on Nothing back in February for much of the following.

This morning I read a review of a book called 'The Eerie Silence', by Paul Davies, just out in paperback here (Penguin), which apparently debates the evidence base (or rather lack of evidence) for the existence of aliens, and why, if they exist, they haven't been in touch.

I make a couple of breathtaking assumptions here.  The first is that these aliens will have evolved on roughly Earthlike planets, the second that they will have discovered, at about the same stage of their evolution, the use of the electromagnetic spectrum to transmit information, and fallen in love with this as deeply as we have over the last century or so.  So let's look at the planets.

According to state of the art astronomy, Kepler -10b, the nearest candidate so far, seems to be about 560 light years away. Let’s pretend that it’s Earthlike (which it isn’t) and formed about the same time as us (who knows). It’s reasonable to assume, then, that evolution would have progressed at roughly the same rate, if not in the same direction. If so, what we see of them, and they of us, would be rooted in the late Middle Ages.

That’s a best-case scenario. So why are these clowns wasting their time hunting for medieval alien TV channels?  And why doesn't any of the literature I've ever come across take this simple fact of elementary physics into consideration?  If they are out there (unless they've discovered a way of moving information, never mind themselves, faster than the speed of light), we probably have well over five hundred years to wait before we can expect to see even their equivalent of Marconi's first efforts.  And another hundred for The Alien X Factor.

Calm down

You'll be aware of yesterday's spell of high-minded political debate in the Commons, when David Cameron repeatedly told Angela Eagle to "calm down, dear", afterwards claiming it to be a joke, referencing Michael Winner's well-known insurance advert.  Leaving aside the revelation that our Prime Minister identifies with Michael Winner as a role model, did you hear the reportage of the incident on 'The World at One', hosted by the inimitable Martha Kearney?  After the political correspondent had finished his piece, Martha took over with the customary acknowledgment.  "Thank you, dear," she said.

Superinjunction - an exclusive leak

Superinjunction

I'm sorry, the content of this post cannot be divulged.  In fact I shouldn't be telling you that it exists.  Or that I'm the person telling you all this.  Please don't spill the beans, or someone will have to send in the judges.  If they exist.  Everything is banned henceforth.  But I'm not allowed to tell you that.

Sir George Martin

Just hope you all watched this wonderful programme which has just finished on BBC2.  This great man has been the source of so much joy over the last sixty years, from Ronnie Hilton via the Goons and the Beatles and countless others, through to seriously experimental Jeff Beck and Mahavishnu, whilst remaining so naturally funny and human.  I was crying with delight by the end.  I hope he lives for ever.

Caravan Diaries (part lost count)

I drafted a lot of this with some rarely seen technology known as quill and parchment.  The former a give-away from Le Manoir aux Quatr' Saisons (how did that get there??), the latter an excellent recycled pad called 'Save The Rhino'.

The information boards on the M4 said 'TAKE EXTRA CARE WHEN TOWING'.  In the way my mind works, I read that to mean 'Take less care when not towing'.  I know, I can be irritating.

New neighbours at White Park, replacing G and S who decided to give up the caravan having realised, after forty-odd years there, that they own a flat three quarters of a mile away in Saundersfoot . I wander across to say hello at about three o'clock and realise I've already met the new folks, and their greyhound whose name I've forgotten.  I leave at 4.15 three glasses of rose heavier, having been introduced to about twelve extended family members aged from two to not telling.  This caravan site is ruled by four dynasties, with Joseph as the Padrone.
NB Anyone know how to do accents?  Grave, acute etc., not Welsh.

Five little children are playing an unfathomable game involving frisbees (which nobody knows how to throw), shrimping nets, and everyone suddenly sitting down at the same moment, facing east.  Enthralled for an hour.  They reminded me of rabbits.  A sociologist would get a thesis out of it.

Then, a four-year-old, his father, and a border collie played football.  Hey, that border collie was the best header of the ball since [insert your ballheader of choice, since I don't know any].  I suggested to the father that the dog should be playing for Wales.  He said "Nah, not ready yet.  No tactical sense."

At eight o'clock, a bird starts singing for the sunset, up in the overhanging sycamore.  It sounds like a blackbird, but isn't.  Blackbirds have thirty-two different song patterns, all of which I know by heart, and this isn't any of them.  I asked another neighbour if it was a nightingale.  "No, nightingales are unmistakeable," she replied.  Not if you've never heard one, I thought.

9.00 pm.  The colours in the sky as the sun sets behind the woods on the hill up to the West.  Pale azure darkening through to deep cobalt and navy.  And the wine-dark sea below.  Soon there'll be stars, and then the Milky Way's great wheel will start spinning. 

Much like my head by that stage.

The Crickets.....Please Don't Ever Change

This song just dropped into my mind for some reason.

Builders' tea

Here's a view of the back of my house, as it is at the moment.

A certain scuptural quality, wouldn't one say?  A touch Louise Bourgois even, n'est ce pas?

I'm having my soffits and fascias renewed, and so know roughly what those words mean.  A company called E******t came round to give me a quote a few weeks ago.  Cheeks were sucked.  "Well, the headline price is £18,000."  He heard my sharp intake of breath.  "But don't worry.  With the various discounts, subsidies, etcetera, we can get that down to - " a lot of fiddling with a calculator, then a beaming smile " - nine!"  He smirks seductively.  "That's if you sign up today, of course."

I've been there, had that done to me before, so I smiled back and showed him where the door is.  The next day, Craig from  http://www.fantasticfascia.com/ came round for a look.  "Two and a half."

So now, Craig and his brother-in-law have created this splendid sculpture and are working from 8.30 to 5 to ensure that I can hand over a solidly backed guarantee to whoever eventually buys or inherits this joint.  No more painting, ever.

But the tea is a major problem.

ARS revisited

I've been watching Antiques Roadshow for about twenty years, on and off, so I'm an expert/boring old git/ARS otaku.  I've loved it through all its incarnations, from money-grabbing 'what's in the attic', through 'who gives a x about the antiques, just pose a few dolly-birds in the background', back through 'here's a Constable which may or may not be a Constable', and 'I'm a really interesting collector of Matchbox toys, here are just a few thousand of them' ...

It used to skip unpredictably around the Sunday night schedules, which made for difficult logistics when my mother-in-law was round for dinner with her firm expectations.  But now it seems to have bedded down into the eight o'clock slot, which suits my eating and drinking patterns fine; and more importantly, to have stabilised into human interest.  Tonight we had a wonderful lady who used to do voiceovers for the female leads (Ursula Andress, Shirley Eaton) in early Bond movies, and a guy who was pondering whether to take his huge model of Asran the lion to Australia when he emigrated, because there might be health and safety immigration issues as it contained some real animal components, albeit dead ones ... and a beautiful worthless picture which linked back through the owner's family to Lord Byron or someone ...

I can even put up with Fiona Bruce for this.  The older you get, so does the world.